Martha McPhee blushed. “Mr. Clemens, I fear you have found the chink in our armor. Yes, Edward set up those bells and that gramophone and those other effects. He persuaded me that they were necessary to put on a good show, as he described it. But whether you believe me or not, I tell you that every voice you heard, every word they spoke, was true and authentic.” I was almost ready to believe her, even knowing what I did of her.
Mr. Clemens wasn’t. “Then why did you need all that foofaraw? If you were really in touch with the spooks, wouldn’t that be enough?”
“Had I had my own way, we would have had none of it,” said Martha, looking my employer straight in the face and speaking very quietly. “I do have a gift, one I cannot explain to you by rational argument. But it is an unassuming gift, hardly given to spectacular effects. Edward thought we should display it to better advantage so as to attract more sitters. He argued that unless we could bring in a steady string of customers, we would have had little choice but to return to our previous means of earning our livelihood. And I am not yet so desperate as to return to that life. I will not deceive you, Mr. Clemens.”
My employer listened to her in silence, massaging his chin between his right thumb and forefinger. Finally he said, “Maybe you are telling the truth, young lady. Polishing up the apples is just Ed’s style of business. But I don’t think you need to worry about him. If he didn’t pull the trigger, he’ll find a way to slide out of jail, sooner or later, and not much the worse for it. Why, he’d probably slip right through the noose if they tried to hang him.”
“Mr. Clemens,” said Martha McPhee, looking my employer in the eyes, “I am in a strange country, with no resources and no close friends. The events of last evening have for all practical purposes destroyed my means of supporting myself—at the very least, until Edward is cleared of suspicion. Who will visit a medium whose husband is accused of killing a man?”
“I reckon the same kind of customer that comes to any other medium,” drawled Mr. Clemens. “I’d be surprised if Ed couldn’t parlay that shooting into some way to double your business.”
“Youth!” said Mrs. Clemens, sharply. I thought she was about to say more, but before she could do so, Martha McPhee had risen to her feet. Her visage was stem, but I thought I saw her lip quiver for a moment before she spoke.
“Very well, Mr. Clemens,” she said, rising from her chair. “I can see that I have been wasting my time, and yours, too. I did not really expect to find a friend here”—did she glance in my direction as she said that word?—“so much as an ally against injustice. I was evidently mistaken. I shall go my way and leave you to your own business.”
“Now just a minute . . .” said Mr. Clemens, coming to his feet, but Martha McPhee brushed past him and was out the door before he could complete the sentence. He stood for a moment staring at the door, and then said, “Damn.” I had never heard him get quite so much expression into a single syllable.
“Very well done, Youth,” said Mrs. Clemens. “Now you need not exert yourself in the least. And if McPhee is hanged, why possibly he will have done something to deserve it.”
“Hell, I reckon he has,” said Mr. Clemens. “Besides, I told you I wasn’t going to play detective anymore. You acted as if you thought it was a good idea.”
“I thought so last night, yes,” said his wife. “That was before I heard Mrs. McPhee’s story this morning—which you have managed to prevent her from telling.”
“What the hell did she say?” My employer’s scowl deepened.
“Oh, it hardly matters,” said Mrs. Clemens, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Besides, I could never tell the story as well as she could.” She stood up and moved toward the door.
“Damnation!” said Mr. Clemens. “I can see I’m going to have to hear her out, after all—and eat some crow while I’m at it. Wentworth! Run and see if you can catch her before she’s gone.”
“Yes, sir.” I hastened out the door and down the stairs, trying not to make too much noise. As I passed the parlor, I saw Susy and Clara Clemens sitting with books on their laps. They looked up at me with surprised expressions. “Did you see which way Mrs. McPhee went?” I asked them.
“She just called for her coat and went out the door,” said Clara, pointing.
I threw open the door and rushed outside, where I saw Martha McPhee being assisted into a carriage by the man who’d driven us the other day—Jimmy, I remembered. “Mrs. McPhee—Martha!” I cried. “Please wait a moment.”
She glanced back at me over her shoulder. “And for what reason, Mr. Cabot?” She stood with one foot in the carriage, showing her ankle, and turned to look down at me. “I thought Mr. Clemens made it quite clear he wanted nothing to do with me or my husband.”
“Perhaps Mr. Clemens spoke too hastily,” I said. “He appears already to regret his haste. Will you come back in and finish what you came to say? I will do what I can to see that he listens to you, this time.”
A faint smile came to her lips as she contemplated my statement, then she said to the driver, “Jimmy, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a little longer. Mr, Cabot, will you help me down? If Mr. Clemens is ready to listen to me, I suppose I must swallow my pride and go talk to him. I do not have an overabundance of allies.”
“Any port in a storm, eh, missus?”
