After we were seated, Mr. Clemens cleared his throat and began speaking. “I’m glad you were able to see us today,” he said. “I guess you have some idea why we’re here—”
“Yes,” she said, cutting him off with an imperious gesture. She was impressive despite the threadbare furniture and dim lights. “You want to find out who killed my brother-in-law—the swine. Well, I’d like to find the one who did it, too—to congratulate him. Or her, if it turns out that Cornelia summoned up her courage and finally did what she should have done years ago. I doubt it, though—the poor thing was more likely to have taken her own life than his.”
Mr. Clemens’s eyebrows rose. “You’re telling me you were happy to see the doctor dead.”
“I’m not the only one, I assure you,” she said, with a smile that might have been attractive, had it not been so full of outright malice. “I tell you again that Oliver was a swine. London is a far cleaner place without him. I suppose I ought to tell you I didn’t do it myself—not that you’ll believe me, in any case. I would have done it, if I’d thought I could get away with it. But I must confess, I haven’t the courage, any more than Cornelia does.”
“You call the doctor a swine,” said Mr. Clemens, gravely. “Would you care to explain that?”
“Why not?” she said, with a little laugh and a graceful toss of her head. “You’d learn it from someone else, if not from me. A moment, though.” She stood and rang for the servant, then turned back to us. “I’m going to drink a glass of sherry while I talk. Would you gentlemen join me? My recital may take a while.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Mr. Clemens. I nodded my assent, as well—although I was not quite certain about accepting a drink from this singular woman. I had been in the presence of at least one probable murderess before, and in a voodoo woman’s parlor, but never had I felt quite so uncomfortable.
The servant appeared almost at once, bearing a crystal decanter and three small wineglasses—I wondered whether she’d been listening in on us, or whether the sherry was prepared in advance. The glasses were filled, the servant disappeared (leaving the decanter behind), and Miss Donning took a judicious sip. I followed suit; the sherry was a dry and nutty Amontillado, the perfect drink for an autumn afternoon. “Now, where should I begin?” she said, looking at my employer.
“Seems to me you already began,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ll ask you one more time. What did the doctor do for you to call him a swine?”
“Ask ten people and you’ll get ten different answers,” said Miss Donning, gazing coyly at us. It seemed as if, having opened the door a crack, she hesitated to open it the rest of the way.
“I can believe that,” said my employer. “It’s the usual run of things. But what’s your answer, Miss Donning?”
Now a more serious look came to her face. “My sister and I are our parents’ only children,” she said. “Our father was the second son of a gentleman in the country, and so he had only a modest inheritance. Papa had to make his own fortune—which he did, retiring after a successful career in the East India Company. He had saved up a tidy sum, and although our mother died while I was still quite small, we were comfortable growing up. Being young and naive, we expected that our lives would continue to be comfortable.”
“Yes, I can see there used to be money in your family,” said Mr. Clemens, looking around the room. “And now your share of it’s pretty much gone, if I know the signs. Are you telling me the doctor got his mitts on it, somehow?”
“You are perceptive, Mr. Clemens,” our hostess said, with an appreciative nod. “Yes, in a nutshell, that is what happened. Oliver was a promising medical student when Cornelia fell head over heels in love with him. I remember him back then—he was handsome, and very persuasive, and he swept her off her feet. I was a very young girl, and I thought he was wonderful, too—little did I know.”
“Were you jealous of your sister, for winning him?” Mr. Clemens asked. He was peering at her very intently, now, though she did not seem to notice.
“I suppose I was, in a girlish way. But that soon passed. What I didn’t understand until much later was that he was going to take away not only my sister, but practically everything else that was mine. And once he had that, he had almost no use for me—and even less for poor Cornelia, though she never really understood that.” She stared into the distance for a moment, then looked down at her wineglass and started, as if noticing it for the first time. She took another sip, and then continued.
“When Oliver finished his medical studies, he needed money to set up in practice. Papa lent it to him—it came out of my dowry, and with my consent. Mother had died of cancer, and we all believed that helping a bright young surgeon to get his start in life was something she would have approved of. Oliver would pay it all back in a few short years, once he was successful. Perhaps he would have, if Papa had lived. But that was not to be.” She paused again, looking down at the floor. “You see, there were no papers signed, nothing to document the
