It was more than that, thought Margaret, crystally alert, more than hatred for the woman Philip had married, even out of expedience, and who might be held responsible for his death. Philip would never have run the risk of acquiring poison himself, so Mrs. Foale had done it for him. With something as concrete as the capsule, the police would pursue that point. Without it, Margaret’s tale of attempted murder was simply a desperate defense of her sister.
She said because she couldn’t stop herself, “Was she to let Philip kill her instead?” and Mrs. Foale said contemptuously, “You and your sister were both fools—to think that Philip was in love with either of you. I want that medicine, and I want it now.”
“I don’t know where—”
“Then you’d better find out. I have a gun,” said Mrs. Foale, “and I’d just as soon go and get that child out of bed.”
She’ll have to shoot me anyway, thought Margaret blindly. Not so risky, people would think it was suicide because I couldn’t face what Cornelia had done. But can I stand by while she shoots Hilary? Can I betray Cornelia, who is going to need every scrap of help she can get?
Mrs. Foale broke out of her immobility in the comer. Without drama, the more dangerous because of the grotesquely bunched skirt and trailing scarf that almost hid the gun in her hand, she walked toward the door. It was pure bluff, of course. She would not aim a gun at a sleepy eight-year-old girl and pull the trigger.
“Wait,” said Margaret shakenly. “I’ll get it for you.”
Stiffly, shutting her mind to everything but Hilary across the hall, she walked to the bedside table, got the envelope, walked back with it. Her chest hurt badly with foreknowledge. She said delayingly, “I suppose you’re getting on a plane now, or something?”
“Don’t suppose anything,” said Mrs. Foale coldly. She opened the envelope and the capsule, Cornelia’s certain defense, rolled briefly on her palm, blue and yellow, at once poisonous and life-saving. How had Cornelia been so rash as to let Philip know about it? But of course she had been unaware of Mrs. Foale’s existence, so she had thought it a safeguard.
And how predictable I was, thought Margaret bitterly; rushing into Hilary’s room when she screamed, staying there, cleaning up the mess. All the time in the world for this woman to use her own key and enter the house to do what Philip had told her to do. Mrs. Foale apparently was accustomed to doing what Philip wanted her to do. The elaborateness of the conspiracy attested to this. What part, Margaret wondered, had Mrs. Foale played in Philip’s previous marriages?
What extensive planning they must have done this time, the two of them, when Philip decided Comelia’s inheritance made her a suitable bride—and victim. First, spirit Cornelia away from her friends and her familiar background; the Foale house would do nicely for that. But Mrs. Foale was known to be a youngish widow, and had been there with Philip, however discreetly, in the past. When Cornelia suffered a fatal accident there must be no faintest hint of another woman on Philip’s horizon, and appearing to be abroad would seem to be the most conclusive measure.
Mrs. Foale walked toward the bathroom. She was going to flush the capsule down the toilet, irrecoverably, destroying her own complicity with Philip. She hadn’t thought about the snapshot of Philip and his letter in the lipstick yet, but she would.
And what would Cornelia say now? In the light of the cached rum bottles in the storage room, how would her “illness” look?
Out of the dark quiet hall, something shot with such force that Margaret shut her eyes and ducked instinctively. But it was only a flicker of time. Mrs. Foale had been caught by surprise, and the shock had spun her sideways and off balance. Quickly, quickly—
Margaret jumped at her.
Sixteen
SHE hadn’t fought physically with anyone since she was twelve, and the contact with hair and flesh, the answering bite of nails and pressure of muscles, was at once horrifying and exhilarating. This was not a pervasive and frightening atmosphere, but something to fight with every ounce of strength, something that could be hurt as she was hurt.
Not surprisingly, because she had been a nurse, Mrs. Foale was strong and skillful. She locked Margaret’s arms, and Margaret, head forced down, kicked savagely. An added wrench sent her spinning against the foot of the bed, but she was free in spite of the crashing pain in her hip and could launch herself at Mrs. Foale, unscarfed now, her dry blonde hair askew, one cheek redly scratched.
The woman seemed to have infinite reserves of breath, although Margaret’s was jagged in her throat and she was sick and dizzy. They were locked together again, and all at once, almost unnoticed, the bureau scarf went off with a heavy smashing sound of glass and a rolling of objects.
Where was the gun, where was the capsule? Out of reach, or Mrs. Foale would not be battling like this, forcing Margaret’s head back unendurably, sending darkness into her brain.
Time escaped her there. She thought later that it was like swishing into Grand Central on a train: there was the altered roar, the darkness, the flashing, periodic lights. Seconds were made of elastic, minutes lost altogether in a world she didn’t know how to live in. She hurt badly in two or three places her mind could not at once identify. Close to her, looming like a great forest, was Hilary’s sprigged housecoat.
“I’m sitting on her,” said Hilary sensibly, and she was. Academy-prim except for her flushed face and disordered hair, she was planted solidly on Mrs. Foale’s midriff. Mrs. Foale appeared to be unconscious. “I threw my puppet at her,” said Hilary, “and then I hit her
