“I think I can set them aside right now,” I said, very truthfully. “We shouldn’t keep Mrs. Boulton waiting, should we?”
Mr. Clemens gave me a knowing look. “Of course not. Besides, the papers won’t run off while you’re off with me, jotting down what pretty young widows say. I’ll go call the driver, then.” He winked, and headed downstairs.
I did not have the opportunity to reply to him, and perhaps it was just as well. While Mrs. Boulton was certainly very attractive for a woman of nearly forty, I could only assume that Mr. Clemens was making one of his jokes. I neatened up the stacks of papers I had been working on, then hurried to join him downstairs.
Bloomsbury, as it turned out, was in the same quarter of London as the British Museum. So our driver took us, in reverse, along the route I had taken after meeting Mr. and Mrs. McPhee at the museum. Mr. Clemens sat back, evidently lost in thought, and so we passed the journey in silence until the driver pulled his horse up in front of a plain-looking brick house on Gower Street, which is essentially the continuation of Bloomsbury Street to the north of Bedford Square.
At first glance, I thought the neighborhood distinctly unattractive. Although the street itself was wide and the houses appeared to be well kept up, the sameness of the buildings gave the impression of an arbitrarily imposed design—something I more readily might have expected in an American city than in the Old World. But inside Hannah Boulton’s house, the climate was entirely different. Her servant ushered us into a sitting room where a warm fire was burning, and the gas was lit, making the room a bright sanctuary against the gloomy day outside.
Mrs. Boulton was dressed in mourning, as she had been on our previous meeting, but even her dark clothes and veil could not detract from the feeling of warmth in her home. She and her late husband had evidently been art collectors, for there were a number of fine modern French paintings and drawings on the walls, as well as several very good English pieces of the school of Rossetti and Holman Hunt.
The impression of aesthetic sensibility carried over to the furniture and general decor of the room. One wall was given over to bookshelves, filled with a bewildering variety of novels, collections of poetry, dissertations on art and architecture, and memoirs both ancient and modern. In another corner of the room was a pianoforte, and a music stand next to it, both bearing numerous sheets of music—evidently this was a home to all the arts. Even the fireplace was faced not with plain brick, as it might have been in America, but with ornamental tiles in light blue and white, like fine china.
Mrs. Boulton offered us tea and a bit of pastry, which we both accepted—I could have done without, but it helped to begin our meeting on a friendly note. We exchanged desultory small talk and admired the paintings—at least, I did, while my employer maintained a diplomatic silence—and she happily babbled on about where she and her late husband had acquired them. After a short interval, the servant arrived with the refreshments. Then, after taking a few sips of the excellent English tea, Mr. Clemens got down to business.
“I told you on the telephone what this was all about,” he began. “I don’t think the police have the faintest idea who murdered Dr. Parkhurst—although they think they do. If I thought they were right, I’d leave ’em alone—I’ve got plenty of things more important than trying to teach Scotland Yard its business,” he said. “So I hope you’ll help me, so I can quit playing detective and get back to what I do best.”
“That would appear to be to everyone’s benefit,” said Mrs. Boulton. “Mark Twain’s admirers could hardly be pleased to learn that he is dabbling in police work instead of writing and preparing speeches. And I am certain that Mr. Samuel Clemens would be far happier spending time with his charming wife,” she added, smiling.
“You can understand, then, why I want to get this whole mess out of the way,” said my employer. “It would be easiest just to let the police do their job.”
“Quite so,” said Mrs. Boulton, leaning forward to put her hand on his forearm. “In fact, that is exactly the course I would urge upon you, Mr. Clemens. Why dirty your hands with this unpleasantness when there are experts working to find the murderer? I think we all know what Scotland Yard can do, when they set their bloodhounds on a trail—and Mr. Lestrade is one of their most experienced. I hope you will pardon my saying so, but his chance of finding this criminal is far greater than that of any private individual, especially one unfamiliar with British law or customs.”
“In other words, an amateur and an American,” said Mr. Clemens, looking her directly in the eyes. “I reckon I’m guilty on both counts, but don’t expect me to be ashamed of it. I might have the advantage over Lestrade, if you get right down to it. For one thing, I was there when the doctor was shot. I don’t care how smart Lestrade is, he didn’t see what you and I saw. You were sitting right next to the doctor when it happened, weren’t you?”
Mrs. Boulton sat up straight. “Yes, and I devoutly wish I had been elsewhere,” she said, with a sideways glance and a shudder. “I don’t mean that I would have wanted to miss the séance, and the wonderful opportunity to hear my dear departed husband’s voice once again, you understand. I mean only that I wish I hadn’t been sitting next to the poor doctor. But there’s no changing that now, is there?”
Mr. Clemens’s voice was gentler, now. “No, no more than you can change any other terrible thing that’s happened. None of
