Someone in the House (33 page)

“That’s a patera,” he said, indicating the fragments of the bowl. “Used in Roman sacrifices and offerings. Roger’s antique cult is looking pretty good, isn’t it?”

The bits and pieces of memory I had been trying to fit together suddenly clicked into place. I shoved my chair back. It hit the floor with a crash.

“Oh, my God. Maybe it’s not too late. Quick—hurry—”

Kevin caught up with me as I wrestled with the cellar door. My hands were slippery with sweat; I couldn’t get a firm grip on the knob. When he started to ask me what was wrong I shrieked at him. “Hurry—quick….” They might have been the only words of English I knew.

I kept repeating them as I plunged down the steep narrow stairs, with Kevin close behind, making futile snatches at me. He thought I was going to fall, and it’s a wonder I didn’t. I was going to look like a perfect fool if my wild hunch proved wrong. I prayed it would. But the pieces fit together too neatly. The marble box—Roger wouldn’t have forgotten it or abandoned it voluntarily. That was one of the things that had troubled me. And the sound—“a hollow, metallic and clangorous, yet apparently muffled reverberation…” Edgar Allan Poe,The Fall of the House of Usher . How did it go?They laid her living within the tomb .

And the last piece of the puzzle—the long shadow, half concealed by the low rim of the slab in which the brass was set.

I snatched up the crowbar and inserted the tip into the crack between the brass and the stone—a crack now cleared of the old mortar that had once sealed it.

Kevin stood staring at me, his arms limp at his sides.

“Damn it, help me!” I shouted. “It’s too heavy; I can’t do it alone.”

He might have argued with me—I’m sure I looked wild enough to justify a suspicion of instant insanity—if it had not been for Bea. Some flash of insight or premonition must have touched her. She made a horrible deathrattle noise, deep in her throat, and sprang forward to place her hands beside mine on the lever.

By then Kevin had figured out what we were trying to do, if not why. He thought we were crazy, but he knew better than to discuss it.

“You’ll never get it up that way,” he said. “Hold on a minute.”

He went out of the room, and I will admit he moved fast. He returned with an armload of logs of varying sizes.

We used them as wedges to brace the brass as it gradually lifted free of the stone ledge that supported it underneath. The process was agonizingly slow. I had plenty of time to wonder how it had been managed the first time.

Finally the brass stood on its edge, like a metal door. The space underneath was about three feet deep and four feet square. It was lined with stones, gray, monolithic, unadorned. The bottom was littered with fragments of splintered wood and debris. Lying among them was the body of a man, his knees drawn up at an awkward angle. On the back of his gray head was a shape that looked like a big black spider, its hairy legs embracing his skull.

13

THE GOTHIC ATMOSPHEREwas so thick I half expected Bea to jump into the tomb with her lover. Of course she had better sense, though her face was as ghastly as one of the exhibits in a wax museum’s Chamber of Horrors. Kevin went down while Bea and I stood with our backs against the brass to keep it from slipping again. At least I assumed that was what had happened to Roger; in his excitement he had neglected to take precautions and had paid dearly for his carelessness.

“Is he alive?” Bea asked tonelessly.

Kevin was quick to reassure her. “Alive and snoring. He got a bad bump on the head, but nothing seems to be broken. He must have been bent over when the brass fell. Should we try to move him, or call a doctor first?”

Roger answered the question by groaning and trying to sit up. When Kevin asked him how he felt his reply was worthy of the occasion. He refused to stay where he was until we could summon medical assistance, so Kevin boosted him out. He promptly subsided face down on the floor.

“Anne,” Bea whispered. “Can you hold this alone?”

“No. Kevin, get the hell up here.”

“Son of a gun,” said Kevin, rooting among the scraps at the bottom of the hole. “So that’s how he did it. Block and tackle—yep, there’s the hook, in that ceiling beam. Roger, you damned fool, why did you let the apparatus fall down in there with you? We might never have known you were there if Anne hadn’t…”

He broke off. Slowly his head and shoulder rose up out of the pit. The effect was quite gruesome; and the cold, accusing stare he directed at me increased the impression of a modern Dracula inspecting his next victim.

“Goddamn it,” he said. “What’s going on around here? Howdid you know? What’s Roger up to, sneaking around my house and—”

“If you say one more word, Kevin, I am going to slap you,” Bea interrupted. “Come here this minute and help me. You can ask questions later.”

His lips tightly set, Kevin obeyed. As soon as he relieved her, Bea went to Roger. She crouched on the floor beside him, holding his hand, while Kevin and I piled logs under the ends of the brass and tipped it back into a safe position. As we worked, I examined the odds and ends that covered the bottom of the pit. I thought I knew why Roger had hidden the ropes and pulleys; he was tidying up, so Kevin wouldn’t find the evidence of his activities. Or perhaps the falling brass had pulled the ropes from their support and dragged them down. What I couldn’t understand was the absence of the lead coffin I had expected to see. I could only assume that the coffins mentioned in the inventory had belonged to three other people, and that the pieces of broken wood in the pit were the remnants of the container that had once been there. Apparently it had contained only the marble casket; I saw no bones—or teeth.

When the brass finally fell into place, it gave off a sonorous ringing murmur.

“Metallic and clangorous,” I said, shivering. “Thank God for E. A. Poe.”

“What?” Kevin glanced at me, his expression still hostile.

“You remember. They buried her alive, and when she fought her way out of the coffin and the crypt—”

“Oh.” The effect of this somewhat incoherent statement on Kevin was little short of miraculous. Admiration, affection, relief—all pleasant positive emotions—replaced the angry suspicion on his face. He put his arm around my shoulders. “Was that what alerted you? You’re a sharp one, darling.”

“That and a few other things. The little marble box—”

Roger let out a croak. “The box. Where is it?”

“In the kitchen.” Kevin’s voice was harsh. He no longer suspected me of complicity, but he was understandably vexed with Roger. “Far be it from me to be inhospitable, Roger, but what the hell—”

“Shut up, Kevin,” Bea said. “Help me get him upstairs.”

II

It was dawn before Dr. Garst left. I don’t suppose anyone but a personal friend would have made a house call at that ungodly hour—or at any hour. He was efficient and reassuring, but his bedside manner left something to be desired. He told Roger he was lucky to have such a damned thick Irish skull, and made a few leering references to silly old goats who went out on late dates.

Kevin was boiling over with embarrassing questions. No use trying to convince him that Roger had had a tête-à-tête with Bea that night; gentlemen don’t meet ladies in crypts, much less under them. Bea wouldn’t let him interrogate the patient. She shooed us both out. I suggested Kevin get a few more hours sleep.

“I have the feeling everybody knows what’s going on but me,” he muttered, and wandered off.

I went to my room but I didn’t go to bed. I was standing behind my door, peeking through a crack, when Bea emerged from the sickroom. Her eyes were red, but she was smiling mistily. “Of all the paths lead to a woman’s love, Pity’s the straightest.” At least that’s what the poets say, and it appeared that in this case they might be right for a change.

After her door had closed I continued my vigil and, sure enough, about ten minutes later Roger’s door cautiously opened. He had put on his pants, but I guess the effort of bending over to locate his shoes had been too much for his aching head. His feet were bare. The white cap of bandage gave him a rakish look, and his wary expression was that of a prisoner of war watching for enemy guards.

I waited till he had shuffled some way down the hall before I followed. He kept putting his hand to his head; no doubt the pounding inside prevented him from hearing me. He didn’t see me till he reached the stairs and turned to go down.

I put my finger to my lips. “They’ll hear you if you yell.”

“And vice versa. Don’t try to wrestle me back to bed, Florence Nightingale.”

“It’s on the kitchen table.”

“What is?”

“You’re wasting your time playing coy with me, Roger. I’ll tell you what is in the box if you go back to bed; but I don’t suppose that will satisfy you.”

It didn’t satisfy him. He started down the stairs, holding the handrail firmly. I followed, prepared to break his fall if he started to buckle at the knees, but he made it without a mishap and headed purposefully for the kitchen.

The contents of the box revived him remarkably. His eyes shone with satisfaction as he fitted the scraps of pottery together.

“Time to eat a little crow, Annie. Who was right?”

“You, O pearl of wisdom. I take it these are the sacred relics of the worship of the Great Whoever, hidden away by a devotee when things got too hot for honest pagans.”

“Wiseacre,” Roger said absently. “One of these days you’re going to let your guard down and turn into a human being; you’ll be surprised how good it feels. You know what this is, don’t you? It’s a patera—probably a couple of thousand years old. One of the symbols of the Mother. The bull’s horns—”

“They don’t look big enough to be a bull’s.”

“So it was a little bull,” said Roger, with no intention of being funny. “The horns are often found in connection with the double ax. I wonder where—ah, here we are.”

From under the crumbling leaves he drew a scrap of metal, black and oxidized. “Silver,” he muttered. “The wooden handle would be long gone.”

“Okay, now you’ve had your gloat. How about getting back to bed?”

“You think I dragged my battered bones down here just to look at this junk? Hell, no, Annie. We’ve got to get rid of it—right now, before Kevin adds it to the family treasures.”

My head didn’t feel too good. I rubbed it, but that did not help. Oh, I knew what he was thinking, and I couldn’t prove he was wrong. Perhaps these tattered remnants of a cult that had once boasted marble temples and statues of ivory and gold were the ultimate cause of the disturbances in the house. Perhaps they were just another blind alley, like the other leads we had followed. But one thing was sure—Roger wouldn’t rest until they were disposed of—rendered harmless, as he would say.

“What do you propose doing with them?” I asked.

“They ought to be burned,” Roger said, with fanatic intensity.

“I can’t burn a couple of petrified horns!”

“I guess not. Water, then. Running water is an ancient defense against evil spirits.” He looked as if he were starting a fever. Two bright circles of red spotted his sagging cheeks. “That’s it. The stream. We’ll throw them into the stream, as far from the house as we can get.”

“You won’t get far,” I said, catching his arm as he swayed. “Go back to bed and let me take care of this. I’ll do as you suggested.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

He needed all my strength on the return trip, but he stayed on his feet, and I blew out a sigh of relief when he was finally back in bed.

“I’m all right now,” he mumbled. “Need a little sleep…” His eyelids popped open and he fixed me with a penetrating glare. “You promised.”

“I’ll do it, I’ll do it. What about the casket? It won’t be carried down to the cleansing sea, it will sink like a stone. Which it is.”

“Harmless,” Roger said. “Leave it.”

I didn’t ask how he knew. “But what am I going to tell Kevin when he sees the things are gone?”

“Tell him the dog ate them.” Roger closed his eyes. “Tell him the cleaners threw them out. Tell him…crumbled into dust…air…”

I watched him anxiously until his breathing settled into a steady pattern. If I had erred in letting him get up, the damage was done; the only thing I could do for him now was carry out my promise. I went to my room to get my sneakers and some clothes. I suppose I could have dumped the relics into the trash can, or hidden them; but I have this funny obsession about keeping my word.

It was a beautiful morning, bright and clear and cool. I set out briskly, wanting to finish the job and get back to bed. But when I reached the stream there wasn’t enough water in it to float a paper boat. I had to follow the feeble trickle for a mile before another stream joined it. The combined flow was not what anyone would term voluminous, but by then I was so tired I didn’t care. I tossed the relics into the water and left, without looking to see whether they had been carried away or were just lying there, waiting for another victim.