Susy and Clara Clemens gave us curious glances as we went back up the stairs. There we found my employer by the fireplace, poking up the fire. To judge by his subdued expression, Mrs. Clemens had been making clear her opinion that his brusque manner with Mrs. McPhee was not consistent with the seriousness of the other woman’s predicament.
“Young lady, I guess we need to start over,” said Mr. Clemens, putting the poker back in its rack. “Tell me again why you think I ought to help get the cops off your husband’s back.”
“That should not require any long explanation,” said Martha McPhee, taking the same seat as before. “He is a fellow American, and an old acquaintance—if not exactly a close friend—and he is being unjustly accused. I heard you say last night that you did not believe him to be a murderer.”
“Well, maybe not a murderer,” said Mr. Clemens, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if he took a little bribe to let somebody use that spy hole last night.”
“Youth!” said Mrs. Clemens, but Martha McPhee raised her hand.
“Thank you, Mrs. Clemens,” she said. “I appreciate your solicitude, but if we are all to work together, I think the time has come to speak frankly. After all, the police will undoubtedly be making these same accusations, and we had best be ready to refute them.”
“I’m glad you see it that way, young lady,” said Mr. Clemens. “Now, both of us know Ed—you better than I, likely as not—and I think you’ll agree that he has a sharp eye for a dollar, and a faster hand to take it. Why wouldn’t he have let somebody else use that spy hole while he took a stroll around the block, if the fellow offered to pay him for it?”
“Because he’d have had to take the time to show the other person how to use the rest of the apparatus,” said Martha. “We can never predict what spirits will appear, or in what order, so Edward always has to pay close attention to decide, when to pull the rope that makes raps, or to play the gramophone. Some other person could not just walk in and take over those tasks. Edward would have had to stay—so he would have seen the shooting.”
“You don’t think he’d have snitched, do you?” said Mr. Clemens, leaning forward. “That don’t seem like Slippery Ed.”
Martha looked thoughtful. “It would depend,” she said. “If a fellow professional were involved, probably not, unless Edward felt that he himself had been betrayed. Or if he’d taken a payment, he might feel bound to keep silent.”
“Honor among thieves,” suggested my employer.
“If you like,” said Martha, spreading her hands. “But that isn’t my point. Edward was as surprised as I was at the shooting, even half an hour later when I finally saw him. Believe me, Mr. Clemens, he could not have deceived me in that regard. I know my husband better than that.”
“I’ll concede that,” said Mr. Clemens. “Ed can lie near as well as I can, but that didn’t look like an act to me, last night. So where does that take us?”
“It seems very clear to me,” said Mrs. Clemens. “If we postulate that Mr. McPhee was not involved in the killing, someone else must have been. And the inescapable conclusion is that it was someone in the room with us.”
“Weren’t me,” said Mr. Clemens. “And it wasn’t you or Susy. I reckon I’d have noticed if you’d pulled out a pistol and started taking potshots, since you were both right next to me. Wentworth, now, he’s got a look about him—”
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “Both my hands were being held at the time—one by your daughter, one by Mrs. McPhee here. I hardly had the opportunity to shoot anyone, even if I had been so inclined. And I assure you I was not.”
“But then everyone else at the table has the same alibi,” said Mrs. Clemens. “Iii that case, nobody could have done it. What do you think, Youth?”
Mr. Clemens furrowed his brow for a moment, then gave his head a shake. “Damnation,” he said at last. “Here I’ve been swearing up and down that I was through with that detective business, and you were telling me I was right to leave it to the police, Livy. Now you’re talking like you want to take it up yourself. Which am I supposed to listen to?”
“It’s a woman’s prerogative to change her mind,” said Martha McPhee, smiling. “But your wife is an eminently sensible woman, Mr. Clemens. I suggest you listen to her. Of course, I say that with my own interest in mind.”
“There must be a dozen good detectives here in London,” my employer insisted. “Any of ’em would be a better choice than I am. Here I am, an old rascal who’s fallen into the business by accident, with less experience than any new recruit to the police force. On top of that, I’m a foreigner—why, every twelve-year-old Cockney knows this city better than I ever will. Besides, I’ve got a book to work on, lectures to prepare, and way too many debts to pay. Why pick on me?”
“I can think of three reasons, actually,” said Martha McPhee. “To begin with, hiring a professional detective is simply beyond my means. But perhaps you would help me out of a sense of justice. Secondly, any other detective would have to be told everything from the beginning—you were there, and saw it all with your own eyes. You are a witness.”
“That’s not necessarily an asset,” said Mr. Clemens. “Somebody else might be more objective. But I can understand not having the money to pay somebody—I guess you know that money’s been short
