"Could you finish today if you stuck with it?"
"Possibly. I'm going with you, though. We may not have much time."
"I wish you wouldn't say things like that," Peggy complained. "It sounds so—so—"
"Gothic? I only meant that if the property has been sold, the new owner may not be as accommodating as Cameron has been. He'll have the bulldozers in as soon as the sale is completed." She hesitated for a moment, her frowning gaze fixed on the window. "Anyway . . . I've had it up to here with this damned town. I'm sick of Mrs. Fowler and Bobby and Lisa and their nasty gossip and their narrow little minds. I'm ready to leave."
"When?" Peggy rose and began getting her things together.
"As soon as my car is ready. I'd better call the garage. And don't tell me I can't drive without a license, I can and will. I've done it before."
"I wouldn't dream of telling you what to do," Peggy exclaimed, opening her eyes very wide. "Or not to do."
"That'll be the day. I'll be with you as soon as I make that call."
The garage assured her the car would be ready that evening. "Or first thing in the morning. Ten, at the latest."
"That probably means mid-afternoon, at the earliest," Karen grumbled.
"We'll see. We may not be able to work tomorrow anyhow," Peggy said, with a glance at the gray skies. "Looks like rain."
They had gone some distance before Karen spoke again. "Did anything strike you after you'd read that last section?"
"I'm not sure what you mean," Peggy said cautiously.
"I've insisted all along that the novel was semi-autobiographical. What we just read proves what we suspected—that the plot is pure fiction. The Horrible Secret, the long-lost mother, the metaphors of the cave, even the suspicion of incest occur in other Gothics. So do the women—the virtuous heroine and her rival, Eve and Lilith, the good girl and the female monster. Isabella and Clara are two aspects of the same character. But I still think we may be looking for sisters who were rivals. The fact that Ismene, the real Ismene, was an intellectual doesn't mean she wasn't interested in men—one man in particular. This book might have been a fairly inventive and rather vicious way of getting back at her sister."
"Who had married the man they both wanted?"
"It's a possibility, isn't it? You were the one who pointed out that marriage was a woman's only viable option in those days. And if it's true ..." She waited to see if Peggy would finish the sentence.
". . . then instead of two Cartright sisters we're looking for a Cartright wife and her sister of another name."
"Damn it!" Karen exclaimed. "You had thought of it. I thought I was being so clever."
"You are, you are. The thought had passed through my mind, yes, but your interpretation hadn't occurred to me. It's not only clever, it's damned good. I was afraid you were so besotted with Ismene you couldn't see any flaws in her character."
"I'd like to find flaws, they make her more human. As a fictional character she was too damned noble. And what she did—if our theory is correct—is a relatively harmless way of exorcising resentment."
"That's why mystery writers are, on the whole, such mild-mannered individuals," Peggy said, smiling. "They don't have to take an ax to the people they hate, they kill them with a pen. Or a word processor."
"So can you find the necessary information?"
"I can but try. It won't be easy. Genealogies are traced through the male ancestor; they don't pay much attention to women outside the direct line of descent."
Her face set in a frown, Karen did not respond. Glancing at her, Peggy said encouragingly, "Cheer up. There's a good chance this new line of inquiry will pay off. The genealogy mentions the maiden names of the Cartright wives, and only two or three of them fall within the likely time period. If I can trace their family trees—"
"There are too many questions we may never be able to answer," Karen interrupted. "Why did she choose Ismene as a pseudonym? What happened to the rest of the manuscript? How was it damaged? I didn't pay much attention to its physical condition, except to assure myself it was stable enough to be read; but I'm wondering now if some of the marks weren't made by fire. Where was it, and what happened to it, before someone hid it in the trunk in the attic?"
Peggy's forehead furrowed. "Good questions. You think it was in Ismene's stone house?"
"I don't know." Karen's hands clenched. "But there's something there. I feel it. Something . . . waiting."
Peggy looked at her uneasily, but did not speak.
Sunlight was breaking through the clouds when they reached the house. The gates had been open and their crew was waiting, but Cameron's battered pickup was not there, and neither was Bill Meyer's car.
"We don't need him, ma'am," said one of the boys, with a condescending smirk. "Likely he won't turn up; he was pretty bushed last night."
However, they had not been at it long before Bill did turn up, apologizing for his tardiness. "Damned desk forgot my wake-up call. How's everybody this morning?"
"In the pink, as you can see," Peggy replied briskly. "Here, Bill, have a shovel."
"Just what I wanted. They're predicting rain tonight," he added, glancing at the sky.
"I know." Peggy hoisted her own shovel. "That's why I want to get this place cleared out today."
She set to work with more enthusiasm than skill, pitching shovelfuls of dirt over the wall. The boys exchanged grins and glances and moved out of her way.
Bill leaned on his shovel and smiled at Karen. "I'm not going into that place until Peggy gets out of it. She's going to brain somebody if she isn't careful."
"Let her work off steam. She'll tire soon and then maybe I can persuade her to let someone take over." Karen spoke abstractedly, her
