The Guilty Abroad

by Peter J. Heck

  “I see,” said Mr. Clemens, tapping a forefinger on the desk. “But could she have finally resented his behavior enough to kill him—or to conspire with someone else to have him killed?”

  “Perhaps ten years ago she might have,” said Miss Ellsworth. “I didn’t know her then. But Oliver broke her spirit long since. I doubt she could find enthusiasm for anything but her spiritualism, now. Unless perhaps it is the sherry decanter. At one time I despised her for her weakness. I felt sorry for Oliver, being bound to her. Now . . . now I understand many things.”

  There was an awkward pause, then Mr. Clemens turned to a different subject. “What about other enemies? Can you think of anyone else who wanted him dead?”

  “Dozens, probably,” she said, in a tone that chilled my blood. “To know Oliver was eventually to learn how little he cared for anyone but himself. Even I came to hate him in the end—it was a relief when he told me it was over between us. And those records Dr. Ashe has given you will tell you how many enemies he made among his former patients.”

  “Yes, that’s so,” said Mr. Clemens. “One last question. You know who was there the night he was shot?” She nodded in the affirmative, and he continued: “If you had to pick one of them as the most likely to have killed him, who would it be?”

  She answered almost immediately. “The most likely was one who wasn’t there—that would be his son. Tony has all his father’s worst qualities, and none of the ability that made Oliver a man to reckon with. In his cups, I think he would have killed his father without blinking. Other than he . . .” She nibbled a forefinger, then said, “Cedric Villiers, most likely. I used to hear him screaming at Oliver when he wanted his morphine—that door was closed, but the sound came through. I could believe anything of him.”

  “So could I,” said Mr. Clemens. “Except when he’s crowing about his own genius. I give that about as much credence as a testimonial for hair-restoring tonic.”

  Miss Ellsworth smiled faintly. “I think you take him too lightly, Mr. Clemens. He may appear harmless to some, but I can tell you from personal experience that there is a dangerous beast behind that foppish exterior. I pity the world if ever it gets loose.”

  Mr. Clemens shrugged. “Well, I hope you’re wrong, but I’ll watch my back around him. I think that’s everything I wanted to ask—unless you can think of something, Cabot.”

  “One thing,” I said, trying to think how to phrase my question delicately. “I don’t believe you fully answered Mr. Clemens’s question about why Dr. Parkhurst lost interest in you. Do you know the reason he did so?”

  “I believe he had found someone younger,” she said, acidly. “At least, that is the best answer I have for his behavior. I suppose I should be resentful, but at least I have learned one lesson: a man who will betray one woman is not likely to remain faithful to another.”

  “Do you happen to know who the woman was who replaced you?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” she said. “Quite frankly, I see no benefit to myself in pursuing that question. Certainly not now—I would just as soon forget him and everything about him.”

  “Thank you, Miss Ellsworth,” I said, not quite sure what else to say. I settled for, “Good fortune to you.” Miss Ellsworth only smiled ruefully.

  We thanked Dr. Ashe for letting us peruse the records, and for answering our questions, but when we left the doctor’s office, I was convinced we had made no progress at all. Again, we had increased our stock of information—but without any clearer idea of what it meant. We called our coach around and started on the long ride back to Tedworth Square. “I’m beginning to think we’re doomed to failure on this case,” I said. “Everything is contradictory, and all the promising leads turn into blind alleys.”

  “Well, we got a few clues from the doctor,” said my employer, rubbing his hands together to warm them. “I just wish we had more time—I need to start working on my lecture series. I’ve barely got time to prepare an impromptu talk, let alone a real lecture. But if I spend much more time on this murder case, I may have to find out whether I can be facetious with no rehearsals at all.”

  “It’s a shame we can’t get the benefit of rehearsals and return engagements in solving this mystery,” I said. “I can follow so much more the second or third time I hear one of your talks. It would be such an advantage if we could reenact the murder of Dr. Parkhurst, with the advantage of knowing in advance what was to happen.”

  “Maybe we can arrange just that,” said Mr. Clemens, brightening up. “Wentworth, start a fresh page on your notepad. We’ve got a lot of plans to make. First thing we have to do is to convince Lestrade to go along with us . . .”

  In the end, Chief Inspector Lestrade had no choice but to go along with us. He admitted that he was at an impasse in his own investigation. But when Mr. Clemens said, “Once we get all the suspects together, I’m pretty sure I can tell you who the killer is,” the Scotland Yard man’s first impulse was to threaten to take him into custody for questioning unless he revealed all. As for myself, I wondered whether my employer could possibly back up this seemingly preposterous promise.

  “You know where that’ll get you?” said Mr. Clemens. “It’s one thing to throw Slippery Ed McPhee in jail—the embassy would probably pay you a few bucks to hang him, so he can’t go back home to swindle any more innocent citizens. But I’ve got a few more friends than he does, and you’ll find that out when you try to tell your bosses you want to lock me up as a danger to the realm. Meanwhile, if he’s smart, the real killer can go catch a steamer for South America. But consider this: if my idea doesn’t work, you’re no worse off than you are now. If it does work, you’ve solved your case—and you can take your fair share of the credit. Hell, you can have all the credit, as far as I’m concerned. It ain’t as though I need to see my name in the newspapers anymore.” The two men stood face-to-face for several seconds. The tension between them was almost palpable until at last the policeman backed down.

  “It’s highly irregular,” Lestrade argued, waving his pipe. “Besides, we’ll never get the entire lot together at the same place and time.”

  “We did it once already, for the séance,” said my employer, obviously pleased that he had won a standoff, however minor, with the Scotland Yard man. His pipe was smoking, too, and there was an unusual pungency to the atmosphere from the clash of the two men’s tobacco preferences. He continued: “An invitation delivered by a uniformed policeman carries a good bit of weight. I doubt anybody will plead a prior engagement if you’re the one throwing the party.”

  “In appearance only,” said Lestrade, in a grumpy tone. “I’d be a lot happier with the whole affair if you’d tell me what you intend to prove.” I had to respect him for trying; Mr. Clemens had outargued him at every turn, but he was not going to give up without a fight.

  “I mean to identify the person who killed Dr. Parkhurst, of course,” said Mr. Clemens. “Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to find out for most of the last week?”

  “Of course,” cried Lestrade. “What I don’t understand is why you won’t just tell me, if you really know, and let my men go about their work. A murder investigation is no place for a private person to stick his oar in. Why, you’ll be endangering everyone else in the place, yourself and your family included. Do you want that daughter of yours exposed to gunplay?”

  Mr. Clemens reflected on this point a moment, but then shook his head. “Not at a simple reenactment of the séance. For someone to pull out a weapon would be tantamount to confessing. Whoever it is will have to bluff it out. Besides, you’ll have your men here—they can search the apartment and all the suspects as they arrive. That includes me and my family, if you want.”

  “You’re dealing with a murderer,” Lestrade insisted. “You can’t be certain he won’t snap—perhaps attacking his accusers, perhaps trying to take a hostage to cover an escape.”

  “No, you forget that this is almost certainly a revenge killing,” said Mr. Clemens, shaking a finger.
“The killer had a grudge against Parkhurst, something strong enough to turn a normal person into a murderer. But Parkhurst is dead, and the grudge is satisfied—and unless I miss my guess, the killer will be feeling a good deal of remorse.”

  I myself was not quite certain how easy it would be. After all, someone had taken shots at us at Sir Denis’s estate. What guarantee did we have that it would not happen again—even with policemen in the room?

  But Chief Inspector Lestrade rose to his feet and said, “Very well, Mr. Twain, we’ll try your experiment,” he said. “But pray that everything goes smoothly, because if it doesn’t, the Home Secretary will make my life very miserable. And I intend to pass along that misery to the person responsible for talking me into such a reckless scheme.”

  “Don’t start whipping your mule until he balks,” said Mr. Clemens. “You take care of your part of the preparation, and I promise you this will all come out as smooth as butter.”

  “I’ll hold you to that,” said Lestrade, putting on his hat and making his exit. Privately, I wondered if he might not be right. Mr. Clemens was staking a great deal on a belief that the murderer would give up quietly. I hoped he had not miscalculated this time—because I had no desire at all to find myself looking down the barrel of a gun. I had already had enough of that experience.

  Inevitably, the impending meeting of suspects and witnesses became the central topic—indeed the only topic—of dinner-table conversation that evening. Mrs. Clemens did her best to quash the subject as soon as it reared its head, but Clara and especially little Jean were not to be shushed. The youngest of my employer’s daughters was particularly insistent that she be allowed at the meeting as a spectator.

  “Absolutely not,” said Mrs. Clemens, with an expression that would have turned back a battleship. “Your father believes that one of the people in that group shot a man dead less than a week ago, and I will not have any child of mine exposed to that danger.”

  “Oh, Mommy, murderers don’t shoot little girls,” said Jean. She scooped up a small pile of boiled carrots on her fork, then held it midway to her mouth as she thought of an even better argument. “Besides, the police will make sure nobody brings a gun with them, won’t they?”

  “Of course they will,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’m going to be there myself, and I sure don’t want any shooting. But your mother’s right. This is serious business, not entertainment for little girls. Not even smart ones like you. What if the murderer decides to try to escape, and takes one of you hostage?”

  “Mommy and Susy will be there,” Jean said, lowering her fork. “What if the murderer takes one of them hostage?”

  “Wentworth and I will do our best to prevent that,” said Mr. Clemens. “Are you going to eat those carrots?”

  Jean put the carrots in her mouth, which gave her mother a chance to get a word in edgewise. “Believe me, if my opinion had been asked, Susy would not have been included in your father’s plans. I am willing to face whatever danger there may be—and I sincerely hope there will be none at all—but I should have liked being consulted in advance, considering that our daughter’s welfare is at risk.”

  “Don’t be so worried, Livy,” said Mr. Clemens. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and continued. “I don’t think there’s any real danger. Besides, if we don’t have the whole group there, it might alert the murderer that we’re close to solving the case. It has to look as if this is Lestrade’s idea, and that he doesn’t have the faintest ghost of idea who did it. He’s even going to let Slippery Ed out of jail for the occasion.”

  “Won’t that look suspicious?” asked Clara. “After claiming he’s the main suspect, why would he let him out and give him the chance to escape?”

  Mr. Clemens chuckled. “Oh, I reckon Ed will be handcuffed to a guard, or maybe he’ll be wearing a pair of leg irons, to allay any suspicions on that ground. It’ll do my heart good to see the old scoundrel properly trussed up. Then again, he’ll probably raise enough ruckus about it to make me wish he would escape, but I reckon I’ll just have to harden my heart.” He picked up his coffee cup and took a sip.

  I pointed out, “The remedy to that is to remind him that, but for your efforts on his behalf, he’d probably still be languishing in an English jail—if not actually dangling from the end of a hangman’s rope.”

  Mr. Clemens toyed with the coffee cup. “It’s a shame, in a way,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Here’s one of the best chances I’ll ever have to rid the world of that nuisance, and I’m committed to saving him—at least, if he’s innocent, which I’m starting to think just might be true. Of course, it’d be a sight more useful to get rid of a few other scoundrels in the same line of work—a few kings, for example. But Ed would be a start, and I reckon a good preacher could work him up as an example to the rest. Still, I guess I’ve given my word to try to find the truth, and that’s what I’ve got to do. It’s a blasted inconvenience having principles, sometimes. But I guess there wouldn’t be any virtue to it if it was always easy.”

  “You’re always such a wonderful example to us, Papa,” said Clara, a twinkle in her eye. “It’s a shame we won’t get to see you bring the murderer to justice. I’m sure it would inspire us to ever so many brave deeds of our own.”

  Her father gave her a wary look. “You wouldn’t say that if you weren’t trying to butter me up,” he said. “The answer is still no. Your mother and your sister have to go because they were witnesses to the real murder. The whole plan depends on all the witnesses being there. But you’re going to stay home, and be good girls.”

  “You will look for the missing book, won’t you?” said Clara.

  He made his fiercest face at the two girls and said, “Yes, and I’ll make sure the chairs are all arranged exactly the way they were, and that Slippery Ed doesn’t steal anything more, and that nobody is wearing a hollow wooden leg with a cannon inside it. And that’s the last I want to hear about it.”

  Of course, it wasn’t, but in the end Mr. Clemens got his way—although he might have thought the price in aggravation was far too high.

  26

  As Mr. Clemens had hoped, Chief Inspector Lestrade’s invitation to a reenactment of the séance at which Dr. Parkhurst had been shot was accepted (if not necessarily with good grace) by all parties who had been at the original. Not that the Scotland Yard man hadn’t had to twist a couple of arms. Lestrade told us that Cedric Villiers had at first pled a previous engagement. The doctor’s widow had also begged to be spared such an emotion-wrenching scene. I think I would have understood it had he made an exception for that poor woman—but Lestrade had stood his ground, and Mrs. Parkhurst had given in more easily than he had expected.

  The atmosphere as we all gathered in Martha’s parlor was far different from our first meeting, barely a week ago. To begin with, Lestrade had scheduled this meeting for the late afternoon, rather than after sunset. (This was primarily to allow his men to keep the place more easily under surveillance—both to prevent outside interference and to intercept anyone who might attempt to escape, once the purpose of the meeting became clear.) But more significantly, the events of our previous meeting had cast a cloud over everyone’s mood. The minute I stepped into the parlor, I found my gaze drifting toward the table where we had sat that night—where the doctor had sat when he was struck down by his assassin.

  Mr. Clemens, his family, and I had been the first to arrive, except of course for Martha, who still occupied the apartment. I was surprised that having a man murdered under her roof had not driven her to seek other lodgings, and told her so. She looked at me with incomprehension. “Why? We’ve paid for this apartment to the end of the month. We’d lose the entire rent, and still have to pay for the new place, if I moved out now.”

  “Perhaps the landlord would make an exception, under the circumstances,” I said.

  Martha shook her head. “Under the circumstances, I consider myself lucky the landlord hasn’t thrown us out,” she said. “It’s just as well. I don�
��t think I need to add apartment hunting to my list of troubles, right at present.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said, thinking of her husband still in police custody—in a foreign jurisdiction, no less.

  Mr. and Mrs. Clemens had only just taken their seats when Inspector Lestrade arrived, along with his assistant, Sergeant Coleman and two other officers. Apparently others were stationed in the street below and in the back alley. Also with them was Ed McPhee, under the close attention of a stalwart constable. “Hello, Martha,” he said, smiling sheepishly. She gave him a brief hug and a kiss on the cheek, which the constable (to his credit, I thought) did nothing to inhibit. Then McPhee turned to my employer and nodded. “Sam, it’s good to see my pal here. I hope you can help straighten these birds out about old Ed McPhee.”

  “Ed, if I told them the truth about you, they’d never let you out,” drawled Mr. Clemens, although there was enough warmth in his voice to soften the words.

  McPhee guffawed and slapped his knee, saying, “Durn, there you go with them jokes again! You’re enough to make a feller split his sides, Sam!” For all his demeanor betrayed, he might have spent the last few days in a fine hotel, rather than penned up by the London police. I wondered whether he was really so little disturbed, or simply putting up a good front out of sheer habit.

  “Mr. McPhee, I’ll ask you to take a seat until the others are all here,” Chief Inspector Lestrade said. “I don’t mind if you talk with the others, as long as you stay put. Constable Waters, you know your duty.”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector,” said the bobby, in a gruff voice. He was probably three inches shorter than I, with a physique like a wrestler’s. I would not have wanted to tangle with him. Slippery Ed chose a small love seat as his perch—I wondered who had lent it to the McPhees. With the bobby’s nodded permission, Martha sat down next to her jailbird husband. She leaned close and began to speak to him in a low voice—just low enough that I would have had to walk over to hear what they were saying. I took one step that way, but a glance from Martha made it clear that this would not be welcome, and I stopped, embarrassed at being caught. After all, with all the police in attendance, there was little they could do to cause trouble—if that was in fact what they had in mind.