Martha blushed, very prettily—I had had occasion before to wonder whether she could blush to suit her purposes. “Why, Mr. Clemens, because someone has killed a man right in front of your face. I should think you’d consider that a challenge, if not an outright insult. I’d think that would spur you to find out the truth for yourself—if only to show them they can’t play you for a fool.”
My employer’s mouth fell open in astonishment, but then he frowned and said, “You only say that because you want me to think Ed didn’t shoot that man. What if I find out he did do it? Do you want the truth, or do you just want Ed out of jail? Because if I start mucking around in this mess, I’m going after the truth, whether or not anybody else likes it. And if that means I’ve got to find Ed guilty, then I will.”
“I can accept that,” said Martha calmly. “I already know that Edward is innocent, so I have no fear of anything you can discover.”
Mr. Clemens looked from his wife to Martha McPhee, then back again, as if trying to decide how to answer. But before he could say anything, the sound of girlish laughter came from the half-open doorway, and he looked up to see his three daughters peering around the edge of the door, spying on our meeting. Realizing they had been caught, they boldly threw open the door and stepped inside. “You will help her, won’t you, Papa?” said little Jean, running up to her father and throwing her arms around his neck.
“I don’t see how I can get out of it now,” he said. Then he looked at me, with a half smile. “Let this be a lesson to you, Wentworth. Beware of the ladies, because they’ll surely run your whole life if you let ’em.”
“Why, of course,” said Mrs. Clemens. “Why shouldn’t we? You men are very bright in your way, but you’re perfectly hopeless when it comes to practical matters. You can hardly expect us to allow you to stumble along all by yourself when we know perfectly well what you ought to be doing.” She smiled, and her two youngest daughters giggled.
“I guess it’s settled, then,” said Mr. Clemens, in a resigned tone. He reached over to his desk and picked up a pipe. “Now, do any of you oh-so-practical ladies have any idea how we poor men should go about catching this murderer?”
9
It did not take us long to decide where we ought to begin our inquiry into the death of Dr. Parkhurst. Martha McPhee suggested that Mr. Clemens and I return to her apartments and make our own inspection of the scene of the crime. “The police were quite thorough up to a point,” she said. “But once Mr. Lestrade decided to take Edward into custody, that was the end of his search for clues. I think it’s quite possible they left something unexamined.”
“I am surprised you suggest that,” I said. “Scotland Yard has the reputation of being very meticulous in their investigations.”
“Having the reputation for something isn’t the same as doing it,” said Mr. Clemens. “I once got out of a duel by convincing the other party that I was a crack shot, which was about as close to the truth as Illinois is to China. But it served the purpose just fine. Now, I wouldn’t put it past Lestrade to convince a judge that he’s done a more complete search than he really has, and found all the evidence there is. So we’d better go over the place with a fine-tooth comb, and maybe a brush and a pair of scissors, too. Livy, do you think the girls have a magnifying glass we can borrow?”
“I have one!” cried little Jean Clemens. “I’ll let you use it if I can come along!”
“Certainly not!” said Mrs. Clemens. “I am surprised that a young lady would be so anxious to visit a place where something so terrible has happened.”
“Oh, Mama, the dead man won’t be there anymore,” said Jean, putting on her most persuasive manner. “And neither will the murderer, unless it’s Mrs. McPhee here, and I don’t think Papa would be helping her if she was. There’s nothing in that place that can hurt me. You know that, Papa! Tell Mama I can come with you . . . please?”
Mr. Clemens frowned. His bushy eyebrows made his disapproving expression even more dramatic, although his eyes belied the attempt at severity. “Well, little angel face,” he said, “I certainly appreciate the loan of your magnifying glass. But I reckon this won’t be anywhere near as much fun as you’re looking for. You said yourself that the dead man won’t be there, and neither will the murderer—so we won’t be catching anybody and turning him over to the police. We’ll just be looking at the furniture, and the floors, and all the other truck in the place. You’d be bored before we’d been there twenty minutes.”
“No I wouldn’t!” said little Jean, pouting. “It’s not fair. Susy was there last night, and she saw the whole thing—she told me and Clara all about it. Why can’t I go see where it happened?”
“Because I forbid you,” said Mrs. Clemens, with an expression that made it clear she expected no contradiction. “I shall have to speak very severely to Susy. I wouldn’t be surprised if she gave you and Clara nightmares, telling you such stories. Murder is not a fit subject for young ladies to dwell on.”
“It’s not a fit subject for anyone to dwell on, but it looks as if somebody’s been doing it,” my employer said, laying his hand on his pouting daughter’s shoulder. “Your mama’s right, though, Jean. This isn’t a game. If the man who killed Dr. Parkhurst figures out that I’m
