“Ah, but you can never judge how someone will react to a murder,” Lestrade said, in an unctuous voice.
“No, and of course I didn’t really know anyone except Mama and Papa, and Mr. Cabot a little bit, so I hadn’t very much to judge on. Mrs. Parkhurst did seem genuinely afflicted, and her sister was very solicitous—though I don’t think Miss Donning was anywhere near as sorry to see the doctor dead as you might think.”
“After talking to her, I’m not surprised,” said Mr. Clemens, standing up and moving around the sofa. “She had a long-standing grudge against the doctor, from what she told me and Cabot.”
“I can believe that,” said Susy. “She seemed . . . not quite happy at the doctor’s death—perhaps relieved would be the right word. She kept telling her sister everything would be all right now, which seemed not quite the right thing to say.”
“What about the others?” asked Lestrade.
“As soon as we sat down, Mrs. Boulton started talking like a runaway train,” said Susy. “I wondered if she was trying to distract Mrs. Parkhurst from what had just happened, or if she’s always that way. But she didn’t stop talking until the detective arrived. And Lady Alice sat over by the window and took a little book out and began to read. I thought that was a very sensible thing to do, and wished I’d brought along something to read. And Mrs. McPhee seemed almost dazed—it’s as if she’d been asleep, really asleep the whole time and was just waking up, the way you do in the morning. I think she must have been in a genuine trance during the séance—I don’t know how she would have shammed that convincingly.”
“Well, that’s all very good,” said Lestrade, with an indulgent smile. “I’ll make certain to keep all that in mind—”
“I’m quite sure you will,” Susy interrupted, ice in her tone. “But I’m not finished yet.” Lestrade’s smile vanished, and he nodded as she continued. “The men came into the bedroom after the police arrived and began their investigation. But just before they were all herded in, I stepped out into the larger room, just to escape all the crowding. And I noticed that several things had changed from when we were all there.”
“Ah, this promises to be interesting, then,” said Lestrade. “And what had changed, young lady?”
“There were three large silver candlesticks in the room when we sat down. I thought they were for light, or maybe just for atmosphere, because the gas was lit when we came in. But nobody lit them until after the séance. Then I thought perhaps they were some of the things people brought to try to lure the spirits—remember, Mrs. McPhee asked us to bring something metal. But when I came out and looked around, there were only two of them. I thought at the time one of them must have been taken into the other room, except there were plenty of lamps in that room, too. But I didn’t see it on the way out, and I was looking for it. Sometime between when the lights went out and the time the police arrived, one candlestick disappeared.”
“Are you certain of that? Might you have counted them wrong?”
Susy drew herself up straight and gave Lestrade a look I would not have wanted turned my way for all the money in England. “I might miscount the difference between twenty and twenty-one, or even between ten and eleven. I do not think it likely that I would have mistaken two for three. And that was not the only thing different.”
“What else was different?” asked the detective.
“There had been a book on the windowsill near the table—I had glanced at it when we came in, and saw that it was written by someone named Blavatsky, which I thought was an unusual name. It was missing, too.”
“Why, I saw that book, myself,” said Mr. Clemens. “She’s one of those silly spiritualists who claims to know the secrets of the universe, but never tells you anything but a pack of lies and moonshine. I saw that book on the table when Wentworth and Sir Denis were moving the poor doctor to the sofa. Can’t say I noticed it afterward, though. As for the missing candlestick, if someone brought it, they probably packed it up to take home with them.”
“Nothing else was packed up,” she insisted. “And I thought it was very suspicious that the chairs had been rearranged around that table, too.”
“Well, then, Miss Clemens—let’s assume you’re right,” said Lestrade, leaning forward. “Let’s say there was a candlestick and a book gone missing, and chairs had been moved all about. What do you think all that means?”
For the first time, Susy looked uncertain of herself. “Do you know, Mr. Lestrade, I’ve thought and thought about that. And after two days of asking myself that question, I’m afraid I have to tell you I haven’t the faintest notion.”
19
Naturally, after the visit from Chief Inspector Lestrade, the only subject the Clemens children wanted to discuss at dinner was the murder investigation. For most of the meal, Susy Clemens was the envy of her younger sisters, both for her lecturing the Scotland Yard detective and for her having noticed the items she claimed were missing or moved from the room where the murder had taken place. Mrs. Clemens tried (without much success, I fear) to steer the conversation to other topics, but inevitably someone would have something more to say about the murder case, and we would be off again.
The stickiest question was, if the various items really had vanished (an issue on which Susy
