A Perilous Perspective (Lady Darby Mystery #10)(118)
I lifted my opposite hand to point at my chest. “I am not about to take responsibility for your malicious actions, you selfish witch. You delight in hurting others, and you care nothing for anyone but yourself.”
“Guilty as charged.” Her dark eyes were bright with intent, and I knew in the next moment she would raise her knife. This was my only chance to escape.
Praying the garment I’d snagged had enough heft to it, I hurled it across the room at Margaret and darted toward the second door. Thrusting aside the tapestry, I grasped the handle and yanked open the door, diving behind it just as I heard the thwack of another knife striking the wall where I’d been standing.
Pulling the door shut, my gaze frantically searched the space into which I’d run for something to prop under the knob. The chamber was a parlor of sorts, its contents dimly lit by the sunlight filtering through the thick drapes still pulled across the window. Catching sight of a second door, I dashed toward it, only to freeze just short of opening it.
This door must open onto the same corridor as Margaret’s bedchamber. And if that was the case, then she might very well be standing out there right now waiting for me, having predicted my route. I spun around, searching for some alternative means of escape, but there was none. The only means out of this parlor were through that door or back through Margaret’s bedchamber and out to the same corridor. I was effectively trapped.
I pressed a hand to my wildly beating heart, ordering myself to think. Dropping my hand to where my pocket lay beneath my pelisse, I felt the hard lump of my pistol. I still had that, and Margaret was as yet unaware of it. But I would rather not have to shoot her, even after all she’d done, even if she deserved it. I felt ill at the notion. I might be capable of ruthlessness when it was required, but that didn’t mean I had to be merciless.
My gaze darted between the settee, the drapes, and the chair, formulating a plan. Rushing over to the sofa, I grabbed the blanket lying over its arm and stuffed it behind one of the drapes, creating a lumpy shape. I snapped up the footstool and crouched behind the wide bergère chair. With everything in place, I pulled my percussion pistol from my pocket. Cocking the hammer, I said a swift prayer. That my ploy would work, that the shot would be loud enough for Gage to hear it. Then I lifted the pistol and fired at the far wall.
The report of the gun reverberated in my ears and the recoil rocked me back on my heels. Regaining my balance, I dropped the pistol and picked up the footstool, holding it in front of me like a shield just as Margaret burst through the door. I’d trusted the gunshot would spur her into action, making her realize she had seconds to silence me before help arrived.
She didn’t waste time on words or taunts, and I flinched as first one knife and then another sailed across the room to strike the mound in the drapes where, in the low light, I’d hoped she would think I’d concealed myself. But when a body didn’t crumple to the floor, and she advanced to discover why, I was ready for her. Using every ounce of might I possessed, I hurled the footstool at her head, hearing the wooden base connect with a loud crack.
Rising to my feet, I cautiously inched forward to stand over her. When she didn’t move, simply lay there with her eyes shut and the footstool covering half her torso, I began to shake. I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling the cold fear I’d refused to give sway swamp me.
Fortunately, Gage chose that moment to come hurtling into the room, pistol drawn, and skidded to a halt at the sight of me and then Miss Margaret unconscious on the floor.
“It . . . it was Margaret,” I stammered, moving toward him. “Sh-She’s not infirm. She hasn’t been for a very long time. And sh-she’s behind it all.”
He gathered me into his arms just when I thought my knees would give way, holding me tightly as I trembled and buried my head against his chest. His lips pressed to my temple and then my ear, whispering words of comfort.
Miss Campbell tumbled into the room soon after, her eyes wide with shock. Whether or not she’d heard everything I’d said to Gage wasn’t clear, but when she moved to kneel by her sister’s side, I cautioned her.
“Careful. She may have more knives. And she throws them.”
Miss Campbell stiffened, her gaze lifting to the drapes where one of the knives was still sunk into the fabric while the other had fallen to the floor. Now that I had time to think, I was surprised one of them hadn’t shattered the window glass.
How much Miss Campbell knew about her sister, her lack of infirmity, and the events that had transpired wasn’t yet clear, but her alarm was genuine. And when she rose to her feet without even shifting the footstool off her sister’s insensible form, and gathered up the knives before thrusting them into a drawer in the nearby writing desk and turning the key, I took that as some measure of her anger.
Chapter 32
The consequences of the discovery of Margaret Campbell’s treachery were swift and immediate. Her sister contacted the procurator fiscal herself and swore out testimony against her—all the various odd occurrences over the years when Margaret had seemed to disappear or behaved strangely, all the small incidences Anne had never dreamed would add up to multiple murders. Anne also encouraged her staff to testify to everything they knew, and that, combined with the evidence we’d gathered and the confessions Margaret had made to me, formed a rather compelling case against her. Within days, Margaret was taken up in irons, still sporting a sizable lump on her head, and transported to Campbelltown.