The Guilty Abroad

by Peter J. Heck

  “This looks to be a very pleasant place to live,” I said. “Something about it strikes me as particularly English.”

  “Yes, very clean and well kept up,” said Mr. Clemens. Then, after a rueful glance down at his soiled trousers: “Better kept up than I am just this moment, I’m afraid. Maybe I should have gone home and changed clothes. But we’re here, so let’s see if he’s home. Now that we’ve walked all this way, we shouldn’t waste the opportunity.”

  We opened the little wooden gate in the boxwood hedge that fronted the house, went up a short walk to the front porch, and I rang the bell. After a short interval, the door opened and we found a long-nosed man in a dark old-fashioned suit with a supercilious air peering out at us. “Good day, gentlemen. May I help you?” he said, in a voice that could have been set up as a model of sheer hauteur.

  “Yes, tell Mr. Villiers that Samuel L. Clemens would like to see him. I assume he’s at home?”

  “Perhaps, sir. I shall return directly,” said the man. His glance fell upon the smudges on Mr. Clemens’s coat and trousers, and his eyebrow rose a barely perceptible fraction. His eye lingered on the dirty clothes just a moment longer than necessary. Then he turned and disappeared within.

  “Perhaps?” said Mr. Clemens. “Hell, if somebody who worked for me didn’t know whether I was home or not when somebody came looking, I’d send him to have his head examined.”

  “I think he meant something else,” I ventured.

  “I know exactly what that long-snooted lackey meant. He meant that he didn’t know whether his boss wants to see me. That’s nothing new—there’ve been thousands of people who didn’t want to see me, and just as many who I felt the same about. But anybody I’m paying to answer my doorbell will have better manners than to turn up his nose at people who come asking to see me. I know a wild-eyed Croatian inventor whose hair goes in all directions and who doesn’t give a damn about pressed shirts or polished shoes. If I’d decided not to talk to him because my butler didn’t like the way he looked, which he didn’t, I’d have missed some of the most amazing stuff I’ve ever heard. The man’s got better ideas than Edison, and I ought to know—I’ve met Edison, too.”

  “Sometimes I think you must have met everyone worth knowing,” I said.

  “I’d be disappointed if that turned out to be true,” he said. “It’s a big world, with a hell of a lot of people in it I haven’t met yet. I’d hate to think that none of ’em are worth getting to know. It would take away half my reason for traveling.”

  I was not quite certain how to reply to this observation, but was saved having to do so by the return of the butler, who opened the door and said, “Mr. Villiers is at home. If you will please follow me.” He accompanied this revelation with the most perfunctory bow imaginable.

  Mr. Clemens responded by bending his upper body nearly parallel to the ground, accompanied by a florid gesture. “Lead the way, kind sir,” he said. The butler made a yeoman effort not to alter his expression, but even I could see that my employer had nonplussed him. He turned on his heel without a word, and we followed him into the house. A glance at Mr. Clemens showed him doing his best to suppress a mischievous grin.

  The butler led us down a short hallway, paneled in dark wood and lit with candles—a curious choice of illumination, I thought. Surely this well-to-do neighborhood had gas, if not electricity, available. What I had seen of London indicated that despite the venerable age of many of its buildings, it had adopted most of the modern conveniences to be found in the larger, younger cities of America. The hallway was lined with oil paintings, mostly portraits of gentlemen and ladies in the costume of a considerably earlier time, but we moved along far too rapidly to admit close inspection of them.

  “In here, sir,” said the butler, stopping outside a doorway leading off the right side of the hallway and gesturing toward the entrance. Mr. Clemens led the way in, and I followed. This room was also dark-paneled, with thick velvet curtains over the windows and numerous candles burning in tarnished brass sconces around the room. (Bright as it was outside, I would have thought the sunlight would have been welcome, if only to reduce the expenditure for candles.) A thick Persian carpet covered the floor. At a large table, piled high with books, sat Villiers, a large leather-bound folio printed in a black-letter typeface open in front of him. Two large and very ornate silver candelabra sat on either side of him, and a crystal decanter—containing tawny port, to judge by the color—occupied a tray on a side table. The tray also held goblets, of a style matching the decanter.

  Villiers looked up as we entered, and rose to his feet, a thin smile on his lips. He wore a dark crimson satin jacket, the color almost matching the curtains and rug. “Mr. Clemens—what an outstanding pleasure to have you as a visitor. As perhaps you have felt, my home is devoted to works of the creative spirit. A visit from another man of genius is always an occasion to be celebrated.” If he noted my presence, he did not consider it worth comment.

  My employer bowed again, this time less ostentatiously than when he made his mock bow to the butler. “I don’t know I’d call myself a genius, but I reckon it would be rude to contradict a man in his own home, especially when he’s trying to throw a compliment in my direction. So I thank you, Mr. Villiers. I hope we haven’t come at too inconvenient a time.”

  “Not in the least, Mr. Clemens,” said Villiers. He gestured toward the book open before him. “You found me leafing though Sir Thomas Browne’s Vulgar Errors—a volume I always find highly amusing, though perhaps I read it differently to most people nowadays. I find myself thinking that the title reflects as much on its author as on the ostensible subjects. Still, it remains an inspiration for my artistic endeavors. I wonder if you know it.”

  “Mostly by reputation,” said Mr. Clemens (which was more than I could say). “Old Dr. Browne wouldn’t believe anything he hadn’t seen with his own eyes, if what I’ve heard is right. I guess we’d have found a few things to laugh about together, if he’d been born a couple of hundred years later. But I’ve never bothered to go dig up his book—I can usually find a month’s supply of moonshine without going that far out of my way.”

  Villiers responded with a smile. “Yes, the fools are always with us, are they not?” he said. “But I am neglecting my duty as a host, Mr. Clemens—I hope you will join me in a glass of this excellent port.”

  “Yes, indeed,” said my employer. “Cabot and I have been running all over town on one errand or another. I’m sure a taste would do both of us considerable good.”

  Villiers showed us to chairs, then filled three glasses and passed them around. I am not ordinarily fond of sweet wines, but the effects of this port on my nose and palate made me think I might acquire the taste. Mr. Clemens and I murmured appreciative words, and then my employer said, “You can probably guess what brings us here.”

  “Yes, I should think so,” said Villiers, steepling his fingertips. “That unpleasant business last night, isn’t it? It’s a bit of a novelty to have a man shot dead five feet from me. But I suppose the police will sort it all out.”

  “Well, I guess they will eventually, but it looks as if they’ve started on the wrong foot,” said Mr. Clemens. “I don’t think Ed McPhee knows as much about it as I do, and that’s precious little. I’ve told Mrs. McPhee that we’d see if we can find some way to spring her husband out of jail, so I’m talking to the others who were there to see if I get to the truth.”

  “Of course,” said Villiers. “Mr. McPhee seems a bit of a crude chap, but I don’t make him out to be a killer. Now, that Irish fellow who ran away may be another story.”

  “Maybe he is,” said Mr. Clemens. He swirled the wine in his glass, then looked up at Villiers and asked, “What reason do you think he might have had to shoot the doctor?”

  “There’s the rub, isn’t it?” said Villiers. “At a guess, he was taking revenge for some old insult. The Irish are hot-tempered, you know.”

  “That makes as much sense as anything,” said Mr. C
lemens, nodding. “You don’t have any idea what that old insult could be, do you?”

  “Nothing really,” said Villiers, rubbing his chin. “I don’t believe I’ve ever exchanged two consecutive sentences with the Irishman, so anything I ventured would be speculation. For all I know, he was a hired assassin.”

  “Well, that’s as good as any other theory we’ve got so far,” said Mr. Clemens. “Who do you think might have had enough of a grudge against the doctor to pay someone to kill him?”

  “Enough to have him shot? Hard to say.” Villiers put his fingertips to his chin. “Everyone has enemies, of course, and Parkhurst was no saint. Rumor has it that he kept a mistress—I’d look into that, if I were you.”

  “You wouldn’t know her name, or anything about her, would you?” Mr. Clemens motioned to me to take out my notebook.

  “Sorry, no,” said Villiers. “Rumor is all I know, there. I’d ask his partner, Dr. Ashe—he’d be a good man to talk to, in any case. Talk to Parkhurst’s son, too—Tony’s said to be rather a profligate. I’d imagine he’s the one with the most to gain from Parkhurst’s death, if he owes as much money as everyone alleges.”

  “Good, we’ll do just that,” said my employer. “But you haven’t mentioned anyone who was there last night. What about them? Did any of them have reason to do him in?”

  Villiers took a sip of his port, then set the glass back down. “I dare say Cornelia—Mrs. Parkhurst—had reason, if she’d learnt he had a mistress. I don’t know that she had, of course. Hardly the question one asks a lady in casual conversation, is it?”

  Mr. Clemens took a sip of his own port, then said, “I guess not. I reckon Scotland Yard will ask it, though. How well did you know the doctor and his wife, by the way? Mrs. McPhee said you and she were members of some spiritualist group.”

  “I was Dr. Parkhurst’s patient, not quite four years since,” said Villiers, looking intently at my employer. “I met Cornelia more recently—late last year, when the Spiritualist Society began. At first I didn’t realize who she was—he never came to meetings with her, and of course she hadn’t been in his offices when I went there.”

  “What were you seeing the doctor for?” asked Mr. Clemens. “He was a surgeon, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes; but he saw all sorts of patients,” said Villiers. “It was the winter after I first came to town. Three or four of us were going to the opera, and getting out of the cab, my foot lit on a patch of ice. I took a nasty fall. It turned out I’d cracked my collarbone. Being new in town, I hadn’t a doctor of my own—I came here straight out of university, you see. One of my friends recommended Parkhurst, and there you have it.”

  “Had you seen him since?”

  “Not at all regularly,” Villiers said, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t much like the smell of doctors’ offices, and Parkhurst was not at all my notion of company. If his wife hadn’t brought him along last night, I doubt I’d have seen him until the next time I needed his services.”

  “What was your relationship to Mrs. Parkhurst?” asked Mr. Clemens. “You were both members of the Spiritualist Society, you say. Did you just see each other at meetings, or were you closer than that?”

  Villiers laughed—a harsh bark of a laugh that startled me. “I see what you’re trying to get at, Clemens,” he said, with a grimace. “I should tell you to mind your own business—but I have nothing to hide. If you really want the truth, Cornelia is rather too unimaginative and stiff to much interest me. Even if I were attracted to older women—married women at that—I promise you she would not be my sort.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to malign your taste,” said Mr. Clemens. “Was there anyone else at the table last night you think might have had a reason to shoot the doctor, or to hire someone to shoot him for them?”

  “Oh, indubitably,” said Villiers, toying with his wineglass. Then, after a pause, he continued: “I’ll wager Sir Denis was just practicing his marksmanship—though I fear he must have missed, and been ashamed to admit it, poor old duffer. Or perhaps it was your man here, Mr. Clemens—pray tell, my good fellow, what reason did you have for potting the doctor? Or did someone hire you to do it?”

  Mr. Clemens gave a short laugh. “Well, I reckon I can tell when a man’s done all the talking he’s interested in doing. I’m sure those Scotland Yard boys will be by sooner or later to ask you a lot of the same questions, so you might as well be grateful for the chance to practice your answers. One more thing, and then we’ll leave you alone.”

  My employer reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a folded piece of paper, which he handed to Villiers. “We’re trying to make a chart of where everybody sat last night,” he said. “Do you see any mistakes?”

  Villiers unfolded the paper and peered intently at it for a moment, then shook his head and returned it to Mr. Clemens. “I think not,” he said. “Unless someone changed seats in the dark, it’s correct.”

  “Hell, I never thought of that,” said Mr. Clemens, frowning. “Was everybody in the same place when the lights came back on?”

  “The people on either side would have known if someone had moved,” I objected. “We were all holding hands, remember?” Then I looked over to see Villiers smirking at us.

  Mr. Clemens saw it, too. “Never mind, Wentworth,” he said, standing up. “We’ve gotten what we came for, for today.” He turned to Villiers and said, “Thanks for the port, and for the tips about the doctor’s mistress—and his son. We may come see you again, if we think of anything else you might tell us.”

  “I shall tell Cathers to remember you,” said Villiers. “Good afternoon, sir.” He touched a small bell on the table to his right, then, without standing, he extended his hand to Mr. Clemens, who shook it. He did not offer to shake my hand, and I was just as glad that the butler made his appearance and led us back out before the awkward moment grew too long.

  Out on the street, Mr. Clemens looked back at the house and said, “Well, that was a useful interview.”

  “I can’t really agree with you,” I said. “I don’t believe a single word the fellow said. I doubt the son or mistress are worth talking to, either—they weren’t even there, so how could they have killed him?”

  “Maybe they were in cahoots with the one who did kill him,” said Mr. Clemens. “We can’t leave them out of this, just yet. And we can’t make too much of Villiers’s evasions. Even the innocent ones are likely to have something to hide, something they’re afraid makes them look guilty, and so they’ll lie to protect themselves.”

  “Villiers certainly appeared to be hiding something,” I said. “And at the end, he was most uncooperative. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be the killer.”

  “Sure, he’s as good a possibility as any,” said Mr. Clemens. We had begun walking at his usual leisurely pace back toward Tedworth Square, where my employer’s family—and our dinner—were awaiting us. “But I can’t say I’m surprised that he got tired of playing along with us. Hell, there’s no law saying he’s even got to let us in the door, let alone give us straight answers. Not to mention the drinks.”

  “But if we know everyone is going to lie about themselves, how will we ever get to the bottom of this case?” I wanted to know.

  “Because they’re likely to tell the truth about each other, which they’ll do just out of sheer ornery human nature. And since we aren’t the cops, they won’t be as much on their guard. That’s our main advantage, the way I see it. At the end, we take what they tell us, and compare it with the others’ stories, and see what shakes out.”

  I had no answer to that, and so we made our way in silence along the pleasant streets of Chelsea. At Tedworth Square, we were greeted by the aroma of roasting chicken, and that was enough to make me forget the day’s frustrations for a while.

  After dinner, Mr. Clemens asked his wife and his oldest daughter Susy to join us in his office. When we were all seated, he took out the diagram he’d drawn of the séance table and laid it out in front of them. “Her
e, both of you look at this and tell me whether I’ve got everything right. I’d like to be absolutely certain where everybody sat when the shooting took place. I especially need to know where the doctor was, so I can figure which way he fell when the shot was fired—which might tell us where the shooter had to be standing. The shot would have knocked him backward, you know.”

  “You have everyone placed correctly,” said Mrs. Clemens, after examining the diagram. “I have no doubts about it.” Susy, looking over her mother’s shoulder, added her agreement.

  “Hmm,” said my employer, pointing at the diagram. “I hate to say this, Wentworth, but my idea about the killer coming in the window is starting to look better again. The doctor’s body fell to the right of his chair, which means he could have been shot from over in this corner.”

  “That would make sense,” said Susy. “But it doesn’t mean the shooter had to be all the way back there. Anybody on this side of the room could have done it.”

  “Meaning about half the people in the room, not including us,” said Mr. Clemens, frowning. “Assuming nobody got up and moved in the dark, and that nobody came in without our knowing about it. That’s a lot of assuming, if you ask me.”

  “Yes, Daddy, but if everything else is impossible, then what’s left must be true,” said Susy.

  “You’ve been reading about Sherlock Holmes, haven’t you?” said Mr. Clemens. His frown was deeper.

  “Yes, of course,” said Susy, straightening her back and raising her chin. “What difference does that make? I know you don’t think much of those stories, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true about eliminating the impossible.”