• • •
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you much of what happened between the lights going out and the discovery of the murder,” said Mrs. Clemens. She and her daughter sat side by side on the sofa; Mr. Clemens had taken his position behind them, sitting on a windowsill with a refilled whisky glass. I thought he might have taken that position to assure Lestrade that he wasn’t prompting his wife and daughter by his gestures or expressions. Of course, anyone who had spent as much time with any of the three as I had—and that was less than a week—would know the absurdity of such a notion. Mrs. Clemens had a mind of her own, as did her daughters, and Mr. Clemens was no more likely to dictate their answers than to order them to fly to the moon.
“Well, tell us what you do remember, before and after the séance as well as during it,” said Lestrade, very patiently. “You never know just what might turn out to be important.”
Given this opening, Mrs. Clemens embarked on a detailed description of the evening’s events. I had not remembered—if, indeed, I had even noticed—what color vest Cedric Villiers had worn, or that Mrs. Parkhurst had worn garnets while her sister wore pearls. On the other hand, I thought I had a more exact recollection of what people (and in this case, the purported spirits) had said. I had previously been aware of my own ability to remember in great detail a conversation at which I had been present, but now I was surprised to learn how many details of people’s appearance and manner had completely escaped my notice.
But looking at the evening as a whole, her memories of the séance differed from mine primarily in small details. She had recognized the melody the “ghostly” violinist had played—some air by Mendelssohn—and she recalled a scent of fresh flowers in the room at one point, where I had noticed nothing in the way of odors. And she had heard her husband mutter a few things that had not reached my ears, none of which were really germane to Mr. Lestrade’s investigation. Lestrade asked her a few specific questions—had she seen or heard anyone moving about the room, had she noticed any sound that might have been the report of a firearm—both of which she answered in the negative. On the whole, it was evident that she had little of substance to add to what I remembered, and what the other witnesses we had interviewed had reported.
Then Inspector Lestrade turned to Susy Clemens, who had sat quietly, but with an interested expression, while her mother had answered his questions. “Now, young miss,” he said, “I suppose you saw pretty much the same as your mother . . .”
“You may suppose so,” she said, with a severe expression. “You may suppose whatever you wish, but you won’t learn much if you’ve already made up your mind.”
“Really, Susy, that’s rather impertinent of you,” said Mrs. Clemens, but Lestrade raised a hand. Mr. Clemens, for his part, was doing his best to keep from grinning.
“Mrs. Clemens, I’ve been given worse lectures by my superiors than I’m likely to get from your daughter,” the detective said. “Anyhow, she’s got the right of it. Any witness might have the one clue that will open up a hard case for us. But I’m wondering”—he turned to face Susy Clemens again—“what exactly prompted you to say that, young miss. Or was it just a general remark?”
Susy Clemens tossed her head scornfully. “You wouldn’t be here if you had gotten anywhere with Mr. McPhee, and that means you’ve had the wrong man in jail all along. But you were so sure the night of the murder that he was your man that you didn’t question any of us, when everything was fresh in our minds. Now we’ve all had two days to talk about the murder, and you’ll never know whether I saw something myself or heard Papa mention it at breakfast. The murderer could be anywhere by now—on a boat to America, if he wanted. And it’s all because you made up your mind that Mr. McPhee knew the truth, and ignored anything that pointed any other way.”
“Perhaps you’re right, miss,” said Lestrade, doing a good job of keeping his calm. “The fact is, the Detective Branch have our own procedures, and we’ve a great deal of experience at solving crimes. A good bit more than even the brightest young American lady, I’d think.”
“And you’re still getting no place at all,” said Susy. “Do you want to know what I saw that night?”
“Yes, perhaps I’d better,” said Lestrade. “Just tell us what you remember about the séance, in your own words, and I’ll stop you if I have questions.”
“Oh, what Mother told you will do quite well for what I saw during the séance,” said Susy, staring directly at the detective. “What you don’t seem to be asking about is what happened afterward, between the time we found the doctor dead and the time you arrived. I knew as soon as the lights came up that somebody in that room had to be the murderer, and I made up my mind to pay particular attention to what everyone said and did. That wasn’t as easy as I’d have liked, because of course we women were all shooed into the bedroom so we wouldn’t have to look at the dead body.”
“I had no hand in that,” said the Scotland Yard man.
“Oh, I know that,” said Susy. “But it did make it very hard for me to watch anyone who wasn’t in the bedroom, which meant all the men, of course. Sir Denis came in briefly when Mr. McPhee wanted his wife to come out and talk, and Papa stuck his head in
