“I’ll ask you to wait until you see Sergeant Coleman to speak of the case, sir,” said the constable. “You’ll all have your chance to talk, but until then, I must ask you to be patient.”
I did my best, but patience is hard to conjure up when one is waiting to be quizzed about a murder. At least, I was glad that they had taken Mr. Clemens first. He would have been extremely awkward company if he’d been forced to wait, and I was uncomfortable enough already—especially since I had every reason to believe that one of the people in the room with me was a cold-blooded murderer.
7
Waiting is hard in the best of circumstances. Standing in a small room waiting to be questioned by the police about a violent crime that took place in one’s presence would disconcert a saint.
With eleven of us in a small bedroom, there was not space for everyone to sit, even with a couple of chairs brought in from the outer room. And there was no room at all to pace. Cedric Villiers, McPhee, and I remained standing. I pulled out my watch for perhaps the third time to see how long Mr. Clemens had been talking to Detective Coleman. Half an hour. At that rate, it would be nearly four in the morning before the last of us had been questioned. Would they insist on interrogating the entire group before letting any of us go home?
At last, Mr. Clemens came stomping in the door, followed by Constable Wilkins, who looked round the room and asked, “Mrs. Parkhurst, would you be so kind as to come with me? And bring your purse, please. We’ll be needing to search it.”
The doctor’s widow stood up from the edge of the bed, where she had been sitting. Her sister, who had sat consoling her, stood and threw her arms around her. “Be brave, dearest Cornelia,” she said.
Mrs. Parkhurst nodded and squeezed her sister’s hand. “This will not be hard, Ophelia,” she said. “Believe me, the hard part is already over.” She smiled bravely and followed the constable out of the room. The door closed behind her, and the rest of us turned instinctively to Mr. Clemens.
He looked around the room at ten anxious faces and spread his hands. “Well, the good news is that I convinced that brass monkey of a detective to interview the ladies first, and to let each of us go home once we’ve answered his silly questions. So at least some of us will be able to get to bed at a sensible hour. The bad news is that he intends to go through the whole list tonight, so the rest of us will have to wait until he’s ready for us. Oh, and one more piece of news—a doctor came to look at the body while they were talking to me, and now it’s official, Parkhurst’s dead, shot by a person or persons unknown.”
“That’s hardly news,” said Sir Denis. “Nobody could have lasted long with that head wound.”
“Sure, but Scotland Yard can’t settle for something that obvious,” said Mr. Clemens. “That chief inspector’s out there going over the place on his hands and knees, tapping on floorboards and picking up specks of dust. If there’s been an ashtray spilled in that room anytime in the last week, I reckon he’ll know the make of every cigar that was smoked there, and whether it was lit with a match or off the gas. That don’t mean he’ll catch the shooter, but if they give medals for diligence, I’d bet he’s already got a bushelful.”
“That’s really brilliant,” said Cedric Villiers, his voice dripping sarcasm. “The fellow putters about looking for clues, when he’s got near a dozen eyewitnesses sitting here. Why doesn’t he send out for another interrogator so as to speed things up? Or better yet, do some real work himself? I’ll wager I’m not the only one who had other plans for the evening.”
“Don’t sell the police short,” said Sir Denis. He sat next to his wife on the windowsill, which had been fashioned into a comfortable-looking bench, just wide enough for the two of them. I could have seen it as a pleasant spot for reading or conversation, in other circumstances. “I’ve heard of this Lestrade from my friends in the Home Secretary’s office,” he continued. “They call him one of the best men in Scotland Yard, an absolute terrier. Once he gets his teeth into a clue, he’ll not let go until he’s followed it home.”
Cedric Villiers snorted. “That’s not what I’ve heard. Word is, Lestrade’s too bullheaded to be any use. He might have been a good man once, but he’s let success and promotion go to his head. I can believe it, after what I’ve seen tonight.”
“We’ll find out soon enough how good he is,” said Mr. Clemens. “Lestrade came in and listened some while that young puppy was trying to pry me open. He seemed to think it was important that nobody heard the gun go off. I reckon he’s right, although I’m not so sure he has to look very far for the explanation. All that other noise—”
“Never mind the other noise,” said Sir Denis. “I know the sound of gunfire, and I’ll swear there wasn’t a weapon fired within yards of me tonight.”
“That ain’t the half of it,” said Mr. Clemens. “Lestrade’s right about one thing, if nothing else—if a man’s been shot, there’s got to be a gun somewhere. Where the hell is it?”
“I wonder . . .” It was Hannah Boulton who spoke, her voice tremulous. She was sitting on the foot of the bed, wringing her hands. She looked to Sir Denis, as if asking permission to speak, and he nodded to her.
“Could it be possible that the shot was not fired in this world?” she asked, her eyes wide. “That would explain why we neither
