Mr. Clemens glanced up at the building. “You’re right, Wentworth,” he said. “We can talk anywhere—let’s get back over the wall before somebody calls the cops on us.”
We turned and headed for the back of the property, but we had barely covered half the distance when a door behind us opened with a bang, and a gruff voice called out, “Come ’ere, you two! Wot d’ye think ye’re doin’ in me garden?”
For a fleeting moment, I thought about sprinting to the wall and vaulting over; had I been alone, I would have tried it. But that would have left Mr. Clemens alone to face the consequences of our trespassing. While he could undoubtedly take care of himself, it was not in my nature to abandon him. And so the two of us turned around to confront our accuser.
The man before us was almost a caricature of John Bull: his figure was short and squat, almost square, and his broad face was made even broader by his luxuriant muttonchop whiskers, which set off his clean-shaven chin and bald pate. His waistcoat was open and his shirtsleeves rolled up, as if in preparation for working in the garden—and indeed, he held a large garden fork in both hands. At least, I hoped he had brought it for digging, and not to use on trespassers. It might not be rapier sharp, but it could undoubtedly inflict a nasty wound.
“ ’Ello, wot’s this?” he said, when he got a look at us. His surprised expression made it clear that he had not expected to find two grown men, one with a full mane of white hair, in his garden. The usual run of trespassers was most likely small boys come to steal his apples. Then his eyes narrowed and he said, “I’d like to know wot you think you’re doin’ in me garden. A man’s ’ome is ’is castle—that’s the law. I don’t know any honest reason for trespassin’, but if you ’ave one you’d best tell me right fast, and if I don’t like hit, you’ll be talkin’ to the constable next thing. There’s been enough funny business ’ere already.”
“There sure has,” said Mr. Clemens, in a calm voice. “In fact, that’s what we’re here about. Are you the landlord, by any chance?”
“Lord, no!” said the fellow. Evidently deciding that my employer and I posed no immediate threat, he lowered his fork and rested the tines on the ground. “Do I look like a bloomin’ duke? I’m the caretaker, and I gets my rent free and the right to plant this ’ere garden.”
“Ah, then you’re just the man we need to talk to,” said my employer. “You know everything that goes on around here, don’t you?”
“Aye, that’s so. Wot’s it to ye, now?”
Mr. Clemens lowered his voice and looked around as if making certain nobody was listening. “Well, then, you must know there was a fellow killed in that upstairs apartment last night. Mister—uh . . .”
“Johnson, Halbert Johnson,” said the man, his own voice lowered to match my employer’s.
“Well, I’m Sam Clemens, and this is my secretary, Mr. Cabot. We’re trying to find out what we can about that murder.” He signaled to me to take out my notebook and pencil, which I did, although I suspected he meant it more to impress Johnson than to record anything the fellow said.
“Ah me, wot a dreadful business! But I’m ’ardly surprised, I tell you, guv’nor. There was somethin’ wasn’t right habout them two Yanks—beggin’ yer pardon, I know ye’re Hamerican yerself, but I can see ye’re a gentleman, and that Mr. McPhee, ’e isn’t, if you know wot I mean. Wot with all the folk traipsin’ in and out of the place it’s a wonder somethin’ didn’t ’appen before.”
“We’ve been keeping our eyes on McPhee for some time now,” said Mr. Clemens, nodding. “He’s got a reputation back in America, and not one to be proud of. Can you tell us what he’s been up to since he moved in?”
“Well, ’e and ’is wife—a pretty little bit, don’t know wot she sees in ’im—took the flat it must be six weeks since. Hit’d been hempty some months, and the landlord was pressing me to get hit let, so I didn’t hask a lot of questions. Per’aps I should’ve hasked some more, lookin’ back, but I didn’t, seein’ as ’ow they ’ad a character from a very proper gentleman, Sir Denis DeCoursey. But soon as they was hin, they started ’aving parties o’ folk comin’ hin and hout, halmost he very hevenin’. Now, from wot I could see, the visitors wasn’t riffraff or lowlifes, so I didn’t say nothin’, not until the noises began.”
“Noises, eh? What kind of noises? You’re writing all this down, aren’t you, Cabot?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, dutifully scribbling down what bits of the conversation I thought significant.
“Ah, the most ghastly stuff,” said Johnson, glancing up at the second-story windows of the McPhees’ apartment. “There was chains rattlin’ and church bells tollin’—me and the missus would ’ear the din downstairs terrible late at night, y’know.”
“Yes, that’s what we’ve heard,” said Mr. Clemens. “I reckon you asked them to stop making the noises. What answer did McPhee give to that?”
Johnson frowned. “McPhee allowed as ’ow ’e wasn’t the one makin’ the noises—’e blamed it hall on spirits, ’e did. Now, we’d never ’ad no spirits ’ere before, and I told ’im so to ’is face. ‘Tell your spirits we doesn’t want ’em ’ere,’ I said, and I meant hit, too, guv’nor. But McPhee, ’e said ’e couldn’t just horder ’em hout, like guests wot hoverstayed their welcome. ‘Well then,’ says I, ‘wot if I turns you hout? Per’aps the spirits will go with you.’ ”
“And what
