Then he held up a hand and said, “But let’s not get too far from your question—you do deserve a straight answer, even if you won’t necessarily like it. Young lady, I’ve known your husband since before the Civil War—more than thirty years, in fact. He was a young swindler when I first met him, and he was still a swindler—although a good bit longer in the tooth—when we parted company in Memphis early this summer.”
“Yes, that describes Edward more or less accurately,” said our hostess. “I can’t see any benefit in trying to deny something you know as well as I. Nonetheless, I think it is a long step from that to murder.”
“I agree,” I said. “But that doesn’t address the main point of Inspector Lestrade’s theory. He accuses Mr. McPhee not necessarily of firing the fatal shot himself, but of opening the door, after the séance had begun, to the person who did fire it. McPhee may not even have known what the other person intended, until it was too late.”
“So why didn’t he spill the beans as soon as the cops got here?” countered Mr. Clemens. He walked over to the fireplace, which was banked low, and held out his hands to warm them.
“Possibly fear of reprisal,” I said. “Perhaps the other person has some hold over McPhee, sufficient to convince him to bide his time in silence and wait out the investigation, confident he can’t be implicated in the actual killing.”
“You disappoint me, Mr. Cabot,” said Martha. “I expected you to be more open-minded. Mr. Clemens, you may poke up that fire if you wish.”
“No, I think Cabot is being open-minded, more than either of us have managed so far,” said my employer, picking up the poker. “That’s what I was trying to say before—for now, I’ll work on the assumption that Ed is innocent, because I don’t think killing is in his makeup. But I won’t be satisfied until I have the whole truth. And that means I can’t overlook any real possibility. The police won’t be overlooking anything—well, maybe they will, if Lestrade’s the best they’ve got. But we can’t bank on it—and we sure can’t bank on them making any efforts to clear Ed. As long as Lestrade’s running the show, they’ll be working on his theory, and that starts with the idea that Ed done it. So if anybody’s going to find evidence that proves Ed might not have done it, it’s going to have to be us.”
“I suppose you are right,” Martha admitted.
“All right, then, let’s get down to brass tacks,” said Mr. Clemens, turning back to face us again. He had still not done anything with the poker. “Have you seen any evidence that Ed may be under pressure, that somebody might be holding something over his head?”
“Not really,” said Martha. “Edward has seemed entirely himself, as far as I could tell, except for having to explain himself to the police last night.”
“I reckon that would disturb most people,” said Mr. Clemens, leaning the poker against the bricks. “Ed’s a pretty cool customer when he needs to be, though. I’d have thought he had enough experience with cops not to get too agitated at being questioned. But let’s not harp on that.”
“Why are you so reluctant to accept Lestrade’s theory?” I persisted. “Does it have some obvious shortcoming I haven’t noticed—other than its origin, I mean?”
“My main problem with it is that I have trouble believing that the killer stood across the room, aimed between two people he didn’t want to hit, and plugged the doctor right between the eyes, or close enough not to matter—all in a dark room. Maybe it isn’t flat impossible, but it’s damned unlikely. There’s got to be an easier explanation for what happened.” Mr. Clemens ticked off his points on his fingers as he referred to them. When he stopped and looked at me expectantly, I had to concede that his objections appeared valid.
“Good, I’m glad to hear it,” he said, looking somewhat relieved. “I was afraid I might have gone off the track, when you didn’t back me right away. You have a pretty good head on your shoulders when you decide to use it, Wentworth. If I can’t convince you of something, it’s time to stop and figure out what’s wrong with it.”
“I’m not certain whether I should take that as a compliment or not, sir,” I said. “But more to the point, it seems to me that if we don’t accept the explanation the police are offering, we’re going to have to refute it if we wish to exonerate McPhee. Where do you think we should begin?”
“Well, Lestrade gave us a start when he brought us over to the table to figure out where everybody was sitting last night,” said Mr. Clemens. “Let’s make our own seating chart—I didn’t get a look at the one Coleman made, so we’ll have to do it from scratch. We can get Livy and Susy to help us remember who sat where, and maybe narrow down which of the people we know were in the room had an opportunity to make that shot in the dark.”
“I have paper in the desk,” said Martha. Mr. Clemens nodded, and she went off to fetch it.
“I don’t see how anyone at the table really had the opportunity to shoot anyone,” I said, returning to the subject. “Everyone was holding hands, remember? How could anyone have let go a neighbor’s hand long enough to fire a weapon without its being noticed?”
“The same way they managed to cover up the sound and flash and smell of a gunshot in a closed room, I reckon,” said Mr. Clemens. “If we can figure out the answer to any one of those, maybe the rest will come after it like baby ducks following their mama. Ah, thank you, Miss Martha,” he said as she handed him paper and a pencil.
Mr. Clemens sat down in his old seat, and bent over the
