The Guilty Abroad Page 18

  “I don’t really know why I am telling them at all,” she said. “The city is better off with him gone—though I’m not sure my poor sister realizes that yet.”

  “You said before you didn’t think she could have killed her husband,” said Mr. Clemens. He sat back down again, but leaned forward as if to hear her better.

  “That is my opinion, though she had more reason than anyone,” said Miss Donning. “She knew of Oliver’s infidelities—I wasn’t the only one he approached in that manner, and some were more agreeable than I. She knew, and was powerless to prevent, his cheating me out of my dowry—and out of my chance at a life beyond this wretched house. She saw the beastly way he treated their son—he strapped the boy without mercy for the slightest infringement, real or imagined. Tony was never happier than the day he was sent away to Rugby School, and he was miserable every time he had to return home.”

  Mr. Clemens leaned forward and said in a quiet voice, “Do you think the son could have killed him?”

  “There were times when he would have, yes,” said Miss Donning. “Once at dinner Tony attacked him with his fists. Oliver threw him against the wall and slapped him—and for a brief moment, Tony’s eyes were those of a wild animal. They lit on the carving knife, and I knew as well as I know my own name that he was thinking about snatching it up and wielding it against his father. That moment passed—but there must have been many such, and Oliver did nothing to mend the rift between them.”

  “Do you happen to know where Tony is living now? Is he in London, or within reasonable distance?”

  “I believe he is in town at present,” said Miss Donning. “He shares apartments with two or three other young men—he moves from time to time, and I can never keep it straight just where he is staying. I will find you the current address before you leave; it is out in Chelsea, I think.”

  “Chelsea!” I said. “That is where the murder took place.”

  “That is correct,” said Miss Donning, smiling pleasantly at me, as a teacher does at a schoolboy who has just recognized the answer to a simple problem. “I wouldn’t attach too much meaning to the fact. After all, you are currently living in Chelsea, are you not? And nobody suspects you of the murder.”

  “I reckon we ought to go see him,” said Mr. Clemens. “Do you know whether he knew about the séance the other night?”

  “Oh, of course,” said Miss Donning, still smiling very broadly. “Cornelia made it a special point to invite him; he refused—rather violently, I believe—when he learned that his father would also be attending.”

  “The young man certainly seems to have had a motive,” I noted. “But not being one of the séance party, it seems unlikely he could have shot his father. We’ve seen how hard it would have been for anyone to enter the room undetected.”

  “Well, maybe and maybe not,” said Mr. Clemens. “Maybe you can help us with that question, Miss Donning. Did you see or hear anything that suggested someone might be in the room—besides those of us at the table, that is?”

  “Nothing, really—unless you count the voices we heard. But I believe that Mrs. McPhee is the most likely source of those,” said Miss Donning.

  “So—you’re not quite a true believer, are you?” asked my employer. From his expression, he had already suspected as much.

  “Not at all,” said our hostess, smiling. Then her expression turned anxious, and she said, “You won’t tell Cornelia, will you? She’s head over heels in the Spiritualist Society, and I think she’d have given them any money she had if Oliver hadn’t stopped it. That may be the only subject on which he and I agreed. In fact, we had an unspoken covenant when we accompanied her to the séance, namely to prevent her from being cheated by those people.”

  “I see you have a better eye for character than most,” said my employer. “I wouldn’t trust Ed McPhee to make change from a penny, and I’m afraid his wife is just as crooked—a bit more presentable in good company, though. That séance was probably a hoax from start to finish. But that’s off the point. You don’t remember anything that suggested an intruder in the room?”

  Miss Donning shook her head. “No, but I think a clever intruder would have avoided notice. Someone who had read the ‘script,’ so to speak, would find it rather simple to time his movements so the rapping or rattling of chains would cover up the sound.”

  Mr. Clemens grinned. “Yes, the noises came at pretty convenient intervals, didn’t they? I wonder if anybody besides Ed and his wife knew the ‘script’?”

  “Cedric Villiers had been to Mrs. McPhee’s séances before, but he’s about as dangerous as a butterfly, in my opinion,” said Miss Donning.

  “Really? He seems to cultivate a sinister air,” I said.

  “Yes, he dabbles in the occult and the forbidden—it is all the fashion with a certain set,” she said. “He and poor deluded Hannah Boulton have made themselves quite a reputation in spiritualist circles. It is rumored that they are somewhat more than friends—you notice she sat next to him.”

  “She was next to Dr. Parkhurst, as well,” said Mr. Clemens. “But you don’t seem inclined to make anything of that.”

  “Poor Hannah is rather good-looking,” said Miss Donning—somewhat reluctantly, I thought. “Oliver usually preferred younger girls, though. Villiers’s taste apparently runs in the other direction, possibly because some older women are easier to flatter.”

  Mr. Clemens drummed his fingers on the chair arm. “Let’s get back to Villiers, then. Why don’t you think he could have done it?”

  “Because he’d want to crow about it,” she said acidly. “He’s so vain he’d couldn’t bear to waste the effort to do something at all difficult and then not be able to tell the world how cleverly he’d done it. And he hasn’t said anything, not a word. I’d sooner suspect that Irishman who ran away when he saw the police. I would be greatly surprised if he didn’t turn out somehow to be implicated in the whole affair. It would be useful to know where he’s vanished to.”

  “Yes, that fellow’s the missing link in the whole case,” said Mr. Clemens. “But I doubt we’re going to see him unless the police bring him in. I’m too old to go looking for somebody who’s gone into hiding in a city I don’t know—not with a lecture tour starting next week.”

  “Too old and too wise, I think,” Miss Donning said. She paused, looking intently at my employer, then continued. “Consider what I am about to tell you, Mr. Clemens. Oliver Parkhurst’s day is done, and the world is better for it. Had he lived, he would only have injured others. I know for a fact that he often entered the operating room in his cups—I saw him more than once lurch away from the dinner table after downing his two bottles, and go in to the hospital. Hannah Boulton’s husband died under his care, and that was not the first patient he lost. Did his efforts hasten their demise? I suppose we shan’t ever know. I will say that whoever killed Oliver may have committed murder in the eyes of British justice; but in the eyes of God, he was an avenging angel. Go home and let the police do their work, and go about your business with a clear conscience.”

  Mr. Clemens peered at her for a long time before replying. “You know, Miss Donning, a man’s conscience is the most unreasonable thing in the world. I’ve been trying to get mine to shut up for most of my life, and I haven’t had a bit of luck at it. Maybe Dr. Parkhurst did deserve to die. But it ain’t my place to judge, and I’m just as glad. All I know is that another fellow—a swindler named Ed McPhee—stands accused of killing him. I promised Ed’s wife I’d try to find out the truth. Not so much because I believe he’s innocent, but because if he is innocent, my no-good conscience just won’t let me get a good night’s sleep unless I try to save him. So maybe I’m not as wise as you think.”

  Miss Donning picked up her wineglass again, tapping the fingers of her left hand against the bowl while her right hand grasped the stem. “You are a formidable man, Mr. Clemens,” she said at last. “I am glad that I am not the one who killed Oliver, because I think you would not give up until
you had found me out. I admire your desire to see justice done, and yet I cannot entirely bring myself to wish you success.”

  “Then why did you consent to speak to me? You knew what I was coming here to ask about.”

  A thoughtful expression came over her face, and instead of answering directly, she stood and walked over to the fireplace, looking at the painting hung above it: the portrait of a fair-haired young man dressed in the fashion of an earlier day—her father, perhaps? After a moment, she turned again to face my employer. “You have heard my story—the story of a young woman who has been deprived of justice. And so, I cannot remain silent while another person may be in danger of a miscarriage of justice. I know that my sister did not do this, and I am willing to believe that your swindler Mr. McPhee did not. So it does me no harm to speak, does it? But I think I have said everything I should. Good day, Mr. Clemens. I will remember our meeting a long time.”

  “As will I, Miss Donning,” said my employer, rising to his feet again. “One last request before I leave. Could you try to persuade your sister to see me? I realize that her sudden bereavement must weigh heavy on her, but she may have information nobody else can provide.”

  “I will ask her, Mr. Clemens, but I can promise nothing,” said Miss Donning. “Cornelia answered the police’s questions right after Oliver’s death, which she could hardly avoid. That ordeal has left her at the end of her strength, and she has gone into seclusion. I hope you will understand if she does not wish to subject herself to questioning by a private person to whom she owes no obligation. As I say, I will ask—but I can promise nothing.”

  “I appreciate your promising to ask,” said Mr. Clemens, with a small bow. “I understand your sister’s feelings, and don’t wish to make things any harder for her. But do tell her that I think her information could be valuable—and that I will do my best not to add to her distress. Thank you again for you time and your frank answers to my questions. I hope that when this ugly business is done, we can all feel some satisfaction in the outcome.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” said Miss Donning, and she drained her glass.

  17

  Dusk was beginning to fall as we left Miss Donning’s house, but at last I felt that light had begun to penetrate the darkness shrouding the murder of Dr. Oliver Parkhurst. We had a much clearer image of the man—of his vices, his habits, his enemies. The latter were somewhat more numerous than we had known before, but it was no longer such a mystery why someone would want to kill the doctor. Indeed, I could see possible motives for several of the people who had been present when the shot was fired. Of course many details still needed fleshing out, but we were at last on the path to some sort of answer.

  Our driver had not yet appeared with the coach—the servant had sent for him after Mr. Clemens and I were done interviewing Miss Donning. This part of the city not being as well lit as those areas we had previously frequented, I found myself peering first in one direction, then the other, hoping to spot our driver. Luckily it was not raining, but the air was chilly, and a few wisps of fog were already gathering around the corners of the houses.

  At first, I paid no particular notice to a man I’d seen standing across the street, a couple of houses to our left. I thought he was most likely waiting for his own driver to bring ’round a coach. I wondered whether our driver and his might be sitting in some warm public house, nursing a mug of ale together, while their masters stood on their doorsteps shivering. But as I glanced his way a second time, I had noticed that he was staring at us. Possibly he recognized my employer, as many people seemed to, wherever we went. Or perhaps seeing strangers in the neighborhood had piqued his curiosity.

  Still, I paid him no mind—in my experience, staring back at someone is likely to be taken as rude. By rights, one could argue that the person who begins a staring match is ruder than the one returning the stare. But all too often, the person staring back is likely to be challenged with the ominous phrase “What are you looking at?” And after that, things usually deteriorate too rapidly for sorting out just who gave offense.

  The third time I glanced his way I realized he was walking toward us. Something in his posture told me he was not merely strolling in our direction. While the light was not quite good enough to make out his features, I could see that he was about middle height, stockily built, and that he was carrying a stout walking stick under his left arm. I touched my employer’s elbow and said in a low voice, “I think this fellow’s going to be trouble.”

  “What fellow?” said Mr. Clemens, a bit louder than was comfortable with the stranger bearing down on us. I could now see his face, which was set in a scowl. At a guess, he was somewhat older than I, but still short of thirty. I thought he was dressed rather too well—with a top hat, patent-leather shoes, and fawn-colored spats—to be likely to have robbery in mind, but what else he might be after was anybody’s guess. Still not certain what to expect, I took a step forward and interposed myself between the stranger and my employer.

  At my motion, he pulled up short and looked me in the eye. I could see his face now; he had a prominent nose and deep-sunken eyes, with pouches underneath that suggested late nights and empty bottles. His chin thrust forward belligerently as he said, “You’ve no business here. Be gone with you!” His speech was slurred, and I realized that he had been drinking.

  Before I could reply, Mr. Clemens spoke. “Well, we sure don’t have any more business here, on account of we’ve finished what we came for. And we’ll be gone just as soon as our driver shows up, so you don’t have to fret about that, either.”

  “Think you’re smart, do you?” said the fellow. From his accent he was an Englishman, of the educated classes—as his garb had suggested. He brandished his stick menacingly, and took a step toward me.

  “I think you should keep your distance,” I said. “We’re minding our own business here, and you’d be best advised to leave us alone.” He wasn’t a big fellow, but he would be a real danger to me or to Mr. Clemens, if he began swinging his cane with intent to do harm.

  “I’ve had about enough cheek from you,” he bellowed, and rushed me, with the stick raised.

  Almost by instinct I found myself ducking under the stick and taking him with a football tackle about the thighs. He let out a loud “Oof!” as he struck the pavement, but he held on to his stick and landed a blow across my back.

  My football training did not extend to disarming the opponent, and there was no referee with a whistle to blow the play dead. So I knew I had to get the stick away from him before he could improve his aim, and I reached up blindly with my right hand, hoping to grasp his wrist. He took another wild swing with the stick, landing a glancing blow on my buttocks. I held him tight, thinking that as long as I could keep him down, he would be no threat to Mr. Clemens. Perhaps if I could pin his arms . . . if I could figure out how to do it without exposing myself to a direct blow to the head. I lurched forward, and got my upper body across his chest. I felt the air go out of him then, and it was only a moment more before I had his arms pinned. He tried again to hit me, but now there was no force in it. “Drop the stick,” I said.

  He cursed me in reply, and tried to wriggle out of my grasp, but I had both the superior position and a weight advantage. I was still trying to decide exactly what I was going to do with those advantages—I had no desire to injure this fellow, but I had no reason to believe he wouldn’t renew his attack the minute I let go his arms—when a woman’s voice behind me called out shrilly, “Tony! Stop that this instant! Behave yourself!”

  It was Miss Donning, I realized as I heard the cane clatter to the ground. I turned my head to see my employer pick it up. “I’ve got it, Wentworth,” Mr. Clemens said. “Let him up and let’s find out what’s going on here.”

  “Don’t try anything else,” I growled, taking my weight off the other fellow’s chest. I got to my feet, then reached a hand to help my opponent to a standing position. He looked distinctly winded as he came up, but there was still fire in his
eye, and I stood on my guard, ready to deal with any further attack. I sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. It also occurred to me for the first time that the stick might not be his only weapon, and I felt a chill thinking of what I had just risked for my employer’s sake.

  “Tony, I never thought I’d find you brawling in the streets like a common ruffian,” said Miss Donning, who stood beside my employer, a very stem look on her face. From the open doorway to her house I could see the maid peeping out, not making any particular effort to be inconspicuous. There were faces at two of the neighboring houses’ windows, as well. And, to complete the scene, our carriage pulled around the corner, just a little too late to be of any help.

  “You may call it brawling,” said the young man, who I now realized must be Anthony Parkhurst, the murdered doctor’s son. “I call it defending my family from police snoops.”

  “Mr. Clemens has nothing to do with the police,” said Miss Donning. “He is an American who happened to be present when your father was killed. Really, Tony, you ought to learn what you are about before you set off on some lunatic escapade.”

  “Is that true?” said young Parkhurst, turning to Mr. Clemens. “Are you an American?”

  “Yes, I am,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’m Sam Clemens, and this fellow here with me is my secretary, Wentworth Cabot. We’re trying to find out who killed your father”—so he had come to the same conclusion as I had—“and if we can do it without you two starting another rasslin’ match, I’d like to talk to you about it. What do you say?”

  “Oh, well, if you’re not police then that’s all right,” said Parkhurst, with a shrug. “What do you need to talk about, and why with me? My aunt says you were there, so I guess you know more than I do about the whole business.”

  “Well, I don’t want to talk about anything in the middle of the street with half the neighbors eavesdropping,” said my employer, looking around at the nearby houses. “And I’ve already talked to Miss Donning, so I don’t need to take up any more of her time. Do you know anywhere close where we can sit and have a smoke, and maybe a glass of something while we talk quietly? We can ride there unless it’s right around the corner.” He gestured toward the carriage, which had stopped in front of Miss Donning’s home.