“Hush, Youth!” said Mrs. Clemens, jabbing him with an elbow. “I can’t change what you believe, but I wish you would be careful what you say in front of the others. Some of the people here tonight may be grieving over a recent loss.”
“All the more reason to warn them before Slippery Ed starts his swindle rolling,” growled Mr. Clemens, but I could see that he was chastened—at least for the moment.
I alighted from the carriage and helped the two ladies out. The trio that had arrived before us had already gone up the step to knock at the door, and so just as Mr. Clemens came out of the carriage, the door to the building flew open, and McPhee’s hearty voice rang out. “Welcome, folks! Come right in.” Then, after a brief pause: “Hey, Sam—glad you could make it. Welcome, ladies—I guess that’s the whole crew here, now.”
Inside, McPhee led us and the other fresh arrivals up a flight of stairs to a second-floor apartment, where a tough-looking fellow with his cap tilted over one eye stood beside the door, as if on guard. McPhee clapped him on the shoulder and said, “I reckon this is the whole bunch, Terry. If anybody else shows up, don’t let ’em in without my say-so.”
“Right-o, Mr. McPhee,” said Terry, with a heavy Irish brogue.
“Mr. McPhee, is it? You’re coming up in the world, Ed,” said Mr. Clemens.
McPhee turned and laughed. “Good ol’ Sam—always ready with a joke! Come on inside, folks, and Miss Martha will introduce you all to each other.”
“Don’t give your right name,” Mr. Clemens said to me in an exaggerated stage whisper that brought a glare from his wife and a giggle from Susy.
McPhee steered us into a modestly furnished foyer, where he helped us hang our coats and hats in the closet. We then went through an inner door into a roomy, very decently appointed parlor dominated by a large round table. The gaslights above the fireplace were burning brightly, and there were watercolors of rural landscapes hanging on the wall. The room seemed warm and pleasant, even though there was no fire burning. The curtains were drawn closed.
In one corner was a large wooden table with several chairs around it, and several objects on its bare surface: three silver candlesticks, metal-rimmed spectacles, a large brooch, and several books—presumably objects belonging to loved ones whose spirits might be summoned. But on the whole, I thought the room looked far too ordinary to become a sort of annex to the next world. Had I come there for a social call instead of for a séance, I would have considered it a cheerful place indeed, though not really an elegant one. Martha McPhee was already there, of course, along with four others—two gentlemen and two ladies.
“Good evening, Mr. Clemens—I’m so pleased you were able to join us,” said Mrs. McPhee, coming forward to greet us. She was wearing a very plain white dress that effectively set off her dark hair and bright eyes.
“Mrs. McPhee, you’ve found a very pleasant place,” said Mrs. Clemens, leaning on her husband’s arm. She suffered from a weak heart, and I knew it had taken an effort for her to climb the stairs, but she managed a bright smile. “Do you and your husband live here, or is this just your business address?”
“Oh, this is our home for the time being,” said Martha. “We were lucky to find such a comfortable place, and in what we hear is a very good neighborhood. I’ll show you around, later, if you wish. But please, have a seat.”
She turned to the others who had arrived with us. “You must be Dr. Parkhurst,” she said to the sharp-featured gentleman, who replied with a nod and a grunt, and then she turned to face the rest of us. “Let me introduce you all—I assume no one objects? Very well, as you all know, I am Martha McPhee . . .”
Dr. Oliver Parkhurst was evidently a distinguished London physician, and looked every bit the part—respectably dressed, with dark hair just beginning to go gray, and the sort of face that suggested insight and intelligence despite his gruff manner. He had come with his wife, Cornelia, a stout middle-aged woman with an anxious expression. The other lady with them was her younger sister, Ophelia Donning, a spinster. Her hair was golden blonde, and she carried herself like a born aristocrat. I would have guessed her age at no more than thirty-five. Either she was considerably younger than Mrs. Parkhurst, or one of the sisters did not look her age. All three of them were dressed in conservative good taste, in keeping with their stations in life.
Sir Denis DeCoursey was a tall, white-haired gentleman with broad shoulders and piercing blue eyes. He wore a small, immaculately trimmed tuft of beard under his lower lip, and his well-worn blazer was a shocking bright red. He spoke with an almost incomprehensible drawl. He was the baronet of whom McPhee had spoken, and he evidently had inherited very substantial properties somewhere in Kent. His wife, Lady Alice, was a tiny little white-haired thing with a high-pitched voice, full of energy. She was wearing a shoddy nondescript dress and a hat that must have been new at some point, though perhaps not in my lifetime. Had I passed her on the street, I might have taken her for a poor parson’s wife. I was surprised—here were a real English baronet and his lady, and they were far less fastidious in their dress and appearance than a London doctor and his family!
The other man—pale, thin, and elegantly dressed, with a
