“Then why did you consent to speak to me? You knew what I was coming here to ask about.”
A thoughtful expression came over her face, and instead of answering directly, she stood and walked over to the fireplace, looking at the painting hung above it: the portrait of a fair-haired young man dressed in the fashion of an earlier day—her father, perhaps? After a moment, she turned again to face my employer. “You have heard my story—the story of a young woman who has been deprived of justice. And so, I cannot remain silent while another person may be in danger of a miscarriage of justice. I know that my sister did not do this, and I am willing to believe that your swindler Mr. McPhee did not. So it does me no harm to speak, does it? But I think I have said everything I should. Good day, Mr. Clemens. I will remember our meeting a long time.”
“As will I, Miss Donning,” said my employer, rising to his feet again. “One last request before I leave. Could you try to persuade your sister to see me? I realize that her sudden bereavement must weigh heavy on her, but she may have information nobody else can provide.”
“I will ask her, Mr. Clemens, but I can promise nothing,” said Miss Donning. “Cornelia answered the police’s questions right after Oliver’s death, which she could hardly avoid. That ordeal has left her at the end of her strength, and she has gone into seclusion. I hope you will understand if she does not wish to subject herself to questioning by a private person to whom she owes no obligation. As I say, I will ask—but I can promise nothing.”
“I appreciate your promising to ask,” said Mr. Clemens, with a small bow. “I understand your sister’s feelings, and don’t wish to make things any harder for her. But do tell her that I think her information could be valuable—and that I will do my best not to add to her distress. Thank you again for you time and your frank answers to my questions. I hope that when this ugly business is done, we can all feel some satisfaction in the outcome.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Miss Donning, and she drained her glass.
17
Dusk was beginning to fall as we left Miss Donning’s house, but at last I felt that light had begun to penetrate the darkness shrouding the murder of Dr. Oliver Parkhurst. We had a much clearer image of the man—of his vices, his habits, his enemies. The latter were somewhat more numerous than we had known before, but it was no longer such a mystery why someone would want to kill the doctor. Indeed, I could see possible motives for several of the people who had been present when the shot was fired. Of course many details still needed fleshing out, but we were at last on the path to some sort of answer.
Our driver had not yet appeared with the coach—the servant had sent for him after Mr. Clemens and I were done interviewing Miss Donning. This part of the city not being as well lit as those areas we had previously frequented, I found myself peering first in one direction, then the other, hoping to spot our driver. Luckily it was not raining, but the air was chilly, and a few wisps of fog were already gathering around the corners of the houses.
At first, I paid no particular notice to a man I’d seen standing across the street, a couple of houses to our left. I thought he was most likely waiting for his own driver to bring ’round a coach. I wondered whether our driver and his might be sitting in some warm public house, nursing a mug of ale together, while their masters stood on their doorsteps shivering. But as I glanced his way a second time, I had noticed that he was staring at us. Possibly he recognized my employer, as many people seemed to, wherever we went. Or perhaps seeing strangers in the neighborhood had piqued his curiosity.
Still, I paid him no mind—in my experience, staring back at someone is likely to be taken as rude. By rights, one could argue that the person who begins a staring match is ruder than the one returning the stare. But all too often, the person staring back is likely to be challenged with the ominous phrase “What are you looking at?” And after that, things usually deteriorate too rapidly for sorting out just who gave offense.
The third time I glanced his way I realized he was walking toward us. Something in his posture told me he was not merely strolling in our direction. While the light was not quite good enough to make out his features, I could see that he was about middle height, stockily built, and that he was carrying a stout walking stick under his left arm. I touched my employer’s elbow and said in a low voice, “I think this fellow’s going to be trouble.”
“What fellow?” said Mr. Clemens, a bit louder than was comfortable with the stranger bearing down on us. I could now see his face, which was set in a scowl. At a guess, he was somewhat older than I, but still short of thirty. I thought he was dressed rather too well—with a top hat, patent-leather shoes, and fawn-colored spats—to be likely to have robbery in mind, but what else he might be after was anybody’s guess. Still not certain what to expect, I took a step forward and interposed myself between the stranger and my employer.
At my motion, he pulled up short and looked me in the eye. I could see his face now; he had a prominent nose and deep-sunken eyes, with pouches underneath that
