“A wise decision,” said Mrs. Clemens, reaching over to touch his shoulder. “Leave crime to the criminals, and rely on the police to bring them to justice. I shudder to think what might have happened had that bullet gone astray tonight. Terrible as it was to see that poor man lying there so grievously wounded, it would have been far worse had it been one of us. What if it had been you, Youth?”
“Don’t you worry, Livy,” said my employer. “Writing’s my main line of business, and I mean to stick to it. I’ve dabbled a little at detecting, and I can’t deny there were a couple of times I thought I was pretty good at it. But enough is enough.”
I thought very much the same as we trundled along the streets of Chelsea, on our way to a long-overdue sleep that I fervently hoped would not be disturbed by images of poor Dr. Parkhurst with a bullet in his head. Surprisingly, I slept like a baby.
The next morning, Mr. Clemens was all business. If he had any further thoughts on the events of the previous evening, he kept them resolutely to himself. And apparently Mrs. Clemens had taken her daughters aside and forbade any discussion of those events at the breakfast table—although I had no doubt that Susy had regaled her sisters with the full story out of their parents’ hearing. Little Jean squirmed, full of curiosity, but one stem look from her mother was evidently enough to convince her that silence was the wiser course this morning.
After breakfast, my employer and I went into his office, and we began to work on the manuscript he’d brought to England for publication. Mrs. Clemens had read it over and made several suggestions, my employer had given it a final polishing, and now all that remained was the proofreading before we took it into the publisher’s offices.
We had gone through about a quarter of the manuscript, and all of a pot of coffee, when Mrs. Clemens entered, closing the door behind her. I could tell by her expression that she was not happy. “We have a visitor,” she said.
“Send ’em away,” said Mr. Clemens, gruffly. Then, catching something in the tone of his wife’s voice, he looked up and saw her face. “Oh, damnation. Is it that detective again? I guess he’s got some more fool questions.”
“No, it’s not the detective. I’d almost be happier if it were.”
“Who, then?” said Mr. Clemens. He put down the pages he’d been working on and rose to his feet.
“It is Mrs. McPhee,” said his wife. “I have already told her you would see her.”
My employer’s eyebrows moved upward half an inch. “I’d just as soon wash my hands of the whole swindling bunch of ’em. Be a blessing to humanity if the English just went ahead and hanged Slippery Ed, even if he didn’t shoot that man. But if you think I should see her . . .”
Mrs. Clemens nodded. “I do, Youth. Of course you must make your own decision whether to do anything once you have heard her story.”
“I can tell you right now what my decision’s going to be,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ll sit back down and finish reading this damned manuscript. But if you say I should talk to her, I will. Show her in here. Wentworth, why don’t you stay and listen? You know her better than I do.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and waited with heightened curiosity as Mrs. Clemens ushered Mrs. McPhee into the little office. I stood and let her take my chair, moving to an unobtrusive position near the fireplace.
As always, Martha McPhee was attractively dressed, and her face betrayed no outward distress; but it was obvious to anyone who had been with her the previous evening that she must have spent a harrowing few hours since then. She held her back straight as she took her seat, declined the offer of something to drink, and came straight to the point.
“Mr. Clemens,” she said, “I am here in hopes of enlisting your help in clearing my husband of the allegations against him.”
Mr. Clemens raised his hand to halt her. “Young lady, I hate to disappoint you, but you’re talking to the wrong man. It don’t agree with my health to go chasing people with guns. That Scotland Yard detective is the one you need to talk to.”
“He’s ready to send Edward straight to the gallows,” said Martha McPhee. “I know very well that you believe you have reason to think ill of my husband, and perhaps he has in some ways deserved your opinion. But even you cannot suppose that he is a murderer.”
Mr. Clemens wrinkled his brow. “Ed’s a fraud and a swindler, even if he’s not a killer. Why should anybody with the tiniest regard for the public welfare want to turn him loose to prey on unsuspecting innocents again?”
Martha bowed her head. After a moment, she said, “For simple justice, Mr. Clemens. I will not pretend that Edward has led a blameless life—nor have I, to tell the truth. But whatever my husband may have done in the past, surely you cannot want to see him punished for something he has not done.”
“Hmm. What about imposing on respectable people with the idea of getting their money? I saw all those peepholes and bell ropes, and all that paraphernalia set up to make us think we were talking to spooks. Maybe there’s no law against it in this country, but that don’t mean it’s right.” My employer glared at Martha McPhee.
