“Well, that makes sense,” drawled Mr. Clemens. “Without the chairs, all you could have would be a standing.”
Martha McPhee smiled. “Now it is you who are straying off the track, Mr. Clemens. “What else do you need to know about Cedric Villiers?”
“I don’t know,” said my employer. He fished in his pocket, came up with a match, and struck it. “Did Villiers ever mention the doctor? That is, did he say anything to suggest he had some grudge against him, or some reason to kill him?”
Martha looked thoughtful while Mr. Clemens lit the pipe, then said, “No, nothing really. If I remember correctly, the only time the doctor was mentioned was when we were trying to see whom we might invite to our first sitting, and Cedric said that he knew some people who might be interested. Edward asked who they were, and Cedric mentioned a doctor—I don’t remember if he told us the doctor’s name, at the time—along with quite a few others. Not all of them ended up coming that first time, but I think most of them have come since. But in any case, we never met Dr. Parkhurst before last night.”
“That’s true of most of the guests, isn’t it?” I interrupted, looking up from my notebook. “That you were meeting them for the first time just last night?”
“No, many of them came to the same spiritualist meetings where I met Cedric. Mrs. Parkhurst and Hannah Boulton attended regularly—I saw them every time I was there. Sir Denis and his wife were there at least once.”
“What can you tell us about Hannah Boulton?” asked Mr. Clemens. His corncob pipe had gone out after only a couple of puffs, and he stared at it with irritation, then put it down on the table next to him.
“Not a great deal, actually,” said Martha. “We met at the spiritualist society, but did not speak long. She lives out in Bloomsbury, not far from the museum. Apparently her husband Richard came from money, and they invested a great deal of it in art—Cedric tells me that she has a marvelous collection of French paintings. The poor dear lost her husband about a year ago, and it affected her deeply. I believe it was the reason for her seeking out a medium—to communicate with him one last time.”
“Had she met the doctor before tonight?”
Martha turned her hands palms up. “I have no idea whether Mrs. Boulton knew the doctor,” she said. “She certainly knew his wife from the spiritualist society, though I can’t say whether they were particularly close.”
“But she obviously knew Sir Denis and his wife, if they brought her here. It’s beginning to look as if everybody here—except for my gang—knew each other before last night. So any one of ’em might have had some reason we don’t know about to hold a grudge against the doctor.” Mr. Clemens rubbed his chin, then continued. “What’s your impression of Sir Denis?”
Martha said, “I haven’t ever seen anyone quite like him, except perhaps some of the very rich southerners back home. He’s on top of the world, and convinced it’s his right to be there, and quite charming to speak to face-to-face. If he thought he had to kill a man, I’m sure he’d show no more compunction about it than at shooting a deer. I have heard that he is an expert shot with pistol and rifle, which would make him one of the more likely suspects.”
Mr. Clemens nodded. “Well, that’s something I didn’t know before.” He stood up and walked over to look out the window, then turned around and said, “I’d think Sir Denis would’ve had more reaction to the shooting if he’d been the one who pulled the trigger. He sure didn’t show any sign that he’d just pulled off a difficult shot in near-total darkness. He was pretty cool, in fact—all common sense and practical suggestions.”
“I suppose you’re right—although I wasn’t really there at the time,” said Martha. “When the shooting happened I was in my trance, and when I woke up, everything was chaos, utter chaos. Before I could really get a notion of what was happening, the other ladies and I all went into the bedroom, trying to console Mrs. Parkhurst, poor thing.”
“Now hold your horses, young lady,” said Mr. Clemens, raising his hand. “Do you mean to tell me you were so deep in some kind of trance that you didn’t see or hear anything? What am I supposed to make of an eyewitness who claims she didn’t see or hear anything at all when a man was shot dead maybe six feet away from her?”
Martha looked him straight in the eye. “Make of it what you please, Mr. Clemens. You needn’t swallow anything you don’t wish to. What do you think I have to gain by trying to deceive you?”
My employer frowned. (I recognized this as a sign of deep thought, rather than displeasure.) After pacing back and forth for a few moments, he said, “I can think of a few reasons, but they’re all based on either you or Ed being the guilty parties, or in cahoots with them. And there’s no more evidence for that than for anything else, at present. Damnation—where does that leave us, Wentworth?”
“No worse off than we already were,” I said. “We certainly don’t have any shortage of eyewitnesses. You and I were there, after all, and so were your wife and daughter. And unless all the other guests were part of an elaborate conspiracy to murder Dr. Parkhurst, some of them should have seen or heard something that may help us.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Clemens. “And the police haven’t been around asking them questions, either. At least, they hadn’t come knocking on my door as of lunchtime today—I reckon they will, soon enough, if they can’t squeeze anything out of Ed. And if Ed didn’t have anything to do with it, there won’t be much there for them
