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steady herself. But I stepped in and caught hold of her before
she'd touched it.
    "We must leave," I whispered fiercely, "now! This very
minute!"
    Frances rolled her eyes, but she shook her head and wouldn't
budge. "How can you say such a thing? We can't leave her like . . .
like that! She must have a telephone. We'll call the police."
    Shaking my head, I took Frances's shoulders in my hands and
forced her back from the bed. "Trust me. We must go. I'll explain
when we're away from here."
    I was so anxious I felt as if ants were crawling all over my
body. Every element in my sensorium-hearing, sight, smell, touch,
even taste, for I could taste the blood in my mouth-had been
sharpened to an excruciating pitch. Frances didn't move fast enough
for me, so I dragged her, mercilessly. Down the hall, down the
stairs, out the front door.
    "Go on to the Maxwell," I commanded, "there's something I must
do so that no one will ever know we were here."
    "Fremont!" Tears brimmed in her eyes, but she went.
    Michael had taught me about fingerprinting, a technique of
criminal detection developed in England, which had been in use by
Scotland Yard for some years and is now sometimes done here. Taking
my handkerchief from my skirt pocket, I wiped the front door and
the doorknob. Then I went back into that dreadful house and wiped
the stair rail from top to bottom, on the chance that one of us had
touched it, for I really could not remember. While on the stairs I
strained my ears so hard I felt my head would break, but I heard
nothing. My heart leapt with gratitude for that, and I turned and
ran.
    Out on the street I cranked Max with a vengeance, and then we
took off. "Pull yourself together," I ordered Frances grimly. "Stop
crying or your eyes will be red."
    "But she's dead, Fremont! Abigail Locke was-was murdered by somebody!"
    "Murdered by somebody who arranged for you to find her
body! Don't you see, Frances? Somebody wanted you to find her, and
to call the police. Wanted you involved." I turned a corner rather
viciously, and Max's wheels screeched a protest.
    "Why do you say that? That's a terrible thing to say!"
    "Never mind. Get out your handkerchief and wipe your face. We're
going straight back to your house. Who saw you leave?"
    "Well, Cora, I suppose."
    "Did she know where you were going? Did you tell her?" I
wondered how I could ever have thought this auto climbed hills like
a goat. We were moving upward with agonizing slowness.
    "I . . . don't remember. I don't think so. But it doesn't
matter, she won't tell."
    From the corner of my eye I saw Frances daintily wiping beneath
her eyes with a corner of her handkerchief, and she sat straighter.
Good. "This is what we're going to do. You, Frances, are going to
remember that your husband must never, ever know where you went
this morning. Truly, I fear for your safety if he finds out."
    I had to, quite literally, bite my lip to keep from telling her
outright that I thought she should get herself away from him. It
was too early, much too early, for me to make a decision in the
direction I was already leaning: That Jeremy McFadden had killed
the medium, or arranged to have her killed, in order to teach his
wife a lesson.
    I took my eyes from the road for a moment to fix Frances with
what I hoped was a steely stare. "You must never tell anyone 1 . Do you understand that?"
    "No. Frankly, I don't." She sounded petulant, which was better
than teary or terrified. "I think you're being irresponsible,
Fremont. I would have expected more of you."
    "I'm going to call the police, but not until I've seen you
safely inside your own front door. I'll use a callbox and report
Mrs. Locke's death anonymously. The police will take over the
investigation, don't worry, and her murderer will not go
unpunished. Think, Frances, think! What good would it do anyone to
know that we were there?"
    "We had every right to be there. I was invited!"
    "So you were," I said grimly. I lurched the Maxwell up the
McFaddens' steep