“Now hold your horses, young lady,” said Mr. Clemens, raising his hand. “Do you mean to tell me you were so deep in some kind of trance that you didn’t see or hear anything? What am I supposed to make of an eyewitness who claims she didn’t see or hear anything at all when a man was shot dead maybe six feet away from her?”
Martha looked him straight in the eye. “Make of it what you please, Mr. Clemens. You needn’t swallow anything you don’t wish to. What do you think I have to gain by trying to deceive you?”
My employer frowned. (I recognized this as a sign of deep thought, rather than displeasure.) After pacing back and forth for a few moments, he said, “I can think of a few reasons, but they’re all based on either you or Ed being the guilty parties, or in cahoots with them. And there’s no more evidence for that than for anything else, at present. Damnation—where does that leave us, Wentworth?”
“No worse off than we already were,” I said. “We certainly don’t have any shortage of eyewitnesses. You and I were there, after all, and so were your wife and daughter. And unless all the other guests were part of an elaborate conspiracy to murder Dr. Parkhurst, some of them should have seen or heard something that may help us.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Clemens. “And the police haven’t been around asking them questions, either. At least, they hadn’t come knocking on my door as of lunchtime today—I reckon they will, soon enough, if they can’t squeeze anything out of Ed. And if Ed didn’t have anything to do with it, there won’t be much there for them to squeeze. I take it they haven’t come to question you, either, young lady?” He turned toward Martha.
“No, I would have told you that,” said Martha, shifting in her chair. “I doubt they would have been done with me in time for me to come ask your help this morning. I suppose eventually they’ll want to search the apartment again, and they’ll probably ask me some more questions then. It’s a shame we didn’t find anything worth our time, but I suppose that means they won’t find much of anything, either.”
“I would think that anything that escaped all three of us, as well as the police search last night, must be very small indeed,” I pointed out.
“Very small, or very innocent-looking,” agreed Mr. Clemens. He sat back down and leaned forward, propping up his chin with his right hand. “Let’s go back a couple of steps and think about what we’re looking for, and maybe that’ll give us a better idea where we might find it. There are two big puzzles: how somebody shot the doctor without any of us hearing the shot, and where the gun went to afterwards. I’d guess it had to be done from outside, except the place was too dark to give the shooter a target—besides which, there’s no broken glass and no bullet holes in the curtains.”
“The rapping could have covered up the sound of the gun,” I said.
“Yes, but nobody seems to have spotted the flash—it would have been mighty hard to miss in the darkness,” said Mr. Clemens. “And we still don’t know where the gun went to, since neither we nor the cops could find it . . . damn it all, Wentworth, I’m starting to think in circles.”
“We haven’t disproved Lestrade’s idea that Mr. McPhee admitted someone else to the premises, who fired at Dr. Parkhurst from the foyer, either through the peephole or with the door between rooms open just enough to take aim, and then removed the weapon when he made his escape,” I said. Then a thought struck me. “I wonder, though—what if the killer meant to shoot someone else instead? Parkhurst may have been an accidental victim.”
“I don’t even want to think about that,” said Mr. Clemens. “We’ve got to assume the killer got the man he came looking for. Otherwise—” Whatever he was about to say, he was interrupted by a knock at the door. He turned in his chair and looked over his shoulder toward the entrance. “Well, I calculate that’s Inspector Lestrade coming back to ask a few probing questions he forgot last night,” he said. “Why don’t you go let him in, Miss Martha?”
I thought Mr. Clemens was rather too confident in his prediction that the person at the door would be Chief Inspector Lestrade. But as it turned out, he was right. When Martha McPhee returned to the room where we waited, she was followed by two men—Lestrade and Sergeant Coleman, his younger assistant. “Good day, Mr. Mark Twain,” said Lestrade, taking off his hat. “Fancy meeting you here!”
“Nothing fancy about it, Inspector,” said Mr. Clemens, drawling more than usual. “I reckon you’re here on business. Don’t let me bother you, I’ll set right here and smoke my pipe.” He picked up the corncob pipe (which had gone out) and waved it at the two Scotland Yard men.
“I certainly am here on business,” said the inspector, crisply. “The Queen’s business, to be exact. Might I ask what brings you and your young friend here? This is hardly a place I’d expect you to return to, after what happened last night. Not unless you have some particular reason, that is.”
“I guess you could say that my secretary and I are just being neighborly,” said my employer. “We know this young lady and her husband from back home—not that we’re particular friends, mind you. But when you’re in a foreign country, and trouble comes a-calling, a familiar face can be a comfort. Mrs. McPhee is real worried about her husband, and so Wentworth and I came over to see whether we could be any kind of help. But you don’t have to pay me any mind—go on about your business—I’ll just smoke my pipe until you’re done.” He gestured with the pipe again, still not making any attempt to light it.
“You realize, sir, that we are conducting a murder investigation,” said Sergeant Coleman.
“Are you, now?” Mr. Clemens sounded utterly surprised by this revelation. “Why, I wouldn’t have known it unless you told me so. Now you’ve got me all interested. Do you mind if I watch? Maybe I can put some of it in a book sometime.”
Sergeant Coleman turned red and began to sputter, but Lestrade smiled thinly and said, “Oh, you can do much more than just watch, Mr. Twain. I expect you can assist us a good deal with our investigation. Since you’re right here, it would be a fine time for you to answer a few questions while Coleman takes a look around the premises. We’ll have a few questions for the young gentleman here, as well, and some for Mrs. McPhee, of course. You see, you’re all three witnesses to the matter we’re investigating.”
Mr. Clemens raised his brows. “What, haven’t you learned anything from that fellow you took away last night? You were talking as if he was the key to the whole business.”
“Aye, that he is,” said Lestrade. “But so far he’s played it close to his waistcoat—if you were to credit the rascal, he didn’t see anything, didn’t do anything, and doesn’t know anything, either. Well, he thinks he’s clever now, but he’s setting himself up to learn a hard lesson if he wants to try that game against Lestrade.”
“May I visit him?” said Martha, concern in her voice.
“All in good time,” said Lestrade, unbuttoning his overcoat. “We’ll let him sit a little longer in the lockup, and see if his memory improves. For now, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Why should I answer them, if you will not let me visit my husband?” demanded Martha. “It is dreadful of you to take a man away in the middle of the night and throw him into jail like a common criminal. I tell you, Mr. Lestrade, Edward has not done anything to deserve such treatment. He is an American citizen, you know. If I get no satisfaction from you, I mean to bring this matter to the attention of our embassy, and I assure you they will not take it lightly.”
“Mrs. McPhee, I can assure you that the Metropolitan Police Authority does not take cold-blooded murder lightly,” said Lestrade. He removed his coat and draped it over a chair, putting his hat on the seat. “There may be a killer walking the streets, even as we speak. All your husband has to do is answer our questions. If he’s done nothing against English law, he has nothing to fear from us. Meanwhile, you might think about this: if you can tell us something that helps us catch the murderer, then your man will be back with you that much the sooner.”
“I�
�ve heard that story before,” said Martha, defiance in her eyes. “I know better that to trust a policeman holding out empty promises.”
“Do you really?” asked Lestrade. “And have you and Mr. McPhee been in trouble with the police often before?”
Before Martha could open her mouth to answer, Mr. Clemens stood up and raised his hand. “Hold on now, both of you. This little squabble is about as helpful as a dogfight in a canoe. We’re all aiming for the same thing—finding out who killed the doctor.”
“You’re assuming the lady’s husband isn’t the murderer himself, or an accomplice,” said Sergeant Coleman, looking up from the floor over by the table, where he had begun an inch-by-inch search.
Now it was Lestrade who raised his hand. “Wait a while, Coleman,” he said. “Mr. Twain, do I understand you to say that you are trying to find the murderer yourself? I fear you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”
“Don’t say that before you know how big my mouth is,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ve done this kind of thing before, and had my share of luck at it.”
Lestrade peered intently at my employer before answering. “I’ve had dealings before with private persons who fancied they were better than we are at catching criminals. From time to time, one of them stumbles across a bit of evidence before the police discover it, and helps us solve the case. But take my word for it, Mr. Twain, these things are best left to the professionals. I’ve been at Scotland Yard a dog’s age and longer. I’ve seen everything there is to see. There’s no substitute for practical experience, no matter how clever a fellow thinks he is.”
“Well, I wouldn’t argue with that,” said Mr. Clemens. “And being a foreigner, of course I can’t know your territory as well as you do.”
“Yes, exactly,” said Lestrade, nodding.
“Still, Ed McPhee and I have known each other a long time,” my employer continued. “I have a pretty good idea what he’d do and what he wouldn’t, and I don’t believe he’s got murder in his heart. I don’t think he’d cover up a murder, either—not unless the other fellow had something mighty serious to hold over his head in exchange for his silence, that is. And I can’t see how that could apply here.”
“If you’d seen as many murders as I have, you wouldn’t be surprised by anything,” Lestrade said. “A man everybody knows and trusts can suddenly snap—because of money, because of a woman, because of a hundred things, Lord knows. This McPhee chap may have been under pressures you can’t imagine.”
“You’re talking to a man who makes up stories for a living,” said Mr. Clemens. “If I can’t imagine it, it ain’t worth the trouble. But never mind that; there’s fresher fish to fry. I’m going to do what I can to figure out who killed Dr. Parkhurst last night. I don’t have any axes to grind; if it turns out McPhee did it, you can hang him without me raising a finger—sorry, Miss Martha, but that’s all I can promise you.”
“No more than any honest man would undertake,” said Lestrade, nodding. “But you’re leading up to something, I can tell. What’s your point, Mr. Twain?”
“I think McPhee may tell his ‘old buddy Sam’ things he wouldn’t tell you,” said my employer. “How about letting me in to talk to him—maybe giving him your promise that if you’re happy with what he says to me, he can talk to his wife? You’ll catch more flies with molasses than with vinegar, you know.”
Lestrade gave him a searching look, then said, “Perhaps we can do business, then. But first I have a few questions for you three. If I’m satisfied with your answers, then we can consider letting you talk to McPhee. Do we have a bargain?”
“Well, I don’t see how I’ve got anything to lose by it,” said Mr. Clemens. He paused and looked at me, then at Martha McPhee. “Of course, I’m only talking for myself. But if these two young folks are agreeable, I think we’ve got a deal.”
“I can’t turn down any plan that lets me speak to my husband,” said Martha. I added my agreement, and Lestrade took out a notebook of his own. Mr. Clemens reclaimed his chair, and we awaited the detective’s questions.
11
Lestrade rubbed his chin, thinking, then said, “Let’s begin with the young lady. When did you first meet the deceased?”
“Last night,” said Martha. “No more than twenty minutes before our sitting commenced.”
Lestrade squinted when he heard that. “Really! And if you didn’t know the gentleman before that, how did he happen to be here last night?”
“His wife and I had met at a spiritualist-society meeting,” said Martha. “She asked him to come. And to be quite frank with you, I had the distinct impression that he was there only to escort her and her sister. He showed very little enthusiasm for the proceedings.”
“So you say, but do you have any corroboration?” asked the detective. He held the pencil poised above the blank page, clearly waiting for her to answer.
“It doesn’t seem particularly farfetched to me,” said Mr. Clemens, waving his unlit pipe. “I was here myself mainly because my wife and daughter wanted to come. Otherwise, I’d have skipped the whole thing, and probably been a lot happier.”
“I suppose I should resent that, Mr. Clemens,” said Martha McPhee, with a very faint smile. “But perhaps some good will come of your presence last night. One of your party may have seen or heard something that will help exonerate my husband.”
“It would be even better if you could get the spirits to tell us who did the killing,” said my employer; I could not tell from his expression whether he meant the suggestion to be taken seriously. “That might even make me decide there was something to the afterlife, after all.”
“I wish it were that simple,” said Martha. “Believe me, Mr. Clemens, I thought of that approach myself, late last evening. But my ability to see beyond this plane is very unreliable, and the spirits can be quite capricious. Nonetheless, I would be willing to essay the attempt.”
“Well, if we can’t get anything useful by the regular means, maybe I’ll ask you to do just that for us,” said Lestrade dryly. “But I doubt it’ll be necessary. We at the Criminal Branch have our methods, and they have stood the test of time. Not many slip through our grasp, I can tell you that.”
“What about that business out at Whitechapel a few years back—Jack, I think the fellow’s name was . . . ?” said Mr. Clemens.
Lestrade’s face turned red. “That devil!” he exclaimed. He gnashed his teeth, and for a moment his eyes flashed. Then, getting control of himself, he continued. “You’re right, Twain, that’s one villain who got away from us. If the people in charge had listened to what some of their men on the streets had to offer, things might have come out different. But the fellow’s beyond our reach now—and getting a regular diet of brimstone, I daresay.”
“You never found a body, did you?” When Lestrade shook his head to signify the negative, my employer continued, “These things never get wrapped up quite as neat as you’d like to think. Don’t be so sure the killer’s dead. But we’re off the subject, aren’t we? You had some questions for us.”
“Yes, of course,” said Lestrade. “Where were we?” He glared at Sergeant Coleman as if looking for a cue.
“You’d been asking about the deceased,” Coleman prompted, raising his head. He hit it on the edge of the table he’d been searching under, making a loud bump, and rubbed it, muttering. He picked up his pocket magnifier, which he’d dropped, and began searching again.
“Exactly,” said Lestrade, nodding. He managed to convey the impression that he’d had the answer all along, and was just testing his assistant. He turned around and inched his chair closer to the one Martha occupied. “Now, did the deceased say or do anything to indicate that he might have an enemy here? Did he pointedly ignore anyone, for instance, or act annoyed to see someone here?”
“Not that I noticed,” said Martha. “I thought his manner was a bit stiff and reserved, but he didn’t ignore one person any more than the rest.”
“Typically English, in other words,”
Mr. Clemens added.
“Not quite, though I know what you mean,” said Martha, a small smile playing about her lips. “He appeared somewhat embarrassed to be seen patronizing a medium. Many respectable people act that way. And yet practically all my sitters come from the higher ranks of society.”
“No surprise there,” said Mr. Clemens. “They’re the only ones with money to spend listening to spirits tell them a bunch of stuff they already ought to know. Not many mediums hand out free tickets to the street cleaners and stable boys in the neighborhood.”
Martha’s smile vanished and her back stiffened. “Mr. Clemens, you know very little of how I conduct my affairs. In any case, it seems unbecomingly small of you to accuse me of mercenary motives, considering that I invited you, your family, and your secretary to attend last night, all without charge.”
“So you did,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’m still not sure you weren’t hoping I’d write a favorable article about you, and make you the talk of London overnight. You should have known me better.”
Martha turned a sad face toward my employer. “I know you to be no great friend of spiritualism, but I allowed myself to hope that I might show you the shallowness of mere skepticism. To tell the truth, I had a much simpler reason for inviting you: to bring the number of sitters to twelve—a very powerful number. And I must say that, before the unfortunate incident, the rapport between myself and the spirits was unusually deep.”
Lestrade had visibly grown impatient with this digression, and now he stuck his face forward, close to Martha’s, taking charge of the proceedings again. “What about the others in attendance?” he asked, pointing around the room with his pencil. “Had any of them been to séances with you before?” I fleetingly wondered whether he was seriously considering either Mr. Clemens or me as likely suspects or accessories to the murder.
The Guilty Abroad Page 11
