“All right,” said Lestrade, looking around the circle. “This is exactly where you all were? And all the things you brought are in the same places as then?”
I could see everyone looking around to verify the details, and there was a general murmur of agreement.
“Who’s going to sit in Oliver’s seat?” asked Miss Donning looking somewhat warily at the chair next to her. From where I sat I could not tell whether it might display bloodstains or other reminders of the grisly events it had seen. For the two ladies’ sake, I hoped not.
“I hardly think we need anyone there,” said Lestrade. “The point is to get everyone seated as they were the night of the crime. Now. Constable Waters—”
“Oh, I think it does matter,” said Susy Clemens. Everyone looked at her, somewhat surprised. “After all,” she continued, “we were all holding hands when the—the murder took place. Shouldn’t we be doing that today?”
“I don’t think—” began Lestrade, but he was interrupted again.
“Yes, I think it would be a very good idea to repeat everything exactly as it was,” said Martha McPhee. “I will do my best to get in touch with the spirit world again. Who knows? Perhaps we will find an answer there when human agencies have failed.”
“If you’re going to do that, you’d better get Ed out where he can pull on the bell ropes,” said Mr. Clemens, in an impatient tone.
“You know that ain’t fair, Sam,” said McPhee. “I had to miss the whole show the last time, and now you say I have to miss it all over again. Why don’t I stay here so’s you can see what Martha can do without any help from me? That way you’ll know there ain’t no tricks being pulled.”
“Really, McPhee, we’re attempting to find the killer, not to test the veracity of your wife’s mediumship,” said Villiers. “I fear that’s already discredited, sorry as I am to say so. I did have hopes for her at first. But I would prefer to bring this little charade to an end and be about my business.” He leaned back in his chair with an expression that suggested he’d just discovered an insect in his drink.
“As would everyone, I’m sure,” said Lestrade. “Especially the killer, I would think. Actually, I believe there might be some merit to an exact reenactment—I’d like to judge how loud the noises were. And for that, Mr. McPhee, you’ll have to go to the other room. Anthony Parkhurst, would you please sit in the seat your father occupied?”
“I suppose so,” said Parkhurst. “I shan’t feel any sillier than I already do.” He walked around the table and pulled back the chair his father had been sitting in.
“Hang on,” said Mr. Clemens, suddenly standing up. “There’s no need for anything more today.”
“What on earth do you mean?” said Lestrade. “We’ve barely begun—”
“No, it’s all over,” said Mr. Clemens, waving his hand. “I know exactly who the murderer is.”
27
“Know who the murderer is?” Chief Inspector Lestrade laughed. It was a dry laugh, not in the least a pleasant sound. “I say, Twain, I know you’ve a reputation as a humorist to uphold, but a police investigation is hardly the place for it. Now, if Mr. Parkhurst and Mr. McPhee will take their places—”
“No, I think this could be diverting,” said Cedric Villiers. “Mr. Clemens has actually solved a few murder cases, or so I’ve heard. Let’s hear his theories—they shouldn’t take long, and they may be amusingly phrased, after all. When he’s done—and I trust he won’t occupy us excessively long—Scotland Yard can proceed with its usual methods.”
“Hear, hear,” said McPhee. “Sam’s got a way with words, and he ain’t half as ignorant as he makes out sometimes. Let him spin his yam so at least I have somethin’ to chaw on when you put me out in the waiting room.”
Three or four other voices chipped in with similar sentiments, with only Mrs. Boulton overtly disdainful. So, putting the best face on things, Lestrade said, “Very well, Mr. Twain, please explain your theory. Mind you, though, British justice works on proven fact, not theories. You may have a very clever notion, but without facts to back it up, it’s all hot air.”
“Hot air’s usually my stock-in-trade,” said Mr. Clemens. “But brass tacks is what’s called for now, so here’s what I’ve got. I realized as we sat down to the table that the key to the murder was how it had to have been done. That was the puzzle all along, of course. There were a dozen people in the room, and another watching the door, and yet the killer managed to shoot the doctor without one of us seeing or hearing a thing—or admitting it, if they did.”
“That’s easily explained,” said Lestrade. “McPhee was in league with the killer; he let him into the room after the lights were down—he’d darkened the outer room, too, so none of you would notice the door opening. After the fellow’s eyes got used to the dark, he took his bead, shot the doctor, and escaped.”
“That’s a mighty fine theory, except it didn’t happen,” said McPhee, indignantly. He stepped forward, and the constable put out a hand to restrain him, which McPhee shrugged off, saying, “Say what you want about Ed McPhee, he ain’t never been mixed up in killin’, and that’s the truth.”
“Well, Ed, that’s the way I see things,” said Mr. Clemens. “But these people can’t just take you at your word. In fact, Lestrade’s right about one thing—the killer can’t have been in this alone, because it’s too hard for
