The Guilty Abroad Read online

  “I never said it wasn’t true,” said Mr. Clemens, “but it sure ain’t all that easy. I’m not impressed by a made-up character solving a case some writer has arranged to make the detective look like a genius when he solves it, and to make everybody else in the story look like an utter fool for missing the plain truth. Real life’s a whole different kettle of fish. Real people don’t act consistently or play by fair and square rules, and they don’t leave around conveniently enigmatic clues that point to the one and only guilty person and to nobody else. Look at this case—we’ve got next to no clues. What the hell would Sherlock Holmes be doing here?”

  “Your language, Youth,” Mrs. Clemens admonished. “I’m sure these two young people have heard worse—probably from you, I’m sorry to say—but you shouldn’t expose them to it continually. As for your question, I don’t know what Sherlock Holmes might do, other than play his violin or light a pipe. Neither of those strikes me as a fruitful course of action. But if I were leading the investigation, I’d attempt to interview the people nearest to the victim when he was shot. That is to say, to Mrs. Boulton and Mrs. Parkhurst. I would be very surprised, in fact, if Inspector Lestrade has not already spoken to them.”

  Mr. Clemens nodded. “Hmm—you make sense, as always, Livy. Maybe they saw something nobody else saw. I would be surprised if Lestrade had talked to them, though. He’s fallen in love with the idea that Slippery Ed was in cahoots with the killer, and he’s riding it for all it’s worth—which ain’t much, if you ask me.”

  “I agree,” said Mrs. Clemens. “Mr. McPhee would not be welcome in many polite homes, but that is far from making him a murderer. Well, then, you must make appointments to speak to Mrs. Boulton and Mrs. Parkhurst, tomorrow morning if possible—although we must allow for the possibility that Mrs. Parkhurst will be too distraught to speak to anyone quite yet. Except perhaps for the police—I suppose they will insist on it.”

  “Hel—” Mr. Clemens began, then caught himself almost before the entire word came out. His wife’s expression remained calm, so he continued without further apology. “You’re right, Livy. Of course, those are two of the most important witnesses, and I meant to speak to them as early as possible—except I forgot to ask Martha McPhee for their addresses. I guess I’ll have to send Wentworth back over there to find out where they live.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” said his wife, complacently. “I suggested that we ladies at the séance exchange addresses when we were sequestered immediately after the murder, and everyone agreed. And unless I misremember, several of them even have private telephones! I didn’t know exactly how that information would be useful, but I was quite certain it would be.”

  “I’ll be g—” Mr. Clemens stopped himself again, then said, “I’ll be grateful if you’d bring me those addresses and telephone numbers, Livy. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “You’d undoubtedly be in a great deal of trouble without me,” said his wife, smiling sweetly. “Luckily for both of us, we are together. I’ll be right back with the addresses. And then we shall spend some time with the girls—we’ve been neglecting them shamefully!” And she stood and left my employer with his mouth half-open.

  He finally recovered himself enough to say, “Take my advice, Wentworth. Never take a woman for granted. It’s the surest way I know of to make a fool of yourself.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. It seemed the only possible reply. And I was quite certain that trying to expand upon it would get me in more trouble than even Mr. Clemens was capable of wriggling out of.

  15

  The next morning Mr. Clemens went out early to find a telephone, our rented premises not having one installed. The landlady, Mrs. Taurcher, had directed him to a public house three or four blocks away where she thought there might be a phone. But when Mr. Clemens had not returned after nearly an hour, I feared that she had misdirected him. Finally, somewhat after ten o’clock, he returned. Anticipating that being sent on a wild-goose chase might have ignited his temper, I had gone to the office and busied myself with his papers and correspondence. Giving the appearance (at least) of virtuous industry might not entirely deflect his displeasure, but appearing idle was a very likely way to draw it down upon my head.

  To my surprise, he was in an ebullient mood when he walked in the office. “Well, Wentworth, finish up what you’re doing and grab your coat and hat. We’ve got a morning appointment up in Bloomsbury, halfway across town, and another after lunch.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Whom are we seeing?”

  “Hannah Boulton first; she’s the young woman who lost her husband a while back. Then Opheila Donning, Mrs. Parkhurst’s sister. Mrs. Parkhurst has a phone, but nobody was answering it, probably on purpose. But if we can convince Miss Donning that what we’re doing might help bring the doctor’s killer to justice, maybe she’ll be able to persuade Mrs. Parkhurst to talk to us.” Mr. Clemens made a face, then added, “Assuming she isn’t the killer herself, of course.”

  “Do you really think it likely?” I asked. “It would seem next to impossible for her to have shot the man at such close range, without our hearing the report.”

  “It keeps coming back to that, doesn’t it?” Mr. Clemens said, opening one of his desk drawers and fetching out a fresh pipe to take along. “But there’s no getting around it, until we know the real explanation. I’m ready to believe almost any damn thing, Wentworth—short of the spooks deciding to shoot him, that is. That would be one too many even for me.”

  “I should think so,” I said. “I have enough trouble believing in spirits. That they might effect events in our world stretches credibility.”

  Mr. Clemens laughed. “If you could just learn to say what you mean in plain English, you’d be a wonder, Wentworth. But I’m distracting you. Let me know when you’re done with those papers, and I’ll go call our driver around.”

  “I think I can set them aside right now,” I said, very truthfully. “We shouldn’t keep Mrs. Boulton waiting, should we?”

  Mr. Clemens gave me a knowing look. “Of course not. Besides, the papers won’t run off while you’re off with me, jotting down what pretty young widows say. I’ll go call the driver, then.” He winked, and headed downstairs.

  I did not have the opportunity to reply to him, and perhaps it was just as well. While Mrs. Boulton was certainly very attractive for a woman of nearly forty, I could only assume that Mr. Clemens was making one of his jokes. I neatened up the stacks of papers I had been working on, then hurried to join him downstairs.

  Bloomsbury, as it turned out, was in the same quarter of London as the British Museum. So our driver took us, in reverse, along the route I had taken after meeting Mr. and Mrs. McPhee at the museum. Mr. Clemens sat back, evidently lost in thought, and so we passed the journey in silence until the driver pulled his horse up in front of a plain-looking brick house on Gower Street, which is essentially the continuation of Bloomsbury Street to the north of Bedford Square.

  At first glance, I thought the neighborhood distinctly unattractive. Although the street itself was wide and the houses appeared to be well kept up, the sameness of the buildings gave the impression of an arbitrarily imposed design—something I more readily might have expected in an American city than in the Old World. But inside Hannah Boulton’s house, the climate was entirely different. Her servant ushered us into a sitting room where a warm fire was burning, and the gas was lit, making the room a bright sanctuary against the gloomy day outside.

  Mrs. Boulton was dressed in mourning, as she had been on our previous meeting, but even her dark clothes and veil could not detract from the feeling of warmth in her home. She and her late husband had evidently been art collectors, for there were a number of fine modern French paintings and drawings on the walls, as well as several very good English pieces of the school of Rossetti and Holman Hunt.

  The impression of aesthetic sensibility carried over to the furniture and general decor of the room. One wall was given over to bookshelves
, filled with a bewildering variety of novels, collections of poetry, dissertations on art and architecture, and memoirs both ancient and modern. In another corner of the room was a pianoforte, and a music stand next to it, both bearing numerous sheets of music—evidently this was a home to all the arts. Even the fireplace was faced not with plain brick, as it might have been in America, but with ornamental tiles in light blue and white, like fine china.

  Mrs. Boulton offered us tea and a bit of pastry, which we both accepted—I could have done without, but it helped to begin our meeting on a friendly note. We exchanged desultory small talk and admired the paintings—at least, I did, while my employer maintained a diplomatic silence—and she happily babbled on about where she and her late husband had acquired them. After a short interval, the servant arrived with the refreshments. Then, after taking a few sips of the excellent English tea, Mr. Clemens got down to business.

  “I told you on the telephone what this was all about,” he began. “I don’t think the police have the faintest idea who murdered Dr. Parkhurst—although they think they do. If I thought they were right, I’d leave ’em alone—I’ve got plenty of things more important than trying to teach Scotland Yard its business,” he said. “So I hope you’ll help me, so I can quit playing detective and get back to what I do best.”

  “That would appear to be to everyone’s benefit,” said Mrs. Boulton. “Mark Twain’s admirers could hardly be pleased to learn that he is dabbling in police work instead of writing and preparing speeches. And I am certain that Mr. Samuel Clemens would be far happier spending time with his charming wife,” she added, smiling.

  “You can understand, then, why I want to get this whole mess out of the way,” said my employer. “It would be easiest just to let the police do their job.”

  “Quite so,” said Mrs. Boulton, leaning forward to put her hand on his forearm. “In fact, that is exactly the course I would urge upon you, Mr. Clemens. Why dirty your hands with this unpleasantness when there are experts working to find the murderer? I think we all know what Scotland Yard can do, when they set their bloodhounds on a trail—and Mr. Lestrade is one of their most experienced. I hope you will pardon my saying so, but his chance of finding this criminal is far greater than that of any private individual, especially one unfamiliar with British law or customs.”

  “In other words, an amateur and an American,” said Mr. Clemens, looking her directly in the eyes. “I reckon I’m guilty on both counts, but don’t expect me to be ashamed of it. I might have the advantage over Lestrade, if you get right down to it. For one thing, I was there when the doctor was shot. I don’t care how smart Lestrade is, he didn’t see what you and I saw. You were sitting right next to the doctor when it happened, weren’t you?”

  Mrs. Boulton sat up straight. “Yes, and I devoutly wish I had been elsewhere,” she said, with a sideways glance and a shudder. “I don’t mean that I would have wanted to miss the séance, and the wonderful opportunity to hear my dear departed husband’s voice once again, you understand. I mean only that I wish I hadn’t been sitting next to the poor doctor. But there’s no changing that now, is there?”

  Mr. Clemens’s voice was gentler, now. “No, no more than you can change any other terrible thing that’s happened. None of us can do that. But there is one thing you can do—one thing all of us who were there can do, if we put our minds to it.”

  “You say we, but I think you really mean me, don’t you? What are you about to ask me to do, Mr. Clemens?” Mrs. Boulton looked at him with puzzlement on her face.

  “Maybe you can save an innocent man from the gallows,” said Mr. Clemens. “Lestrade and his boys think Ed McPhee is the guilty party, or at the very least his sidekick. And unless somebody proves they’re wrong, they’ll hang him, sure as you’re born.”

  “You need more faith in British justice,” said Mrs. Boulton. “Mr. McPhee will not go to the gallows if he can prove his innocence in a court of law.” She paused, a finger at the side of her chin. “And if he cannot prove his innocence, perhaps the world would be a better place without him.”

  “We see it differently back home,” I pointed out. “A man is not guilty until proven so.”

  “At least, not a respectable-looking white man who can afford a good lawyer,” said Mr. Clemens. “The rest take their chances. Now, Ed McPhee is a humbug and a swindler—and if Lestrade hasn’t learned that, he will soon enough, if he sends a telegram to Pinkerton, or anybody else in America who keeps his eye on shady characters. But I know something Pinkerton doesn’t: Ed’s not a killer—and the longer Lestrade has his dogs barking up the wrong tree, the easier it will be for the real killer to cover his tracks and get away clean.”

  “Mr. Clemens, I am not quite so certain that Chief Inspector Lestrade’s men are barking up the wrong tree, if I understand your metaphor,” said Mrs. Boulton, looking somewhat dubious. “But assuming they are, what would you have me do?”

  Mr. Clemens tapped his forefinger on the rim of his teacup. “I want you to tell me about last night. When did you first realize something had happened to the doctor?”

  Mrs. Boulton lifted her chin and stared into the distance for a moment, then began speaking. “Well, of course, I was very excited when I learned of the sitting. Mrs. McPhee seemed to have such a genuine gift—I cannot remember having seen one so luminous before. Cedric used exactly that word when she first came to the Spiritualist Society—luminous. And so I knew I absolutely had to go to the sitting. And of course when I arrived there, I was pleased to find you and your family—it made me think, ‘If Mr. Clemens has come here, all the way from America, Mrs. McPhee must be even more gifted than I knew.’ ”

  Mr. Clemens glowered as he heard these words. “I should have put a gunny sack over my head,” he muttered under his breath. “Now everybody in London will think I believe in that claptrap.”

  Mrs. Boulton glanced at him, but he gestured to her that she should continue, and she did. “Of course, when the lights went out and the spirits began to speak, I was hoping so that poor dear Richard would visit us. That was the real reason I went, you know. It has been so long without him, and I have been so lonely. And then, just as I was beginning to fear that Mrs. McPhee would not be successful, he came to us and spoke! I was thrilled beyond belief, Mr. Clemens. I know now that he is safe on the other side, at the end of all his pain, and that I can hope to rejoin him when my own time comes. He suffered so very much, and we had tried so many things—I wanted to take him to Lourdes, but he was too ill to travel, and then . . . then he was called away before we could make the journey. I still believe the waters might have saved him.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Mr. Clemens, though his expression made it clear—to me at least—that his patience was wearing thin with her meandering about the subject. “But what about Dr. Parkhurst?”

  Mrs. Boulton shook her head, a sad expression on her face. “Oh, Richard thought Dr. Parkhurst was the only man in London who could save him—the poor dear, if he’d only trusted in spiritual healing as readily as he did in doctors and hospitals, I know he’d be sitting here today. Of course medicine has come a long way, even in our lifetime, but it cannot treat diseases of the soul, can it? I tried to tell him exactly that, but—”

  Mr. Clemens looked utterly baffled at this apparent digression until he realized—a moment before I did—what Mrs. Boulton was evidently referring to.

  “Pardon me, Mrs. Boulton. I guess I didn’t make myself clear,” he interrupted. “I didn’t know Dr. Parkhurst had treated your husband. I was referring to the other night, when the doctor was shot.”

  “Oh, how silly of me,” said Mrs. Boulton, throwing up her hands. “Of course you were! And now I’ve forgotten what I was getting at. What was it you wanted to know about the doctor?”

  Mr. Clemens held up a hand. “Well, first, I’d like to know whether you were satisfied that Dr. Parkhurst did the best he could for your husband.”

  Mrs. Boulton sighed. “Mortal medicine has its limit
s,” she said with a resigned expression. “I doubt whether the finest doctor alive could have done any more for him.”

  My employer nodded, then returned to his previous question. “Since you were sitting next to the doctor at the séance, I wondered if you remembered exactly when you realized something had happened to him. Or did you not notice anything until his wife cried out?”

  “Let me think, now,” said Mrs. Boulton. “Of course, I was paying attention to what the spirits said rather than the other people at the table. With the room darkened, I only became aware of the others in the room as they spoke.”

  She thought for a moment—I realized it was the longest she had kept silent since we had begun questioning her—then answered, “It was just after your daughter asked the spirits her question about whether she or one of her sisters would marry first. I could tell that it disturbed them—they do not approve of frivolous questions.”

  “Meaning any question the medium can’t answer,” Mr. Clemens muttered, loud enough for me to hear it from the neighboring chair.

  Mrs. Boulton gave him a questioning glance, but she must not have heard him clearly. He nodded, and she continued as if nothing had happened. “We were all holding hands, you will recall. And right after her question, the spirits began their rapping and rattling of chains, which of course meant that they were agitated. Right about then, I suddenly felt the doctor squeeze my hand very hard, and then he let go of it entirely. That broke the circle, of course—I was worried that it would break our link to the spirit world, and so I turned my head to look, although really it was too dark to see much of anything, and just at that point Mrs. Parkhurst let out a cry. What happened after that, I think you remember as well as I do.”

  “I guess so,” said Mr. Clemens, rubbing his chin. “I may still have a couple of questions about it before we’re done. But first—did you hear anything unusual or unexpected before he let go of your hand? Anything at all?”