“What about the others?” Lestrade pressed her.
Martha spread her hands, as if showing the detective she was not concealing anything in them. “I met Mr. Clemens and his secretary in America some months ago, and his wife and daughter just the previous night, at their place in Tedworth Square. Dr. Parkhurst and his sister-in-law were the only two I had never met—Mrs. Parkhurst invited both of them.”
Lestrade had gradually inched his chair even closer to her, and was now no more than two feet away from her face. “Are you absolutely certain you never met the doctor before?” he said, unnecessarily loudly, I thought.
Martha sent an annoyed look at her interrogator. “You seem to be looking for some motive on my part. I assure you, Mr. Lestrade, I had nothing to gain by killing the doctor.”
“Mrs. McPhee, I am a police detective,” said Lestrade, with exaggerated patience. “I have to suppose that anyone connected to this case might be guilty—else I’m likely to miss something. I have been noting down what you say, and I’ll read it over at my leisure when I’m back at the station. You can be certain I’ll be speaking to the other witnesses. If their stories jibe with yours, all’s well and good. If they don’t jibe—”
“If they don’t jibe, I may find myself in jail along with my husband,” said Martha. “I accept that risk, Mr. Lestrade. You may remember that I am cooperating with you, in hopes that I can convince you to free my husband. Now, did you have other questions?”
“Yes,” said Lestrade, leaning back just a bit. He glanced over at Coleman, who was examining the chairs around the table where the séance had been held, turning them over and looking under their seats. He nodded, evidently pleased at his assistant’s progress, then turned back to Martha and continued.
“One last thing. We need to reconstruct, as best we can, where everyone was sitting last night. Once we know that, and measure the angle the shot came from, we’ll have a good idea just who could have fired it.”
“Maybe,” said Mr. Clemens. “That’s assuming the doctor didn’t turn his head to one side or the other just before the shot was fired.”
“Of course,” said Lestrade, after a slight pause. “Still, I think we need to know who was sitting in what seat. Mrs. McPhee?”
“Mr. Cabot was to my left, and Cedric Villiers to my right,” said Martha. “I believe—Mr. Cabot can correct me if I’m wrong—that Miss Susy Clemens was on his left, and Mr. Clemens next, followed by Mrs. Clemens.”
“Very good then, we’ve half the table accounted for already,” said Lestrade. Coleman, who had evidently finished his search of the floor, was busy with his notebook and pencil. “And what was the order of the others?”
“I think Hannah Boulton was at Cedric’s right hand, followed by Mrs. Parkhurst, and then the doctor,” said Martha.
“That doesn’t sound right,” said Mr. Clemens. “I remember Mrs. Parkhurst’s sister being next to Villiers, then the doctor and his wife after that.”
“So you think the doctor was between his wife and her sister?” asked Lestrade. He had been scribbling down notes, stopping to scratch out something as one or another of us changed our minds. He stared at his pad, then said, “That last bit can’t be right—it doesn’t leave any place for Mrs. Boulton.”
The Scotland Yard man stood up and pointed in the direction of the table. “I’ll tell you what—we’ll go over to the table and see if we can sort this out better.”
“All right,” said Martha. She stood up and followed Lestrade to the large round table, which was still surrounded by a dozen chairs. “This is where I sat,” she said, placing her hand on the back of one of the seats.
“Are you quite certain?” said Detective Coleman, who had rejoined the group. “I’m trying to draw a chart of the seating arrangements, and a mistake at the outset could throw the whole thing off.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly be mistaken,” said Martha. “I always sit here, in case I need to signal to Edward in the other room.”
“I knew there was some kind of trickery going on last night!” said Mr. Clemens, slapping the palm of his hand on the tabletop. “I should have taken that chair when I had the chance, but you bluffed me out of it. But that’s not the worst of it. Twenty minutes ago, you told me you were in a trance the whole time, and now you say you were sending signals to Slippery Ed. Which is the truth?”
“Yes, I find that very interesting,” said Lestrade. “Exactly what sort of information were you conveying to him?”
Martha sat down at the table and looked up at us with a perfectly calm expression. “My goodness, gentlemen, you are very quick to seize upon a quibble. I did not say I was sending my husband signals last night; I said I sat here in case I needed to. Surely you can see the distinction.”
“I can see it all right, but I’ll be damned if I can see how it makes any difference,” said Mr. Clemens. “Were you in a trance last night, or not?”
“Yes, exactly as I told you,” said Martha, looking at my employer with an expression of perfect innocence. “A very deep trance, in fact—so deep that I have no memory of anything that transpired between the beginning of the sitting and my being awakened by bright lights and frightened voices. But the trance is not always so deep, and sometimes it does not come very quickly, or last very long—and then I need to cue my husband to increase the sounds and other effects. I am sorry to say that most of my visitors are far more impressed by a rattling
