“Two of the three married couples had a third relative present,” said Lestrade. Now his face had an alert look, as my employer’s hypothesis sank in. “Mrs. Parkhurst had her sister along.” He stared significantly at the widow and Mrs. Donning. Then he turned toward my employer. “Not to forget that you, Mr. Twain, were here not only with your wife and daughter, but with your secretary. In fact, the five foreigners at the table were all sitting together.” I could almost see his mind beginning to calculate his next move.
“Both of which make me and my family and my secretary look like prime suspects,” said Mr. Clemens.
“Yes, if you remember that the victim didn’t shoot himself,” said Lestrade. “And he sat with his wife to one side.”
“Don’t be so certain he didn’t shoot himself,” said Villiers, his smirk back in place. “How do you know Cornelia wouldn’t agree to let go Dr. Parkhurst’s hand if she’d known he was going to shoot himself?”
“Or perhaps she connived with you to shoot him, Villiers,” said Tony Parkhurst, a nasty look on his face. “Unless I’m badly mistaken about you and her, she had every reason to think she could trust you—”
“Anthony!” said his mother, beginning to sob. “Cruel to the last! You know I loved your father.”
“I know you’d say so to anybody who didn’t know better,” said her son. “I drew a different conclusion.”
“You apologize to your mother,” drawled Mr. Clemens. “It just so happens you’re wrong, and I can prove it.”
“I may apologize if you can prove it,” said Tony Parkhurst. “Perhaps Cedric the Great is the killer, over there. Perhaps he was in league with dear doting Hannah and our little medium, you know—she’s his protégée, after all, and perhaps her silly old husband hasn’t heard about Cedric’s long line of conquests among the spiritualistically inclined ladies.”
“That’s a better theory,” said Mr. Clemens, stepping away from the table and leaning forward on the back of his seat. “Still wrong, but I guess I can excuse it because you don’t know Martha McPhee. She’d have talked way before now. Accomplices can hang, and she’s an accomplice if she stays mum. She might have stayed mum for Ed, but never for Villiers.”
“She might for enough money,” said Lestrade. He motioned to his assistant, who moved to a spot between the table and the door—clearly to block the way, in case someone tried to bolt. The other policemen were also alert, their eyes darting from one person to the other, ready to move at need.
Mr. Clemens shook his head slowly at Lestrade’s remark. “I already told you—if Martha was getting that kind of money, she wouldn’t have stayed here until the end of the month to avoid losing the rent. And she’d have hired herself the best lawyer in London instead of asking a jackleg writer from Missouri to outsmart Scotland Yard.” He had to raise his voice to say this, since several of those at the table were beginning to mutter to one another after seeing the constables move to block the exit.
“You haven’t outsmarted the Yard yet,” said Lestrade, raising his own voice. “If she was in it, McPhee had to be as well. Now I know why he was so tough to crack—he was protecting his wife.” He began to move toward Martha McPhee.
“Don’t jump yet, Lestrade. You’re still going after this thing the wrong way,” said Mr. Clemens, speaking loudly enough so that all voices fell silent, and the whole company turned their eyes toward him. He let the silence ring for a moment, then pointed across the table and said, “The murderer is Lady Alice DeCoursey.”
“Impossible!” said Ophelia Donning. “She held my hand the entire time.”
“That’s what you say, Miss Donning,” said Mr. Clemens. “But it ain’t so.” He walked slowly around the table in her direction, speaking as he approached her. “You’re in this, too—you let go Lady Alice’s hand, knowing exactly what she planned to do—and you covered up for her afterwards. When I came to see you, you ran down the whole list of grudges everybody had against the doctor—all the reasons anybody had to kill him, including yourself, your own sister, and her son, your nephew. The only two people you skipped were Sir Denis and Lady Alice. But they both had a grudge against the doctor—and you didn’t say one word about it. Their daughter died under Dr. Parkhurst’s hands, and over the years they came to believe that he had botched the operation badly. Not without reason—Hannah Boulton lost her husband the same way, and Dr. Ashe, the dead man’s partner, makes no secret of the fact that Oliver Parkhurst didn’t think anything of getting drunk as a lord before going in to cut some poor soul open.”
“That’s Papa, all right,” said Tony Parkhurst. “Mama used to try to stop him from drinking before he had to operate, but it was no use. But do you actually believe that Aunt Ophelia had anything to do with this? She’d talk all day long about how she hated Papa, enough to curdle your blood—but she’d never fire a gun herself. Too likely to get her hands dirty.”
“She didn’t have to,” said Mr. Clemens. “Lady Alice took care of that, and your aunt just covered up for her. Sir Denis may not have known just what his wife was going to do, but he’s no fool. He must have known immediately what had happened when he saw that the doctor had been shot. His wife had let go his hand shortly before it happened. A quick look at the candlestick and he would have known—this wasn’t the harmless replica, but the deadly real thing. I’ll bet you’ll find another candlestick just like this in his gun room. It’s the one that shoots, and they brought it here that night. Search their home and you’ll find it, Lestrade.”
“Nonsense, I’ve told you this is a harmless replica,” said Sir Denis. “The police experts will verify that.”
Mr. Clemens shook his head. “Maybe this one is, but you told me the other day that every piece you had was in working order—and that you’d fired them all yourself. I’m betting you’ve got the real one at home, and that’s the one that killed the doctor.”
“I hate to point this out, Clemens, but you’ve overlooked something rather elementary,” said Sir Denis, as if lecturing a dull child. “Remember being shot at when we were out looking at that Austrian air gun? Someone was trying to stop you from talking to me—from finding out the truth. It must be an outsider. A damned poor shot, too, I must say.” He seemed unnaturally calm—hardly what one would expect from a man whose wife has just been accused of murder.
“No, that won’t wash. First of all, your shot—with a gun you’d just hit the bull’s-eye with—went way high, as if you were making sure you missed. This was after the third shot fired at us—so right then it made most sense to think the other party would keep shooting. But you shot high, aiming at the branches.”
“Yes, of course,” said Sir Denis. “The blighter deserved at least a sporting warning. If he knew there’d be return fire, he might decide to slink away, you know.”
Mr. Clemens shook his head. “You don’t give a sporting warning to somebody who’s trying to kill you, let alone with a weapon the enemy can’t even hear twenty feet away. But soon as you pulled the trigger, the shooter let out a yell and skedaddled for the deep woods. It was pretty convincing until I figured out it had to be Lady Alice shooting at us, and aiming to miss. With a crack shot like her, missing by just enough to scare me shouldn’t be too hard. The only thing she—and you—didn’t figure on was that I might not scare so easy.”
“Nonsense,” said Sir Denis. “Even if it were some sort of pantomime of shooting, I would hardly have sent my wife out to do it. It would be far too dangerous.”
Mr. Clemens shook his head. “No, because you two were the only ones shooting. There wasn’t much chance of somebody being hurt by accident with two experts doing all the shooting—especially two experts who trust one another. I hear tell she’s nearly as good a shot as you. You two might have thought you had reason to kill Dr. Parkhurst, but you couldn’t bring yourselves to kill somebody that hadn’t hurt you.”
“Really, Clemens, you’ve let your imagination run away with you,” said Sir Denis. “You’re so anxious to see your fr
iend go unpunished that you strike out wildly and hit everything but the target. This is silly, old boy.” He laughed, and waggled his hand as if to dismiss the very idea. But the laugh sounded forced, and there was a thin line of sweat on his brow.
“There’s one more detail you forgot,” said my employer. He turned to Chief Inspector Lestrade. “You can check this yourself as soon as you get to a telephone. When Sir Denis dropped us off at the train station after the shooting, he said he was going to go tell the sheriff. He never did—and yet, not half an hour ago, he claimed the sheriff was pursuing the matter and even told me a few clues he’d found. But the sheriff didn’t find any clues at all. I know, because I telephoned the fellow myself, and he swore that Sir Denis never reported any shooting on his property. Sir Denis never dreamed I’d call the sheriff on the telephone—because he doesn’t have a phone himself.”
“That’s queer, no two ways about it,” said Lestrade. “Still, it doesn’t prove the lady is our murderer.”
“That’s right, you must have talked to the wrong man,” said Sir Denis, hotly. Now he rose, his hands pushing on the tabletop. “See here, it must be an underling you spoke to. Let’s go talk to the sheriff; he’ll set you straight.” He took a step toward the door.
“Never mind, Denis,” said Lady Alice. “You can’t keep asking everyone to lie for us.” She looked around the table at each of us. “Dr. Parkhurst deserved to die before he killed more innocent children—and innocent men, like poor Mr. Boulton. None of the other doctors would speak against him as long as he was alive. He was too powerful, too rich—he all but ran the hospital, even though he was a butcher in the operating room.” Her face was sad, and yet peaceful, as if a great weight was off her conscience.
“Pay no attention to her,” said Sir Denis, putting a hand on her shoulder. “My poor wife is distraught by all these wild accusations. Alice, calm yourself. You haven’t done anything.”
She shook off his hand, then stood up and continued. “Dear Denis! It’s no use. The world is a better place without Dr. Parkhurst. I saw what needed to be done, and I did it. I am not sorry, and I will not ask anyone to lie for me. I will answer to my Maker for what I have done. I do not think He will judge me harshly.” She looked straight ahead, her chin high.
There was a shocked silence. Lestrade finally broke it: “He will judge us all,” he said, soberly. “But for now, Lady Alice, I must ask you to come with me. Sir Denis, Miss Donning, I fear you are under arrest as well. I warn you that anything you say may be noted down and used against you in court. Coleman, call the other lads up here.” The assistant nodded briskly and turned to go down the stairs.
Sir Denis shook his head. “I feared it would come to this,” he said. “I must tell you, neither my wife nor Miss Donning had anything to do with the killing. I let go Alice’s hand in the dark, as I sometimes do at séances to test whether the medium can sense it. Then, with one hand, I fired the shot that killed Dr. Parkhurst. I am an expert shot with either hand; everyone in England knows it. It was I, and I alone who killed him.”
At this, Lady Alice started to speak. Sir Denis hushed her with a finger to her lips. “No, my dear, I can’t let you take the blame for what I have done. But I shall always remember that you were ready to do so. Hush, my dear, we must neither one say anything more.”
We all sat there in a state of shock; even Cedric Villiers seemed for once to be at a loss for words.
“I shall have to take you all before the judge,” repeated Lestrade. He gestured to Coleman and the constables, who had begun to file into the room from downstairs.
“In that case, I shall let my barrister speak for me,” said Sir Denis in a crisp voice. Ophelia Donning simply sat there with a stunned look on her face; she had said nothing since Mr. Clemens had linked her to the conspiracy. For a brief moment the tableau was frozen; I realized that Mrs. Parkhurst was crying softly.
Then: “I’ll just get my wrap,” said Lady Alice, with a brave smile. She stepped lightly into the bedroom, disappearing almost instantly, since she had been sitting only two or three paces from the door. Then several of us must have remembered the same thing at once: the coats were hung on the rack in the foyer. I got to my feet, as did Miss Donning on the opposite side of the table, and started for the door. Lestrade realized it a moment later; he motioned to Constable Wilkins to follow Lady Alice. “Quickly, man,” he said, and the urgency in his voice was clear.
It was only a few seconds’ delay—surely no more—before the constable pushed through the door Lady Alice had closed behind her, but it was just long enough.
There was a dull report and the constable gave a cry. “No, ma’am! My gawd!”
Lestrade followed his constable, with Sir Denis hot on his heels, and everyone else crowding after them. Then, after a glance into the doorway, Lestrade turned and blocked it. “I don’t think you gentlemen need to see this,” he said firmly. He took Sir Denis, who had turned white as a ghost, by the arm and firmly propelled him back to his seat at the table as we all stood and gaped. Sir Denis said not a syllable, but his face spoke volumes.
“Sit back down,” said Lestrade. “Everyone sit down, please.” For once, the authority in his voice was compelling, not arrogant. Then he turned to his assistant. “Coleman, tell headquarters we’ve a shooting. And call a doctor.”
“Is she dead?” asked Tony Parkhurst, trying to peek past the Scotland Yard man.
“Everyone stand back,” snarled Lestrade. “I wouldn’t be calling a doctor if she were, now, would I?”
I think he already knew that he was lying to us.
28
“I still can’t believe that nice old lady was the murderer,” said Susy Clemens. She drew her coat up around her throat and gave a shiver against the autumn chill of London. “But I guess she didn’t leave any question about it. It’s very sad, really.”
It was several days since the dramatic scene in the McPhees’ flat, where in front of the reassembled séance group, Mr. Clemens had named Lady Alice DeCoursey as the one who had shot Dr. Oliver Parkhurst. That she could be the murderer had at first seemed incredible to me, as well, but Mr. Clemens had summarized the evidence irrefutably—as Lady Alice had finally proven by taking her own life before anyone could prevent her. It was a shocking end to a disturbing case, in which very few of the principals had managed to escape untainted.
“I suppose she preferred ending things herself to facing the gallows,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the clatter of the wheels on the paving stones. Mr. Clemens’s family—and I—were on our way home from a visit to the Tower of London. “I can’t condone her murdering the doctor, but I do have to admire her courage at the last.”
“Foolishness rather than courage,” said Mr. Clemens. He had been gazing out the window at the Thames ever since we got in the coach, but now he turned back to face us. “If she’d gotten the right lawyer, he could probably have saved her. Even the sternest British judge is likely to draw back from sending a baronet’s wife to hang—it goes against everything he believes in.”
Mrs. Clemens touched her husband’s arm and said, “I think you’re overlooking one possibility, Youth. What if she killed herself not out of fear of the gallows, but out of a conviction that she deserved punishment—for killing a man even though she believed him to be a danger to society?”
“I guess she might have believed that,” said Mr. Clemens. “Half the murderers in the world—probably more than half—think they’re justified. But that’s a judgement no single person can make—not even one with a title hitched to her name. If Dr. Parkhurst was a danger to society, Lady Alice could’ve stopped him short of murdering him. Shooting herself didn’t wipe the slate clean, either. The only way to do that would be to bring him back.”
“And only the Lord could do that,” said Mrs. Clemens, in a tone that rang of finality.
“Certainly not the likes of Martha McPhee, much as she’d like us to think she can,” said Mr. Clemens. “I reckon she’s n
o worse than the run of the mill in her line, but that’s like saying one pickpocket’s no worse than another.”
Little Jean broke in. “I liked Mrs. Boulton’s idea about the ectoplasmic pistol.” she said. “I wish that had been true.”
“Thank the stars it wasn’t,” said her father, shuddering. “The last thing we need is spooks shooting at people.”
“I feel sorry for Sir Denis and Ophelia Donning,” said Clara Clemens. “Both are being charged as accessories to murder. Yet neither did much more than allow Lady Alice to get her hands free to fire the shot, did they?”
“There’s more to it than that,” said my employer. “I don’t think Sir Denis knew in advance his wife was going to kill the doctor, because he’d have stopped her—or done his best to help her come up with a more practical plan. The way she did it wasn’t all that hard to figure out, once I studied the evidence. If he’d helped plan it, it would’ve been much harder to trace back to her. Now, Ophelia Donning will have a tougher row to hoe, in my opinion. She may convince a jury that she didn’t know in advance what Lady Alice was going to do—but I think she was the one who really convinced the victim to come to the séance, to escort her and her sister. And once the doctor was shot, they had to know for certain who had done it. They both did everything they could to steer suspicion from Lady Alice, including Sir Denis confessing to cover up for her. They may not hang for it, but neither one will get off scot-free, either—not unless the jury is full of nincompoops.”
“I wonder what happened to Mr. and Mrs. McPhee?” said Susy Clemens. “They certainly took everyone by surprise at the end, there.”
That was undeniably true. In the hubbub following Lady Alice’s shooting herself, as all the police officers gathered in the bedroom, Slippery Ed and Martha McPhee had somehow managed to make their way down the stairs and disappear. The constable posted on the doorstep claimed he’d never even seen them. Lestrade had been furious, of course, but by the time anyone realized they were gone, it was far too late to do anything but put out a bulletin for their arrest. They still had not been found.
The Guilty Abroad Page 31
