"Motive," Karen repeated stupidly. She couldn't deal with the problem as dispassionately as Peggy.
"You can't get around it," Peggy insisted. "If those are Ismene's remains, she was deliberately murdered. If she had been crawling around in the tunnel involved in some kind of antiquarian research and died of natural causes, they'd have gone looking for her and removed her body. She was trying to get out; that's the only logical reason for her to be there. Someone had shut her up in her own house of stone, and barred the door."
"And invented a story about her falling off the cliff in order to explain her disappearance." Karen shivered. "It fits, doesn't it?"
"Could Clara have managed that by herself?"
"It would have been easy." Karen's lips twisted. "Ismene must have had a key; she wouldn't leave the place unlocked, not with her private papers and books there. But when she was there, she'd have no reason to lock herself in, would she? She may have been in the habit of leaving the key in the lock—outside. So ... just turn the key and walk away. No blood or mess, no unpleasant confrontation. The place had been long abandoned, none of the servants went near it. The walls were too thick for cries to be heard ..." She broke off, biting her lip.
Her voice deliberately matter-of-fact, Peggy said, "But Edmund—Frederick—knew about the stone house. Even if he believed his wife's lie about Ismene falling into the river, wouldn't he have gone to the house to retrieve her books and papers? He knew how much they meant to her, and he was fond of her—"
"Are you talking about Edmund or Frederick? We're back to the same question: how much of the novel is autobiographical?"
"Right." Peggy shook her head. "I can't keep them straight. But I still think Frederick must have been involved. Or guilty."
"I'm inclined to agree. But it was her mother, not her father, that Eliza mentioned. Maybe one of them did the actual dirty work and the other was an accessory after the fact. If there was a great deal of money involved, and Ismene was about to marry someone else, on the rebound, Clara would get the whole bundle if her sister died, and a woman's property belonged to her husband. That would give Frederick a strong motive. But we'll probably never know the truth."
"This answers all the other questions, though." Peggy shook her head. "To think this diary was lying there, in the box, while we were speculating and guessing! Eliza must have had the poems published as a kind of expiation. She wouldn't use her aunt's real name, so she chose that of the heroine of the book. Come to think of it, that's the one question we haven't answered. Why did she call herself Ismene?"
Karen got up and went to the window. The rain had slackened; it slid like tears down the wet pane. She followed the path of one drop with her finger till it melted into the puddle below. " 'There is no triumph in the grave, No victory in death.' She had no patience with the kind of martyrdom Antigone courted. She wouldn't walk meekly to her death. They had to kill her. And she was still fighting, still trying to get out when she died—at the farthest end of that pitiful tunnel, which had been begun and deepened by other prisoners with the same unconquerable will to live."
Peggy cleared her throat. " 'Dying for a cause is just one of those silly notions men come up with. It has always seemed to me more sensible to go on living and keep on talking.' "
After a moment Karen turned from the window. Smiling, she said, "Are you composing aphorisms now?"
"No, I read it someplace. It's not a bad motto, though. Keep on talking."
"Ismene would have agreed. That book is her triumph over death and silence. That's why I'm not concerned about her poor bones; she wouldn't have cared about them."
"You are going to get them out, though."
"Not me. Cameron said he'd take care of it."
"Are you going to marry him?"
Karen stared at her friend in openmouthed astonishment. "Good God, no. I hardly know the man. What put that idea into your head?"
"The way he looked at you last night. And you weren't exactly scowling at him."
"I like him a lot," Karen said primly. "And I feel very sorry for him. He's had a hard time and—"
"Good Lord, you sound like Jane Eyre. No, Jane Austen! Jane Eyre had at least the guts to admit she was sexually attracted to Rochester."
"So I'm sexually attracted. A long-term relationship requires a lot more than that. Something may develop," Karen admitted. "But as Joan might say, why should I deprive all those other guys of a chance to win my heart?"
"Huh." Peggy lit another cigarette. "Then I guess it's up to me to provide a romantic ending. Though it's going to look more like Abbott and Costello than Bacall and Bogart."
"You and Simon are going to be married?"
"I guess so." Peggy shrugged. "He's such a stickin-the-mud he won't consider any other arrangement. Wanna be maid of honor?"
"I'd rather be best mensch."
"Fine with me," Peggy said, laughing. "What are you going to do about Bill Meyer?"
"I'll think of something."
"Something with boiling oil in it?"
"Oh, no," Karen said gently. "Nothing as nice as boiling oil."
"He was also the burglar, I suppose."
"I've always believed that. He pushed Dorothea's guilt too hard. I don't think she could have climbed in that window, she's not exactly built like Jane Fonda. And it's easy to spray yourself with perfume. I imagine he lured Dorothea down here so she could
