“Well, then, I’ll stay until I’m told to leave,” said Tony Parkhurst. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to drink?”
“I can offer you tea, or soda water,” said Martha McPhee, “I haven’t got anything stronger. I thought it would be best for us all to keep our wits about us. This is a police investigation, after all.”
“I didn’t know Scotland Yard had started running temperance meetings,” muttered Tony Parkhurst. I thought he was about to say more, but a sharp look and hissed admonition from his aunt changed his mind. He closed his mouth and wandered over to peer sullenly out the window overlooking the back garden.
An awkward silence fell upon the room at Martha’s reminder of the true purpose of this meeting. All of us were too aware of what had taken place the last time we had all gathered here. Previously their faces had shown an anticipation of what might come of our attempts to communicate with spirits from another world. Now I could sense each of them asking themselves, “Which one of the others shot the doctor?” or just as likely “Do any of them think I am the murderer?” Of course, unless Mr. Clemens’s guess had gone far astray, one of them was in fact the murderer.
If I had nourished any hopes that we might avoid a long and thoroughly unpleasant afternoon, they had now vanished. Perhaps things would be somewhat improved if Lestrade decided to eject Tony Parkhurst. On the other hand, the chief inspector might well consider it useful to have this additional suspect on hand. The victim’s son certainly had as good a motive for the murder as anyone here, although as my employer had pointed out, it was by no means clear that he had the patience or ability to carry out the sort of complex planning this murder had obviously entailed.
For his part, Mr. Clemens was packing a pipe, carefully avoiding looking anyone—including his wife and daughter—directly in the eye. I hoped he was using the brief respite to collect his thoughts. He was likely to need his full powers of concentration and observation once we were all seated at the séance table. And, needless to say, it was imperative upon me to be alert, as well. I knew that, for all his theories and hunches, he still did not know for certain who had fired the shot.
The door opened again, this time to admit the final three of our original party: Sir Denis DeCoursey, his wife Lady Alice, and Hannah Boulton, whom they had given a ride (as they had the night of the séance). I assumed that they had taken the railroad into town, and a cab from the station—first up to Bloomsbury, then out to Chelsea. I doubted they would trust the motorcar for such a long journey; even with a mechanic aboard, a breakdown might mean a serious delay. When one actually needed to travel, a good horse still had all the advantage over the motorcar—which might have a great future, but for now was still a rich man’s toy, expensive and unreliable.
“Heigh-ho, are we all here?” said Sir Denis, bouncing through the door. He was surprisingly cheerful considering our macabre business today. He wore a bright red cravat, with matching spats, inevitably clashing with the somber hues worn (for very different reasons) by the widow Parkhurst and Cedric Villiers. Lady Alice, for her part, ventured a timid smile, but said nothing.
“All but Lestrade,” said Mr. Clemens, looking up from his pipe. “I reckon he’ll return directly.”
“Good, good, can’t wait to get started,” said Sir Denis. “The sooner we get on with this, the sooner we can each go about our own business. I don’t mind coming into town every now and then, but twice in a week is a bit of an imposition, don’t you think?”
“Some of us live here, you know,” said Cedric Villiers. “I suppose a man who inherits an estate and a title must play the country squire, and do his duty by his loyal country tenants, but I’d soon wither away if I had nothing to do but cavort with rustics. I believe London to be the only milieu for a true man of culture.”
“Meaning fellows like yourself, I suppose,” said Sir Denis. His raised eyebrow suggested that he might have said more on the subject, but we were deprived of his remarks by the arrival of Chief Inspector Lestrade.
Lestrade walked a few feet into the room, then stopped and looked at the assembled group. He was accompanied by Sergeant Coleman and a uniformed bobby. I recognized the latter as Constable Wilkins, whom McPhee and I had fetched from the square the night of the murder. The two men spread out to either side and slightly behind him, forming a sort of blunt wedge. “I see we’re all here,” said Lestrade, removing his hat. “Shall we begin?”
“Sooner begun, soonest done,” said Sir Denis, but Hannah Boulton stood up and faced the Scotland Yard inspector.
“This is disgraceful,” she began. “I hardly expected Scotland Yard to attempt to stoop to stealing the Spiritualist Society’s thunder.”
“Beg your pardon, ma’am?” said Lestrade, clearly caught off guard.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t see Sir Ellington Tichbourne’s announcement of a séance to call up the spirits that perpetrated this tragedy,” she said, waving a finger in his face. “There is the only sure way to discover this murderer. This mock séance is a waste of our time and yours, Chief Inspector.”
“Mrs. Boulton, I hope you’ll let us be the judges of how best to employ our time,” said Lestrade.
Mrs. Boulton would not let him off so easily. “Do you have any intention of being present at the sitting Sir Ellington will hold tomorrow night?”
“Why, if nothing comes of today’s meeting, I suppose it can’t hurt,” said Lestrade, backing off a step.
“Which of the spirits do you
