“It wasn’t I,” said Parkhurst, raising his chin slightly. “I doubt it was Mama, or Aunt ’Phelia, either—though Lord knows they both had reason. Who else was there that night?”
“My wife, my daughter, and Cabot here,” said Mr. Clemens. “None of us had laid eyes on him before that evening, so we’re not on the list. Mrs. McPhee, the medium, and her husband, the man who’s in jail. They’re not on my list, either—though they are on Scotland Yard’s. The widow Boulton, and Cedric Villiers—we’ve talked to both of them, but they’re not ruled out yet. And Sir Denis DeCoursey and his wife. That’s the whole crew, unless there was somebody hiding under the table the whole time.”
Parkhurst curled his lip. “I’ve seen Villiers strutting about with his nose stuck into the air. He fancies he’s far more clever than the other chaps about town. I’ve nothing against a fellow using his brains, but his playing the part of a great genius is very tiresome to watch.”
“A man can think he’s smarter than everyone else and still not be a killer,” Mr. Clemens said, leaning his elbows on the table and lowering his voice. “Or is there something else we ought to know about Villiers?”
Parkhurst’s eyes shifted to one side, and I thought for a moment he was about to make some revelation. Then he shrugged and said in an offhand tone, “Nothing, really. I don’t like the rotter, and that’s all.”
Mr. Clemens was clearly not convinced, but he simply said, “OK, then, you don’t like Villiers. What about the others—any reason to suspect any of them?”
“One thing,” said Parkhurst. “When I heard that Sir Denis DeCoursey was in the room, I thought right away, ‘He could have done it.’ He’s the best damned marksman in England, absolute aces. They say his wife’s a good shot, too. But if there’s a man alive who can pot a chap sitting across a table from him in a dark room, it’s Sir Denis. Blind me if I can tell you why he’d want to kill my father, mind you—they’d met one another, but they weren’t friends or anything.”
“Well, I guess that’s worth knowing,” said Mr. Clemens, rubbing his chin. “If nothing else pans out, maybe that’s the answer. Or maybe he had some reason we just don’t know about. We’ll have to go talk to him.”
“Possibly Sir Denis was acting for some party not present,” I said, looking up from my notepad. “Being several miles away, possibly with a number of witnesses, would be an excellent alibi. Can you think of anyone who fits that description?” I had no trouble at all thinking of someone; in fact he was right across the table from me.
Parkhurst didn’t rise to the bait, however. He thought for a moment, then said, “The chap who stood to gain the most from the old man’s murder is Dr. Ashe, his partner. A sneaky rascal; I think his parents were foreigners. He was jealous of the old man for building up the practice, and I’ve heard him say he’s the better surgeon. He and the old man were arguing, and I don’t think they knew I could hear them. Now the practice is all his. He wouldn’t have the nerve to pull the trigger himself, of course. But if he could get someone else to do it . . . no, it’s impossible.”
“What makes you think it’s impossible?” asked Mr. Clemens. His eyebrows were raised, and the ash on his cigar looked about to fall on the floor.
“Why, suppose you were a crack shot and someone wanted to hire you to kill a man,” said the doctor’s son. “You wouldn’t hire yourself out to just anyone, now—you’d have to trust the person, wouldn’t you? Trust him not to turn you in, or to crack if he were questioned—otherwise, it’s no good.”
“I guess that makes sense, if you look at it that way,” said Mr. Clemens. “And you wouldn’t trust Dr. Ashe?”
“No, I wouldn’t trust him, and neither would you if you saw him,” said Parkhurst, surprisingly earnest. “He’s not the right sort at all—a face like a stoat, and greasy little hands. He’s bound to lose most of the old man’s practice, once they realize they’ve got to let him touch them while they’re asleep, especially with a scalpel in his hands. So you see, he couldn’t possibly have done it.”
“I’ll be dipped in turpentine,” said Mr. Clemens, turning to me with a twinkle in his eye. “Just when I thought I’d heard it all, here’s a brand-new one. He couldn’t be the murderer because nobody would trust him?”
“Well, of course he could be, if he could have done it himself,” said Parkhurst, warming to his subject. “If Ashe had been in the room, they’d be measuring him for a noose this very minute. But he wasn’t—and that must mean he’s innocent, you see. I doubt there’s a killer in all of London who would trust Ashe to hire him.”
At that, Mr. Clemens broke out into a loud guffaw, startling the tavernkeeper, who looked over at us with a baleful eye. I myself saw very little humor in the situation. As far as I was concerned, the single most likely suspect so far was the very person whose story Mr. Clemens found so humorous. All that remained was to figure out how he had done it. I found myself trying to do just that—but having nothing I could call success.
18
The carriage ride back to Mr. Clemens’s house at Tedworth Square was not pleasant. To begin with, I had several aches where Tony Parkhurst’s wild blows with his cane had landed on my back and side. I suspected there would be bruises there when I got a chance to inspect my wounds. I had already discovered a large tear in the knee of my trousers, undoubtedly incurred while
