“The young man certainly seems to have had a motive,” I noted. “But not being one of the séance party, it seems unlikely he could have shot his father. We’ve seen how hard it would have been for anyone to enter the room undetected.”
“Well, maybe and maybe not,” said Mr. Clemens. “Maybe you can help us with that question, Miss Donning. Did you see or hear anything that suggested someone might be in the room—besides those of us at the table, that is?”
“Nothing, really—unless you count the voices we heard. But I believe that Mrs. McPhee is the most likely source of those,” said Miss Donning.
“So—you’re not quite a true believer, are you?” asked my employer. From his expression, he had already suspected as much.
“Not at all,” said our hostess, smiling. Then her expression turned anxious, and she said, “You won’t tell Cornelia, will you? She’s head over heels in the Spiritualist Society, and I think she’d have given them any money she had if Oliver hadn’t stopped it. That may be the only subject on which he and I agreed. In fact, we had an unspoken covenant when we accompanied her to the séance, namely to prevent her from being cheated by those people.”
“I see you have a better eye for character than most,” said my employer. “I wouldn’t trust Ed McPhee to make change from a penny, and I’m afraid his wife is just as crooked—a bit more presentable in good company, though. That séance was probably a hoax from start to finish. But that’s off the point. You don’t remember anything that suggested an intruder in the room?”
Miss Donning shook her head. “No, but I think a clever intruder would have avoided notice. Someone who had read the ‘script,’ so to speak, would find it rather simple to time his movements so the rapping or rattling of chains would cover up the sound.”
Mr. Clemens grinned. “Yes, the noises came at pretty convenient intervals, didn’t they? I wonder if anybody besides Ed and his wife knew the ‘script’?”
“Cedric Villiers had been to Mrs. McPhee’s séances before, but he’s about as dangerous as a butterfly, in my opinion,” said Miss Donning.
“Really? He seems to cultivate a sinister air,” I said.
“Yes, he dabbles in the occult and the forbidden—it is all the fashion with a certain set,” she said. “He and poor deluded Hannah Boulton have made themselves quite a reputation in spiritualist circles. It is rumored that they are somewhat more than friends—you notice she sat next to him.”
“She was next to Dr. Parkhurst, as well,” said Mr. Clemens. “But you don’t seem inclined to make anything of that.”
“Poor Hannah is rather good-looking,” said Miss Donning—somewhat reluctantly, I thought. “Oliver usually preferred younger girls, though. Villiers’s taste apparently runs in the other direction, possibly because some older women are easier to flatter.”
Mr. Clemens drummed his fingers on the chair arm. “Let’s get back to Villiers, then. Why don’t you think he could have done it?”
“Because he’d want to crow about it,” she said acidly. “He’s so vain he’d couldn’t bear to waste the effort to do something at all difficult and then not be able to tell the world how cleverly he’d done it. And he hasn’t said anything, not a word. I’d sooner suspect that Irishman who ran away when he saw the police. I would be greatly surprised if he didn’t turn out somehow to be implicated in the whole affair. It would be useful to know where he’s vanished to.”
“Yes, that fellow’s the missing link in the whole case,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I doubt we’re going to see him unless the police bring him in. I’m too old to go looking for somebody who’s gone into hiding in a city I don’t know—not with a lecture tour starting next week.”
“Too old and too wise, I think,” Miss Donning said. She paused, looking intently at my employer, then continued. “Consider what I am about to tell you, Mr. Clemens. Oliver Parkhurst’s day is done, and the world is better for it. Had he lived, he would only have injured others. I know for a fact that he often entered the operating room in his cups—I saw him more than once lurch away from the dinner table after downing his two bottles, and go in to the hospital. Hannah Boulton’s husband died under his care, and that was not the first patient he lost. Did his efforts hasten their demise? I suppose we shan’t ever know. I will say that whoever killed Oliver may have committed murder in the eyes of British justice; but in the eyes of God, he was an avenging angel. Go home and let the police do their work, and go about your business with a clear conscience.”
Mr. Clemens peered at her for a long time before replying. “You know, Miss Donning, a man’s conscience is the most unreasonable thing in the world. I’ve been trying to get mine to shut up for most of my life, and I haven’t had a bit of luck at it. Maybe Dr. Parkhurst did deserve to die. But it ain’t my place to judge, and I’m just as glad. All I know is that another fellow—a swindler named Ed McPhee—stands accused of killing him. I promised Ed’s wife I’d try to find out the truth. Not so much because I believe he’s innocent, but because if he is innocent, my no-good conscience just won’t let me get a good night’s sleep unless I try to save him. So maybe I’m not as wise as you think.”
Miss Donning picked up her wineglass again, tapping the fingers of her left hand against the bowl while her right hand grasped the stem. “You are a formidable man, Mr. Clemens,” she said at last. “I am glad that I am not the one who killed Oliver, because I
