McPhee guffawed and slapped his knee, saying, “Durn, there you go with them jokes again! You’re enough to make a feller split his sides, Sam!” For all his demeanor betrayed, he might have spent the last few days in a fine hotel, rather than penned up by the London police. I wondered whether he was really so little disturbed, or simply putting up a good front out of sheer habit.
“Mr. McPhee, I’ll ask you to take a seat until the others are all here,” Chief Inspector Lestrade said. “I don’t mind if you talk with the others, as long as you stay put. Constable Waters, you know your duty.”
“Yes, Chief Inspector,” said the bobby, in a gruff voice. He was probably three inches shorter than I, with a physique like a wrestler’s. I would not have wanted to tangle with him. Slippery Ed chose a small love seat as his perch—I wondered who had lent it to the McPhees. With the bobby’s nodded permission, Martha sat down next to her jailbird husband. She leaned close and began to speak to him in a low voice—just low enough that I would have had to walk over to hear what they were saying. I took one step that way, but a glance from Martha made it clear that this would not be welcome, and I stopped, embarrassed at being caught. After all, with all the police in attendance, there was little they could do to cause trouble—if that was in fact what they had in mind.
Lestrade went back downstairs to see to the disposition of his other men, and while he was gone, the rest of those who had been present at the fatal séance began to arrive. Cedric Villiers, who lived within walking distance, was the first. This surprised me; a late entry would have been more in character with his nonchalant dandyism. Under his arm was a bundle—presumably whatever objects he had brought along to the séance before. I wondered briefly if the real killer would be arrogant enough to bring the weapon that killed Dr. Parkhurst. Or had the killer already disposed of the weapon? I thought I would have done so, had I been the guilty party.
Villiers nodded to us, set down his bundle, and went over to a vacant chair. He sat down, looked around the room with a smirk, and said, “Well, the ravens begin to gather! What sort of feast does the famous Inspector Lestrade intend to offer us?”
“I reckon we’ll find out soon enough,” said Mr. Clemens. “The others ought to be here soon enough, and then the show can start.”
“Yes, but who will play the part of the unfortunate doctor?” asked Villiers, tapping his ebony cane upon the floor. “We can’t do a proper reenactment of the sitting without him, can we? Or does the inspector intend to bring him back for an encore?” He grimaced at his own wit.
“That is hardly a pleasant topic,” said Mrs. Clemens, wrinkling her nose. I thought perhaps she found the speaker as unwelcome as the subject, but we did not have the luxury of choosing our own company this afternoon. Otherwise, I would hardly be planning to spend the day with two known swindlers, a team of policemen, a sneering poseur, and (most probably) a very dangerous murderer.
Almost as if he had read my thoughts, Villiers answered her, “I fear there will be few pleasant topics before us this afternoon, Mrs. Clemens. I had planned on visiting the opening of an art exhibit this afternoon, but Inspector Lestrade would not hear of it. Pity—the organizers have got work from some very innovative people. I was so looking forward to speaking with some of the artists. Well, the paintings will be there tomorrow, even if the artists aren’t.” He lolled in his chair, the very image of elegant and idle aristocracy.
“You’re probably just as well off to miss the artists,” said Mr. Clemens. “At least the paintings won’t get drunk and insult you, or try to borrow money from you.”
“Ah, one must make some allowance for artists,” said Villiers, smirking again. He evidently managed to hold himself superior to the general run of humanity, though as far as I could tell he had never deigned to prove it by accomplishing anything noteworthy.
I thought that Mr. Clemens was about to reply to this latest sally, but the moment passed as the door opened to admit two more guests: Mrs. Parkhurst, the doctor’s widow, and her sister, Ophelia Donning. They were accompanied by Mrs. Parkhurst’s son, Tony. I thought of the unfortunate encounter Mr. Clemens and I had had with Tony Parkhurst after our interview with Miss Donning, and found myself resenting his presence.
“Why, Tony, I didn’t know you were invited to this little party,” said Villiers. “I fear there won’t be much in the way of diversion.”
“I wish I were invited,” said young Parkhurst, scowling. “That blockheaded bobby downstairs tried to keep me out until I told him I meant to escort my mother and aunt upstairs. I suppose they’ll make me leave before the pantomime starts.”
“Oh, that’d be a shame,” said Villiers. “It should be quite diverting. We were just trying to decide who should take your father’s place at table, and of course you’d be perfect for the role. Don’t you think so, Mr. Clemens?” He raised an eyebrow and favored my employer with a sardonic smile. The murdered man’s son glared at him, but held his temper in check. Apparently he was sober this afternoon.
Mr. Clemens shrugged. “I don’t see why Tony shouldn’t stay, if Lestrade doesn’t think he’d be in the way. Scotland Yard’s running this show, after all.”
“I’m sure Tony won’t be in the way,” said Miss Donning. “If he could stay, it would be a particular help to his mother.” She indicated Mrs. Parkhurst, who was dressed in the deepest mourning. A thick veil covered her
