My employer reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a folded piece of paper, which he handed to Villiers. “We’re trying to make a chart of where everybody sat last night,” he said. “Do you see any mistakes?”
Villiers unfolded the paper and peered intently at it for a moment, then shook his head and returned it to Mr. Clemens. “I think not,” he said. “Unless someone changed seats in the dark, it’s correct.”
“Hell, I never thought of that,” said Mr. Clemens, frowning. “Was everybody in the same place when the lights came back on?”
“The people on either side would have known if someone had moved,” I objected. “We were all holding hands, remember?” Then I looked over to see Villiers smirking at us.
Mr. Clemens saw it, too. “Never mind, Wentworth,” he said, standing up. “We’ve gotten what we came for, for today.” He turned to Villiers and said, “Thanks for the port, and for the tips about the doctor’s mistress—and his son. We may come see you again, if we think of anything else you might tell us.”
“I shall tell Cathers to remember you,” said Villiers. “Good afternoon, sir.” He touched a small bell on the table to his right, then, without standing, he extended his hand to Mr. Clemens, who shook it. He did not offer to shake my hand, and I was just as glad that the butler made his appearance and led us back out before the awkward moment grew too long.
Out on the street, Mr. Clemens looked back at the house and said, “Well, that was a useful interview.”
“I can’t really agree with you,” I said. “I don’t believe a single word the fellow said. I doubt the son or mistress are worth talking to, either—they weren’t even there, so how could they have killed him?”
“Maybe they were in cahoots with the one who did kill him,” said Mr. Clemens. “We can’t leave them out of this, just yet. And we can’t make too much of Villiers’s evasions. Even the innocent ones are likely to have something to hide, something they’re afraid makes them look guilty, and so they’ll lie to protect themselves.”
“Villiers certainly appeared to be hiding something,” I said. “And at the end, he was most uncooperative. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be the killer.”
“Sure, he’s as good a possibility as any,” said Mr. Clemens. We had begun walking at his usual leisurely pace back toward Tedworth Square, where my employer’s family—and our dinner—were awaiting us. “But I can’t say I’m surprised that he got tired of playing along with us. Hell, there’s no law saying he’s even got to let us in the door, let alone give us straight answers. Not to mention the drinks.”
“But if we know everyone is going to lie about themselves, how will we ever get to the bottom of this case?” I wanted to know.
“Because they’re likely to tell the truth about each other, which they’ll do just out of sheer ornery human nature. And since we aren’t the cops, they won’t be as much on their guard. That’s our main advantage, the way I see it. At the end, we take what they tell us, and compare it with the others’ stories, and see what shakes out.”
I had no answer to that, and so we made our way in silence along the pleasant streets of Chelsea. At Tedworth Square, we were greeted by the aroma of roasting chicken, and that was enough to make me forget the day’s frustrations for a while.
After dinner, Mr. Clemens asked his wife and his oldest daughter Susy to join us in his office. When we were all seated, he took out the diagram he’d drawn of the séance table and laid it out in front of them. “Here, both of you look at this and tell me whether I’ve got everything right. I’d like to be absolutely certain where everybody sat when the shooting took place. I especially need to know where the doctor was, so I can figure which way he fell when the shot was fired—which might tell us where the shooter had to be standing. The shot would have knocked him backward, you know.”
“You have everyone placed correctly,” said Mrs. Clemens, after examining the diagram. “I have no doubts about it.” Susy, looking over her mother’s shoulder, added her agreement.
“Hmm,” said my employer, pointing at the diagram. “I hate to say this, Wentworth, but my idea about the killer coming in the window is starting to look better again. The doctor’s body fell to the right of his chair, which means he could have been shot from over in this corner.”
“That would make sense,” said Susy. “But it doesn’t mean the shooter had to be all the way back there. Anybody on this side of the room could have done it.”
“Meaning about half the people in the room, not including us,” said Mr. Clemens, frowning. “Assuming nobody got up and moved in the dark, and that nobody came in without our knowing about it. That’s a lot of assuming, if you ask me.”
“Yes, Daddy, but if everything else is impossible, then what’s left must be true,” said Susy.
“You’ve been reading about Sherlock Holmes, haven’t you?” said Mr. Clemens. His frown was deeper.
“Yes, of course,” said Susy, straightening her back and raising her chin. “What difference does that make? I know you don’t think much of those stories, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true about eliminating the impossible.”
“I never said it wasn’t true,” said Mr. Clemens, “but it sure ain’t all that easy. I’m not impressed by a made-up character solving a case some writer has arranged
