One look told me the house had not been thrown up quickly. Or recently. The construction was as solid as London's Newgate prison. Though I doubted George Dance drew the plans, this designer shared the prison architect's distrust of portals on to the world. There were no expanses of glass to maximize the mountain view. No skylights. No widow's walks. Constructed of rock and thick, unstained planking, the place had clearly been built for function. I couldn't tel if it had last been visited at the end of the summer or at the end of the Great Depression.

Or if someone was inside now, watching my movements through a crack or gun hole.

'Is anyone home?'

Nothing.

I climbed to the porch and knocked.

'Helo?'

No sounds of movement.

Sidestepping to a window, I brought my eyes close to the shutters. Heavy, dark material hid the interior. I twisted and turned my head, angling for a view, until the feathery brush of a spider sent me jumping backward.

I descended the steps, circled the house on an overgrown flagstone path, and stepped through an arch into a gloomy little courtyard. The enclosure was surrounded by eight-foot stone wals overhung by lilac bushes, their leaves dark against the greens and yelows of the forest beyond. Except for moss, nothing grew on the hard-packed, moist ground. The dank little quadrangle seemed completely incapable of sustaining life.

I turned my gaze back to the house. A crow circled and settled on a nearby branch, a smal black silhouette against briliant blue. The bird cawed twice, clicked its beak, then lowered its head in my direction.

'Tel the mistress I stopped by,' I said with more self-assurance than I felt.

The crow regarded me briefly, then flapped into the air.

Turning, I caught a flicker, like sunlight glinting off broken glass. I froze. Had I seen movement in an upstairs window? I waited a ful minute. Nothing stirred.

The yard had only one entrance, so I retraced my steps and surveyed the far side of the property. Brush filed the space between forest and house, ending in a jungle of dead holyhocks crowding the foundation. I walked the area, but saw no evidence of burials, disturbed or intact. My only discovery was a broken metal bar.

Frustrated, I returned to the front porch, inserted the bar between the shutters, and pried gently. There was no give. I applied more pressure, curious, but not wanting to cause damage. The wood was solid and would not budge.

I looked at my watch. Two forty-five. This was useless. And stupid, if the property wasn't abandoned. If proprietors existed, they were away, or wanted it to seem so. I was tired, sweaty, and itchy from thousands of tiny scratches.