“Suspicion of being an accessory to murder, before and during the fact,” said Lestrade. He went over to the chair where he had placed his coat and hat, and picked them up. “Perhaps your husband acted without your knowledge, but I think it unlikely. If you had anything to do with this atrocity, Scotland Yard will find you out—have no doubt about that. And then you will learn how British justice treats a murderess. I believe we are finished here, for today; come along, Coleman.”
“One moment, sir,” said Martha, rising to her feet. “You promised I could speak to my husband. Are you reneging on that?”
“I said I might let you speak with him if I was satisfied with your answers—and with his,” said Lestrade, doing up the bottom button on his coat. “But neither of you has yet given me wholehearted cooperation. Until you and your husband change your tune, he can continue to cool his heels.” And with that, the two Scotland Yard detectives swept out of the room, leaving the three of us staring after them.
12
There was a long moment of silence after Inspector Lestrade left the room, and then Martha sighed. “That man hasn’t the slightest intention of looking at other suspects. He’s got it fixed in his mind that Edward is guilty, and he’s not going to budge from that.” She turned a pleading look toward Mr. Clemens. To my surprise, a tear was running down her face. All her poise had completely vanished; I knew this was no act.
Mr. Clemens understood that, too. He stood up and walked over to her chair, placing a hand softly on her shoulder. “Now, now,” he said, awkwardly. “We’ll get this straightened out somehow, don’t you worry.” Then he signaled to me with a movement of his head toward the window at the far corner of the apartment. I understood that he meant me to follow him there, giving the poor woman time to collect herself. I quickly followed him there, where we stood looking out at the building across from us. There was a small garden below us, with a fence at the back, but for the moment my thoughts were elsewhere. Behind us I could hear Martha quietly sobbing, and I was completely at a loss for words.
“Well, Cabot,” said my employer in a near whisper, “this is enough to convince me that the young lady couldn’t have known what was going to happen to the doctor. Even if Ed was mixed up in it, I don’t think she had any part in it.”
This conclusion dovetailed with my own. “Do you still think McPhee himself was involved?” I whispered back.
“It doesn’t look good for him,” said my employer, shaking his head. “Martha must know that, too. Lestrade may be on the wrong track, but it’s a plausible track, and that may be enough to convince a judge that Ed let the killer in—or even that he pulled the trigger himself.” He turned and looked back at McPhee’s wife, and I followed his gaze. Martha was sitting up straight again, wiping her eyes with a lace handkerchief. It looked as if she had regained control of herself.
Mr. Clemens gripped my elbow and continued. “It looks bad for Slippery Ed, but damn it, I know that old rascal thirty years. Make no mistake about Ed. He’s a skunk for sure—but that’s not the same as a killer, or a man who’d knowingly help one. That’s the thing Lestrade don’t know, and I do.”
My employer strode back over to the table where Martha McPhee still sat. He pulled out the chair next to her—the one in which I had been sitting—and sat down next to her, saying, “Well, Mrs. McPhee, we’ve got to put our heads together if we’re going to get that husband of yours out of jail.”
“You surprise me, Mr. Clemens,” said Martha McPhee. “Until a moment ago, I was under the distinct impression that you considered my husband’s guilt an even-money proposition at best. Now you talk as if you’re convinced of his innocence. Do you mind telling me what led you to change your mind? Or are you merely annoyed at Chief Inspector Lestrade, and taking your position contrary to whatever he currently espouses?”
“Oh, I’m annoyed at the smug little weasel, all right,” said my employer. He fished in his pocket for a match, which he struck and picked up his pipe to try lighting it again.
Martha pressed him. “And if your annoyance with the inspector passes, will you again decide that Edward might be guilty? Or do you genuinely believe that he played no part in this murder?”
“I see what you’re worried about,” said Mr. Clemens. He shook out the burning match, his pipe still unlit. “You need to know for certain I’m on your side, so if you have some piece of evidence that might make Ed look bad, you can tell me about it without my running to the police and blabbing. Is that it?”
She nodded. “I might not have put it quite so baldly, but in a nutshell, yes, that is my concern. If I were to retain a lawyer, I would expect as much of him.”
“I guess I don’t have to tell you I’m not a lawyer,” said Mr. Clemens, frowning. “That’s to your advantage—for one thing, I’m not going to start spouting a lot of Latin words you don’t understand; and for another, I’m not going to charge you a red cent for my time.”
“You underestimate me, Mr. Clemens. I do know some Latin, and a fair amount of law as well,” said Martha, smiling now.
“I should have known,” said my employer. “Next you’ll tell me you can play the trombone, ride circus elephants, and pilot a balloon, too. Maybe all three at once.” Martha laughed at this incongruous listing of her possible accomplishments, and Mr.
