“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
