lady, and Mark Twain—he’s my old pal from the river, known him for years—they said, ‘Ed, we’re in a heap of trouble, and no doubt about it.’ And I told ’em, ‘Don’t you worry, boys, I’ll fetch a bobby in and he’ll get straight to the bottom of this mess.’ And so I done it, just like I said I would. Any help you need to figure things out, Ed McPhee’s your man.” For his part, the policeman greeted this obvious attempt to curry favor with the silence it deserved.
We reached our destination soon enough. Cold and damp as it was, I almost wished I could stay outside rather than go back into that room and look at the lifeless body sprawled upon the sofa. But, to judge by my previous encounters with the police, we were in for a long interrogation. Probably even the ladies would be put to the question—even if none of them were suspects, they were certainly witnesses. Although none of us could have seen much in the pitch darkness of that sitting . . .
I wondered how long it would be before I could get back to my warm bed, and whether I would have any luck getting to sleep at all that night. Then I remembered that one of the group who had begun the sitting would not be sleeping in his own bed tonight. Poor Dr. Parkhurst was well beyond any thoughts of warmth and comfort, and I suddenly felt guilty wanting them for myself.
6
McPhee and I led the policeman up the stairs to the apartment where the séance had been held. McPhee opened the door, and we were greeted by a cloud of tobacco smoke almost as thick as the fog outside. Mr. Clemens and Sir Denis DeCoursey had pipes burning briskly, and Cedric Villiers was smoking a sweet-smelling cigarette in a long amber holder. I suppose that to tobacco addicts, the chance to smoke was comforting. The three of them had (very understandably) decided that the little anteroom where McPhee had waited during the séance was a more pleasant spot to sit than the larger room with the doctor’s body. Villiers had taken up the deck of cards McPhee had been playing with, and was dealing them out in some sort of crisscross pattern on the table.
“Thank goodness,” said Sir Denis, rising to his feet. “It’s good to see you, Constable. We’ve got rather a sticky affair here.”
“I’ll do what I can, sir,” said the policeman. “But I’m afraid you’ll all ’ave to wait until someone comes from the station—the inspector or ’oever takes ’is place. If we’ve really got a murdered man ’ere, that is to say—might I see the body?” His manner was deferential, but quite firm.
“Yes, of course—right in here,” said Sir Denis. He opened the door to the séance room.
The lights were even brighter than when I’d left—there were several candles now burning in addition to the gas, and Dr. Parkhurst’s body was clearly illuminated. Someone had poked up the fire, as well, and added a few lumps of coal to the grate. The policeman walked over to the body and looked closely at it, not touching it, then looked up at us. “ ’E’s been shot, all right. There won’t be much work for the doctor. ’As ’e been moved at all?”
“Yes, he was over at that table when it happened,” said Mr. Clemens. “We all were.”
“Aye,” said the policeman, turning around. He saw the drying blood on the carpet and nodded. “And where did the shot come from?”
“Damned if I know,” said Mr. Clemens, scowling. “I was sitting right at the table with him, and I didn’t hear any gun go off. Didn’t see a flash, either. I’m getting up in years, but I didn’t think I was going deaf and blind, yet.”
“But there was an absolute racket of knocking and banging,” said Sir Denis. “Whoever did the shooting must have picked his time for the noise to cover up the report. Still, I’m surprised I didn’t notice it—I’ve been shooting since I was a lad, and I’d wager I’ve heard every kind of firearm made.”
“Perhaps the shot was from a distance,” I suggested. “Then it wouldn’t have been as loud, would it?”
“How could it have been fired from any kind of distance, in a room no more than fifteen feet across?” said Mr. Clemens, raising his eyebrows. “Besides, the whole place was darker than the inside of a black cat—you couldn’t see your hand before your face in here, let alone pick out one man to shoot at.”
“Well, dark or not, the gentleman’s got a bullet wound in ’is ’ead,” said the constable. “You’ll all ’ave to remain ’ere until the inspector comes to take your statements. Until then, I’ll ask you please not to touch anything so as not to muddle up the evidence. And it ’ud be best not to discuss what you saw or ’eard so as not to confuse your stories.”
“I don’t have no story,” said Slippery Ed McPhee. “I wasn’t even in the room when the shot went off—didn’t even know about it till it was over. I wish you’d let me say a word to my little lady, though. She ain’t used to rough stuff or gunplay, and I reckon she’s mighty disturbed by all this happening right in front of her eyes.”
“I don’t know about that—” began the policeman, but he was interrupted.
“Yes, by all means let the poor fellow speak to his wife,” said Sir Denis, putting a hand on the policeman’s arm. “The rest of us are clearly suspects, but Mr. McPhee could hardly have known what was happening in here, what with being in the other room. And he’s not spoken to his wife since the—er, unfortunate incident. It would be unnecessarily cruel not to allow him a word or two to comfort her.”
“I suppose there’s no ’arm in it, then,” said the policeman, nodding. “But I’ll ask you not to discuss what ’appened ’ere until the inspector’s come. Is that understood?”
“Sure, sure,” said McPhee, waving his hand dismissively. “Like I said, I didn’t see none of what went on anyways, so you can stop worrying. I just want to make sure Miss Martha’s all right.”
Sir Denis went and tapped gently on the door to the room where the ladies had retreated, and after a moment his wife, Lady Alice, peered out. “Mr. McPhee wishes to speak to his wife,” said Sir Denis. “Would she rather see him inside, or come out to meet him?”
“Best she come out, I think,” said Lady Alice. “Mrs. Parkhurst is still quite distressed. Wisest not to disturb her further. Just wait a moment and I’ll call Mrs. McPhee out.”
The door closed; we waited perhaps a minute, then it opened and Martha McPhee emerged. She seemed to have regained most of her aplomb since the violent termination of the séance, although I detected a touch of dismay as she glanced at the doctor’s body. “Edward,” she said. “I’m glad to see you. Are the police here yet?”
“I reckon so—that big lug over there ain’t a steamboat captain,” said McPhee, indicating the constable with a nod. “We’re just waiting for his boss to get here. Let’s go set down someplace a bit more comfortable.”
McPhee took her by the arm and led her into the little outer room, where they sat down next to each other. The rest of us followed, not so much to eavesdrop on their conversation as to get out of the room with the dead body. When they were seated, McPhee said, “How are you holding up, Martha? Are you all right?” That surprised me; it seemed out of character for McPhee to show concern for another person.
“I’m a bit shaken, I’m afraid,” she said quietly. “I wish I knew what happened—everything is a blur.”
“Well, I know even less than you, for once,” said McPhee. “Ain’t much a man can see through solid walls, you know. I guess the cops will sort it all out, and then we can go about our business.”
“Not if the cops figure out what your business really is,” growled Mr. Clemens. “More likely, they’ll put you on the first steamer headed west, and none too soon.”
“Sam, this ain’t hardly a time for jokes,” said McPhee, puffing up his chest. “I’ll ask you to respect this here young lady’s tender feelings, if nothing else.” Whatever