"It isn't that simple." Simon was obviously trying to keep the conversation on a sensible plane. "How much of the truth do we know? Legally one cannot slander the dead, but morally one would not wish to make accusations when the accused cannot defend himself."
"Or herself." Karen raised her head from Cameron's shoulder. "I have to present all the evidence, though. Some of the true history of these people is paralleled by the plot of the novel. Ismene's name was Cassandra Cabot—another name from Greek literature, you notice. Her father was born in Boston, but at some point he moved to Charleston, South Carolina, because that was where he died. We know he was a widower, and that he left two daughters. There was no record of a will, so he may have died intestate. We know nothing of what happened to the girls after that, until 1820, when Helena married Frederick Cartright."
"None of that has anything to do with Ismene's—Cassandra's— death," Simon objected. "You can't offer a motive for murder; you don't know the size of Mr. Cabot's estate, and you've absolutely no reason to suppose that Mrs. Cabot didn't die a natural death in Boston or Charleston."
"I'm not a prosecutor in a court of law," Karen retorted. "Just a poor hard-working scholar. I don't have to produce evidence."
There was one kind of evidence she would not, could not mention, without destroying her reputation. In her own mind however, it was irrefutable. There had been something in the attic of that terrible old house—some thing, or someone, who had suffered and despaired and died without forgiveness or reconciliation. She could never prove it; she did not want to prove it. She could only pray the remnant of that suffering was impersonal, an echo of past pain and not the bodiless survivor of it.
A slight, almost imperceptible shiver ran through her, and Cameron's arm tightened its grasp. He knew about the cold in the attic; it had been a step forward in their relationship when he had been able to admit he had felt it too and had found it so unbearable he had hired workmen to carry the contents of the attic to a lower floor.
"Stop hassling Karen, Simon; she'll do a proper job," Peggy ordered. "Let's talk about something more cheerful. Such as how many more people have you invited since yesterday?"
"Only one but he's not coming," Simon said. "He got back from England three days ago, and he was too—"
"Not Bill Meyer!" Peggy exclaimed. "Simon, how could you?"
"He's not coming, I said. Why shouldn't I have asked him?"
"After he bribed that moronic Bobby to pretend to run Karen down so he could heroically save her life, and broke into the apartment trying to steal the manuscript—"
"You have absolutely no proof of that," Simon declared. "Professor Meyer's manner was completely open and forthright. He asked me to convey his best wishes and regrets ..." He stopped, his mouth ajar.
"That's about as close to a confession as we'll ever get from Bill Meyer," Peggy declared.
"Good heavens," Simon muttered. "It never occurred to me that ... I thought he was making a tactful and manly reference to his—er—broken heart. He certainly gave me the impression—"
"Oh, I think he was beginning to harbor the delusion that he was in love with me," Karen said calmly. "At least I hope he was. It would add a particularly sweet tang to my revenge."
A smile curved her lips as she told the others of her meeting with Dorothea Angelo.
Angelo had been deeply suspicious but too curious to decline Karen's invitation. They had met at a restaurant in D.C.—neutral ground—and the expedition had taken an entire day of Karen's time. It had been worth it, though.
"I don't suppose you're going to offer me a chance to help you edit the manuscript." Dorothea had opened the conversation with that remark; meaningless courtesies weren't her style.
"No. Would you like a glass of wine? Lunch is on me."
Dorothea's blackened brows lowered. "What are you up to, Holloway?"
"I wish to see justice done," Karen said solemnly.
It had been glorious to watch Dorothea's face as she heard, in the most lurid terms Karen could invent, how Bill Meyer had set her up, and worth every penny of the very expensive lunch Dorothea consumed as she listened. They had shared a carafe of wine. Karen had one glass. At the end of the conversation she raised it. "Shall we drink confusion to a certain person?" she asked.
"Damned right." Dorothea had chewed most of her lipstick off, and her expression would have sent small children howling for their mothers. She refilled her glass. "You're not such a bad sort, Holloway," she said awkwardly. "Thanks."
"What for?"
"For believing me when I said I didn't do those things. And for telling me how that bastard Meyer tried to use me. Don't worry, I'll take care of him."
"And I'm sure she will." Karen finished her story, while the others stared at her in horrified fascination. "She's the worst gossip in the M.L.A. and by the time she gets through embroidering the story it will make Bill look like an even greater horse's behind than he actually is."
Cameron drew a long breath and pretended to flinch away from her. "Remind me never to do anything to irritate you."
"That was brilliant," Peggy declared respectfully. "Absolutely inspired. You deserve a medal."
"I learned from you," Karen said with a fond smile. Then her face sobered. "It was a perfect case of making the punishment fit the crime. Bill didn't try to kill me. Nobody tried to kill me. I kept telling you that. In real life people do commit murder for extraordinary reasons—but cautious, careful, sane academicians don't endanger their reputations and safety for a step up in their careers.
"And yet all the threatening incidents stemmed from a single event: my acquisition of the manuscript. It got Bill and Dorothea on my trail; it
