“When you were doing your work in that place, did you see any sign of a hiding place—something big enough to hold a gun, set up so somebody could get it quickly and then hide it again?”
“Not a bit,” said Mulligan. “If there was aught of the sort, ’twas someone else put it there, not Terry Mulligan.”
“Nothing in the walls? Nothing in the furniture?”
“Why, there could have been most anything in the furniture, for ’twas all borrowed,” said Mulligan. “That Mr. McPhee and his little lady hired the place empty, with not a stick in it. Saved a pretty penny, they said. Then the young lady went ’round to all their posh friends, that baronet and Mr. Villiers—I did some work for him, once or twice—and a lot more, and got the loan of everything—carpets and chairs and beds and lace curtains and teacups and paintings for the walls. I never saw the like—she has the gift o’ blarney, same as her husband. But if there was a hidin’ place in anything, I never got wind of it, and I helped carry the most of it upstairs.”
“So much for that angle,” I said. “Another door slammed in our face.”
“I think not,” Mr. Clemens said. “If Ed and Martha borrowed all their furniture, there might have been a hidey-hole in almost any piece of it. The killer could lend it to them, wait until he knew the doctor was coming to the séance, then bring along a gun, knowing he’d have a place to hide it after the shooting. If we can find a hiding place, we’d know that the person who lent that piece is the killer. That’s assuming there is a hiding place.”
“The police searched very thoroughly,” I reminded him. “Remember Sergeant Coleman looking under the chairs? We did our own search, and didn’t find anything. I have a question for Mr. Mulligan, though. You say you did some work for Mr. Villiers—what kind of thing did you do for him?”
“Funny thing you should ask,” said Mulligan. “I just now remembered, it was just the kind of thing your boss was askin’ about—furniture and the like with secret hidin’ places. I made that cane of his—’tis all hollow, with a glass phial inside—he never said what he meant to keep in there, and I thought better than to ask. Anyhow, you’d never fit a gun into that.”
“What about the furniture he loaned? Were any of your pieces among it?”
“Nay, I’d have remembered that,” said Mulligan. “ ’Twas all just plain wooden chairs, and a little wooden side table, nothing at all fancy.”
“Well, there’s some food for thought, at least,” said Mr. Clemens. “I don’t know what it means yet, Wentworth. Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with the murder. But I know there’s an answer to be found somehow, and I’m going to find it.”
“I hope you do,” said Mulligan, standing up and picking up his cap. “Because until this case is wrapped up, I’ll have to dodge every time I see a bobby, and that’s no picnic. So the sooner the better, says I. And if there’s aught I can help with, you let me know.”
“I’ll do that,” said Mr. Clemens. “Tell Wentworth how to get a message to you, and you’ll hear from us if we need your help.” He shook hands again with Mulligan, and I showed the Irishman out the back way again. But I thought to myself that I had never seen Mr. Clemens so discouraged.
24
Next morning I was up early, but not before Mr. Clemens, who had gone out to use the telephone yet again. He stuck his head into the dining room, where I was just finishing my toast and marmalade with tea, and said, “Hurry up and finish your breakfast, Wentworth, we’ve got more work today.”
“I’ll be up to the office directly I finish this,” I said, waving the last half slice of toast.
“No, this isn’t inside work,” he said, walking into the room. He was still wearing his overcoat. “I’ve spoken to Dr. Milton Ashe—Parkhurst’s junior partner, and from what he said on the phone, he’s got a mouthful to talk about with us. I want to go see him before the patients start lining up in his waiting room so he can give us the whole story with no interruptions.”
I put down the toast, unfinished, and pushed back my seat. “In that case, let’s not tarry.” I had no idea what Dr. Ashe had told him over the phone, but it had clearly recharged his enthusiasm for the murder investigation. He was champing at the bit, and it would take a braver man than I—or a far more foolish one—to try to hold him back.
• • •
Dr. Parkhurst’s surgery was located on Thomas Street not far from Guy’s Hospital, where he had taught in the medical school. This was a good distance from Chelsea, but Mr. Clemens’s driver took us there by a quick route along the Thames. We crossed the river at Westminster Bridge, and cut through the Borough to our destination. Mr. Clemens was in a reflective mood, and I took the opportunity to watch the river traffic, which was as varied as that of the Hudson or Mississippi—though here the boats were mostly smaller, and the city was much more built up on both banks than along either of those great American rivers.
Our destination turned out to be a modern building that housed the offices of several physicians. The rooms occupied by the late Dr. Parkhurst and Dr. Ashe took up a corner suite on the first floor. From the paneling in the entryway and the tasteful rows of framed engravings along the hallways, the building had more the air of a first-class hotel than of a medical office—certainly in comparison to the rooms of the family doctor I had gone to in New London. I wondered whether Dr. Ashe would be able to retain enough of
