“Your language, Youth,” Mrs. Clemens admonished. “I’m sure these two young people have heard worse—probably from you, I’m sorry to say—but you shouldn’t expose them to it continually. As for your question, I don’t know what Sherlock Holmes might do, other than play his violin or light a pipe. Neither of those strikes me as a fruitful course of action. But if I were leading the investigation, I’d attempt to interview the people nearest to the victim when he was shot. That is to say, to Mrs. Boulton and Mrs. Parkhurst. I would be very surprised, in fact, if Inspector Lestrade has not already spoken to them.”
Mr. Clemens nodded. “Hmm—you make sense, as always, Livy. Maybe they saw something nobody else saw. I would be surprised if Lestrade had talked to them, though. He’s fallen in love with the idea that Slippery Ed was in cahoots with the killer, and he’s riding it for all it’s worth—which ain’t much, if you ask me.”
“I agree,” said Mrs. Clemens. “Mr. McPhee would not be welcome in many polite homes, but that is far from making him a murderer. Well, then, you must make appointments to speak to Mrs. Boulton and Mrs. Parkhurst, tomorrow morning if possible—although we must allow for the possibility that Mrs. Parkhurst will be too distraught to speak to anyone quite yet. Except perhaps for the police—I suppose they will insist on it.”
“Hel—” Mr. Clemens began, then caught himself almost before the entire word came out. His wife’s expression remained calm, so he continued without further apology. “You’re right, Livy. Of course, those are two of the most important witnesses, and I meant to speak to them as early as possible—except I forgot to ask Martha McPhee for their addresses. I guess I’ll have to send Wentworth back over there to find out where they live.”
“That won’t be necessary,” said his wife, complacently. “I suggested that we ladies at the séance exchange addresses when we were sequestered immediately after the murder, and everyone agreed. And unless I misremember, several of them even have private telephones! I didn’t know exactly how that information would be useful, but I was quite certain it would be.”
“I’ll be g—” Mr. Clemens stopped himself again, then said, “I’ll be grateful if you’d bring me those addresses and telephone numbers, Livy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d undoubtedly be in a great deal of trouble without me,” said his wife, smiling sweetly. “Luckily for both of us, we are together. I’ll be right back with the addresses. And then we shall spend some time with the girls—we’ve been neglecting them shamefully!” And she stood and left my employer with his mouth half-open.
He finally recovered himself enough to say, “Take my advice, Wentworth. Never take a woman for granted. It’s the surest way I know of to make a fool of yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. It seemed the only possible reply. And I was quite certain that trying to expand upon it would get me in more trouble than even Mr. Clemens was capable of wriggling out of.
15
The next morning Mr. Clemens went out early to find a telephone, our rented premises not having one installed. The landlady, Mrs. Taurcher, had directed him to a public house three or four blocks away where she thought there might be a phone. But when Mr. Clemens had not returned after nearly an hour, I feared that she had misdirected him. Finally, somewhat after ten o’clock, he returned. Anticipating that being sent on a wild-goose chase might have ignited his temper, I had gone to the office and busied myself with his papers and correspondence. Giving the appearance (at least) of virtuous industry might not entirely deflect his displeasure, but appearing idle was a very likely way to draw it down upon my head.
To my surprise, he was in an ebullient mood when he walked in the office. “Well, Wentworth, finish up what you’re doing and grab your coat and hat. We’ve got a morning appointment up in Bloomsbury, halfway across town, and another after lunch.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Whom are we seeing?”
“Hannah Boulton first; she’s the young woman who lost her husband a while back. Then Opheila Donning, Mrs. Parkhurst’s sister. Mrs. Parkhurst has a phone, but nobody was answering it, probably on purpose. But if we can convince Miss Donning that what we’re doing might help bring the doctor’s killer to justice, maybe she’ll be able to persuade Mrs. Parkhurst to talk to us.” Mr. Clemens made a face, then added, “Assuming she isn’t the killer herself, of course.”
“Do you really think it likely?” I asked. “It would seem next to impossible for her to have shot the man at such close range, without our hearing the report.”
“It keeps coming back to that, doesn’t it?” Mr. Clemens said, opening one of his desk drawers and fetching out a fresh pipe to take along. “But there’s no getting around it, until we know the real explanation. I’m ready to believe almost any damn thing, Wentworth—short of the spooks deciding to shoot him, that is. That would be one too many even for me.”
“I should think so,” I said. “I have enough trouble believing in spirits. That they might effect events in our world stretches credibility.”
Mr. Clemens laughed. “If you could just learn to say what you mean in plain English, you’d be a wonder, Wentworth. But I’m distracting you. Let me know when you’re done
