“You obviously know nothing of the spirit world,” said Mrs. Boulton, turning red. However, she had nothing further to reply to this sally, and Lestrade seized the opportunity to regain control of the assembly.
“Very well, then, let me explain why I’ve asked you here,” he said. He paused a moment to look around the room, and his eye lit on Tony Parkhurst. “I didn’t ask you here,” he said.
“No,” said Tony, scowling. “But you asked my mother and my aunt, who didn’t have a blessed thing to do with shooting the old man. I’m here to see they get proper respect.”
“And to make sure nobody gives evidence against you, I suspect,” said Hannah Boulton, latching onto a new victim. “If the police had any sense, you’re the first one they’d have taken in.”
“Tsk, Hannah, you should remember the old saying about glass houses and stones,” said Ophelia Donning. “I seem to remember that you were sitting next to the doctor when he was shot. Might you have had something to do with it?” She threw a malicious look at Mrs. Boulton, as if daring her to respond.
Mrs. Boulton raised her eyebrows and gave a short laugh that conveyed no humor at all. “If we’re judging guilt by proximity to the deceased, there’s another person here who was just as close on the other side,” she replied, with a significant stare toward the doctor’s widow.
“You old witch, who appointed you a judge?” said Tony Parkhurst, shaking his fist. I remembered his violent temper, and worried for a moment he might actually attack the poor woman.
“We’re not quite ready to declare anyone’s guilt,” said Lestrade, flushing angrily. “But I will remind you all that the police are present, and that any statements you make here will be noted as evidence. Mr. Parkhurst, I didn’t invite you but I suppose you might as well stay, if you promise not to cause any further interruption. Now, the fact is, we are here to reenact the séance, so as to determine the exact sequence of events on the evening of the murder. Has everyone brought along the things they had with them then?”
There was a general murmur of assent. Lestrade nodded, then said, “Excellent, then to begin with, why don’t each of you take out the things you brought, and show us where you put them that night.”
The bundles came open. Miss Donning had a large silver bell, which she set in the center of the table—it clearly jingled as she set in down. Even if a weapon had been concealed in it, it would be almost impossible to move without a telltale sound. Villiers had an ancient-looking book, which I recognized as the copy of Sir Thomas Browne’s Popular Delusions that he had been reading when we visited his home. That certainly appeared to be genuine, unless he had a duplicate copy. Then I saw what Lady Alice DeCoursey was setting out. It was the silver candlestick that had been on the table during the séance. But I was certain I had seen it again, since—on the table of the room where Sir Denis kept his weapons collection!
Susy Clemens recognized it, too. “That’s the candlestick that disappeared after the shooting,” she exclaimed. “I knew I didn’t just imagine it!”
“Why don’t we have a look at that,” said Mr. Clemens, stepping forward and holding out his hand.
“What on earth do you mean?” said Lady Alice, looking around at the group.
But Sir Denis grinned. “Oh ho, I see what you’re after, Clemens! By all means—show him, Alice!”
His wife turned a thin smile toward the group, picked up the candlestick, and handed it to Mr. Clemens. He held it with the candle toward the ceiling, pushing and prying on several of the ornately carved bosses and ornaments at the base. “Nothing happens,” he said, looking accusingly at Sir Denis.
“I say not, old man,” said Sir Denis. “This couldn’t hurt a fly—well, if you swatted the beggar with it, of course, but short of that, no.”
“What the devil is going on?” said Lestrade, stepping forward to look at the candlestick.
“You can fry me for a catfish if I know,” said Mr. Clemens. “I saw this candlestick, or one just like it, in Sir Denis’s home, right at the time we were talking about disguised weapons.”
“Well, not everything an amateur thinks is a clue turns out to be one,” said Lestrade. His smirk was a fraction less obnoxious than the one on Villiers’s face, but not enough to make it any more pleasant. “Now, will you all please take a seat—exactly where you were the other night?”
“One moment, please, Inspector Lestrade,” said Martha McPhee, raising her hand. “Mr. Clemens, what is the significance of the candlestick, if I may ask?”
“I can answer that,” said Sir Denis. “I was going to bring it up myself, in any case. This candlestick is a replica of a very clever assassin’s weapon—a nonworking replica, I should add. Mr. Clemens saw it in my collection, which is undoubtedly why he thought it significant. Would the inspector object to my showing it to everyone?”
“An assassin’s weapon?” said Lestrade, his face taking on an eager expression that emphasized his resemblance to a ferret. “I’d like to see that, yes.”
Sir Denis picked up the candlestick and held it in both hands. “As I say, this is a copy I had made, fixed so it won’t shoot. But look here . . .” He pressed a raised section of the casting, and a small hatch opened. “You have to know exactly how to work it. Here’s where you’d insert your bullet. Now, this part of the foot is a lever to compress the air . . .” It turned out to be hinged, and he pumped it a couple of times. “And the face of this angel is the trigger.”
