The Guilty Abroad

by Peter J. Heck

  “Poor deluded mortal!” said the voice, suddenly loud again. The chains rattled rhythmically as it continued, “You comprehend nothing. I tell you once again, beware—hold not too closely to material things. Beware!” The chains crashed loudly, as if dropped onto a wooden floor from a height, followed by sudden deep silence. I had an almost palpable sense of the spirit’s absence. I also had a keen awareness that we had learned almost nothing from it. I wondered what else was to come.

  A short period of silence was broken by music again—the sound of an accordion. The melody was more cheerful this time, perhaps a dance tune, though not one I was familiar with. Still, I found myself feeling somewhat lighter in spirit, after the lugubrious message of the previous spirit. I also thought to note a faint odor of incense—or was it merely one of the ladies’ perfume I smelled? Again the music ended, although this time the unseen player ended on a proper cadence. As before, there was a moment of silence, and then Sir Denis asked if there was anyone present. He was answered with a veritable chorus of knocks, too rapid and numerous to count, from above, below, and from all sides.

  “Is someone there?” said Sir Denis again. “Pray tell us who you are, and to whom you wish to speak.”

  The new voice replied by laughing, long and loud. Not a joyous laugh, but a wicked one—the laugh of someone rejoicing at the destruction of a foe, or at some ill-gotten gain. It made the hair stand up on the nape of my neck. What sort of spirit had come among us now?

  “Speak to us,” said Sir Denis again. “Have you a message for anyone here?”

  The laughter was repeated, and then a voice spoke. “I have no message for you,” it said. Unlike the previous voices, this new one was unmistakably that of a woman—although it was as different from Martha McPhee’s natural voice as the others had been. For a moment, I thought I recognized it—but the person of whom I was thinking was thousands of miles away, and to the best of my knowledge still among the living.

  “Why have you come among us, then?” asked Sir Denis.

  “I come because I am compelled,” said the voice, significantly. There were more rappings, interspersed with the high-pitched tinkle of what sounded like small silver bells.

  “How compelled?” asked Sir Denis. “Is it we who have compelled you, or some power on the other side?” To this the voice responded only with a deep sigh. A silence followed, although I had a strong sense that the entity behind the voice was still present in our midst.

  “If you have no message for us, will you answer a question?” It was Susy Clemens who broke the silence. I felt her grip on my hand tighten, as if to gather reassurance.

  “I will answer what I may,” said the voice, its tone somehow gentler. “There are many things I am not permitted to speak of. And you may not understand some of the things I am permitted to answer. There are realms beyond the ken of mortals.”

  “I can accept that,” said Susy, in a quiet but confident voice. “Tell me, please, can you foretell the future?”

  “Past and future mean nothing to us,” said the voice. “We see many things, some that have already happened, some that may happen, and some that may never come to be. Which are which we cannot always say.” The small bells tinkled again, sounding closer now.

  When the tinkling had subsided, Susy continued. “Would you please answer a question for me and my sisters? Which of us will be the first to marry?”

  I heard her father’s soft chuckle as she finished the question. The female spirit responded with a gentle laugh, as well—it would have been a warm, friendly sound, had I heard it in any other setting than this. “The first to marry will be married the longest,” it said.

  “But which of us will it be?” said Susy, pressing the question. “Surely, it cannot be forbidden to tell me that.”

  “What is forbidden and what permitted is not yours to judge,” said the voice, now not as friendly sounding. The silver bells began jingling in a slow, steady rhythm.

  “Why can’t you ever give a plain answer to a plain question? Papa thinks you’re just a humbug, and I’m beginning to think he’s right,” said Susy, now sounding distinctly cross.

  “You do not know whereof you ask,” said the voice, distinctly angry. “You mortals cannot see what is before your faces. How should you presume to quiz those who can see more clearly? Why should I deign to answer you?”

  An ominous volley of raps came from every corner of the room, growing to a thunderous crescendo, and the slow tolling of a distant church bell began again.

  “Stop trying to scare the girl,” said Mr. Clemens, sharply. “She asked you a polite question, and you dodged it. She asked you again, and you still haven’t said anything worth listening to. If you can’t give us good answers, why don’t you just say so, without all the damned noises and mumbo jumbo?”

  As if to spite him, the knocking continued just as loud, now joined by rattling chains. I braced myself for an outburst from my employer—or perhaps from the “spirits,” who seemed to be building up to some sort of culmination. I cannot say exactly what I expected to happen—but surely it was not the sudden groan that came from across the table, followed by a piteous cry.

  “Oliver! Oh, dear Lord, what has happened? Oliver, give me your hand again!” It was a woman’s voice, obviously in utter terror, and there was no question of its being from any otherworldly source. This was flesh and blood, in deep distress. I opened my eyes, which had been tightly closed in concentration during the séance, and realized that I could dimly make out shapes and movement across the table.

  A confused babble of exclamations followed. “What the devil?” “Cornelia, what is wrong?” “Oh, Oliver!” I heard chairs scraping back from the table, then the rapping and ghostly noises stopped abruptly, as if someone had thrown an electrical switch. “Somebody strike a light,” said another voice, urgently. Someone was sobbing.

  It was Mr. Clemens who was the first to find a match and strike it. In the wavering light I could see Martha McPhee sitting next to me, looking about her as if just awakened from a dream. Across from me several people were on their feet, frightened expressions on their faces. “Someone light the gas,” said Sir Denis, leaning forward intently, his own match illuminating the tabletop.

  Mr. Clemens reached me his matchbox, and I turned to find the light. But I did not need any more light than I already had to see the dark form slumped back in a chair on the far side of the table. There was more than enough light to recognize it as a limp human body. “It’s Dr. Parkhurst,” said Sir Denis. “Good Lord, the man’s bleeding. It looks as if he’s been shot!”

  5

  There was a chorus of gasps and shrieks at Sir Denis DeCoursey’s announcement that Dr. Parkhurst was bleeding—and then, even as we watched, the doctor fell slowly sideways out of his chair onto the floor. Several of us were already on our feet, Mrs. Parkhurst was still in her seat, leaning sideways and imploring her husband to say something. Her sister, Miss Donning, recoiled as if in honor at the limp form on the carpet. I turned up the gas and lit it, then hurried back to the table to see what else I could do.

  “Shot?” said Cedric Villiers, for once not looking bored. “How the devil could he be shot? I didn’t hear any gun go off.”

  “With all that knocking and bell ringing, who could have heard it?” said Mr. Clemens, who had sat back down and put his arms around his wife and his staring daughter. He turned to look at Sir Denis DeCoursey, who was kneeling over the limp form. “Is he dead?”

  “Youth!” said Mrs. Clemens, plainly shocked—at what, I wasn’t quite certain, but her use of her habitual pet name for her husband struck an incongruous note to my ears. Then, after a moment, she said quietly, “Oh. I suppose it is an appropriate question, in the circumstances.”

  “He’s just barely breathing. We must try to find a doctor, though there’s not much hope with a head wound like that,” said Sir Denis, and even from across the room I was inclined to agree with his grim prognosis. With the lights up, I could see quite c
learly. Too clearly; I wanted to turn my eyes away from the grisly spectacle.

  “Someone help me move him to the sofa,” said Sir Denis. Cedric Villiers was closest, but he made a face, and so I stepped around the table to help. I took the legs while Sir Denis grasped the wounded man under the armpits, and between the two of us, we managed to get the limp bundle over to the nearby sofa. He was surprisingly heavy—Dr. Parkhurst had not looked that large when he had been standing on his feet. Sir Denis knelt down next to him, then looked up and said, “Someone fetch some water, and some cloths we can use as bandages. We must do whatever we can to give the poor devil a chance to live.”

  Lady Alice, who had stood up almost as soon as the lights came on, nodded and went off with a purposeful look on her face, Most of the others, I noticed, were doing their best to look away. Mrs. Parkhurst had now fallen on her sister Ophelia’s shoulder and was sobbing loudly. She reached out toward her husband and cried, “Oh, help him! Someone please help him! Dear Oliver, don’t die! Don’t leave me alone!”

  After a moment, Lady Alice returned with a basin of water and some towels, which Sir Denis used to swab off Dr. Parkhurst’s forehead, then to try to stanch the bleeding. After getting a closer look at the wound, he frowned and put his ear against the doctor’s chest, listening intently for a moment. His expression was grim as he straightened up and said, “I’m afraid there’s no heartbeat. May the Lord have mercy on him.”

  At that, Mrs. Parkhurst began to shriek, “No, no!” Her sister wrapped her arms tighter around her, and now Hannah Boulton began to sob loudly. Mrs. Clemens and her daughter Susy both had shocked expressions, but neither seemed quite as stunned as the other ladies—of course, they had not known the victim.

  Lady Alice’s face was grim, but she went and touched Martha on the shoulder. “Mrs. McPhee, is there another room where we can take Mrs. Parkhurst and the other ladies? This is a rather terrible scene, I’m afraid.”

  Martha was still in her seat, blinking like a person just awakened from sound sleep. At Lady Alice’s words, she started and rose to her feet. “Yes, of course, what am I thinking of? Please, ladies, come with me. Mrs. Parkhurst, may I take your arm?”

  Still sobbing loudly, Mrs. Parkhurst let herself be led through a door, apparently into a bedroom, supported by Martha on one side and by her sister, Miss Donning, on the other. The other women followed them—although Susy Clemens seemed reluctant to leave. I almost would have traded places with her, had I any good excuse to remove myself from the grisly scene. When the door closed quietly behind them, Sir Denis said, “Now we must call in a doctor—though I fear there’s little the fellow can do. And we need to inform the police.”

  “Good thinking,” said Mr. Clemens. “Is there a telephone in the building?”

  “I certainly wouldn’t know,” said Cedric Villiers, with a surprisingly indifferent shrug. “Ask that fellow out in the foyer—he’s the one renting the flat.”

  Mr. Clemens was closest to the door; he stepped over and opened it. “Ed, you better come inside. We’re in trouble.”

  “What, is the show over already?” said McPhee, getting up quickly from the red velvet-covered couch where he’d been sitting. I could see a deck of playing cards spread out on a small table in front of him—some sort of game. Apparently he had not given up cardplaying quite as completely as Martha had suggested. He took out his watch and glanced at the time. “Martha usually keeps things going a bit longer than this.”

  “The show’s all over, Ed,” said Mr. Clemens, in a weary tone. “Or maybe it’s just gotten started. Somebody shot Dr. Parkhurst while the lights were out, and it looks like he’s done for. We’re going to need the police. And we might as well have a doctor, just in case.”

  “Shot? Police?” McPhee’s jaw fell. “Sam, you wouldn’t pull my leg about something like that, would you? It ain’t a bit funny, and that’s the truth.” His voice had nothing of its usual jovial tone.

  “I fear he’s got right of it, Mr. McPhee,” said Sir Denis, and his sober expression emphasized the truth of his words. “Here’s the poor fellow on the couch.”

  McPhee stepped inside the door and took in the scene at a glance. His face turned white as he saw Dr. Parkhurst’s body on the sofa. “Jesus, it looks like he got in front of a cannon.”

  “Yes, I’d say he took at least a forty-caliber round,” said Sir Denis. “Now we need to fetch the constable.”

  A cagey look crossed McPhee’s face. “Look here, I don’t think we need to go bothering the cops about this little thing,” he said, trying his best to regain his usual poker face. “Poor man’s dead and gone, and can’t nobody help him, right? Seems to me we can settle things up without any big fuss.”

  “It’s way too thick for that, Ed,” said Mr. Clemens, taking McPhee’s elbow. “Here’s a respectable citizen shot dead, and that’s murder in anybody’s book. You can’t just throw around a couple of bucks and make it right, as if you were caught with loaded dice in your pocket. We’re in a foreign country, and the police play by different rules. Now, is there a telephone in this building, or don’t you know the answer?”

  McPhee wrinkled his brow for a moment, then brightened up and said, “Well, there ain’t no phone in here, but I seem to remember there’s one at the tobacco shop two streets over—owner lives right upstairs from the shop. I reckon he’d let me use it if I tell him how it’s an emergency. Why don’t I just go do that? I’ll only be a few minutes . . .”

  “Let’s not be so hasty,” said Cedric Villiers, holding up his hand. “I don’t at all like the way this fellow acts. If we let him go, who’s to say we’ll ever lay eyes on him again?”

  Mr. Clemens nodded. “I guess you’ve got a point, Villiers. If we let Ed out the door, he’s as likely to skedaddle as to go find a bobby.”

  “Sam, you ought to know me better than that,” said McPhee, puffing himself up like a rooster. “Ed McPhee ain’t so low as to run off and leave little Miss Martha all by herself when trouble starts. ’Sides, I’m the only one that knows his way around this here neighborhood, It’d take anybody else twice as long as me, with all these misty dark streets.”

  “What, are you daft? A yank know Chelsea as well as I?” said Cedric Villiers, sneering. “I’ll wager I could walk blindfold to this tobacconist, or anywhere else within a mile of here. But I hardly think it’s necessary to knock up the shopkeeper. There’ll be a constable out on the streets, most likely over at the corner of King’s Road.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Sir Denis. “But consider this—we’ve got a murder on our hands, and every man in this room will undoubtedly be considered a suspect. In fact, Mr. McPhee may be the only one of us with a sound alibi—at least we know he was out of the room when the shot was fired.”

  Mr. Clemens looked around at the rest of the company, his eyebrow raised in questioning, then shrugged. “Well, then, I guess Ed’s the one that has to go. But just to be on the safe side, I say we send somebody to keep an eye on him. How about Wentworth, here? He used to play football—if that old potbellied card shark tries to give him the slip, I reckon my man can run him down and put a hammerlock on him.”

  “And how do we know they won’t both abscond?” said Cedric Villiers. “As Sir Denis points out, everyone in the room is a suspect. Your man has as much reason as Mr. McPhee to run away.”

  “You can’t be serious,” I said. “I never saw that poor man before this evening. What reason would I have to kill him?”

  “That’s for the police to determine, isn’t it?” said Villiers, fixing me with his gaze. “Your employer wanted to discredit the medium—it was obvious the minute you came in the room that you were not believers. Mr. Clemens has evidently had dealings with Mr. McPhee before, and it’s plain they are not friends.”

  “That’s preposterous,” I began, but Mr. Clemens raised his hand, and I deferred to him.

  “Fair enough, Villiers,” said my employer. “I know Wentworth, and I know Slippery Ed, and I know damn w
ell which one I’d trust in a pinch. That don’t cut ice with you, and there’s no reason it should. But the sooner we get the police in here, the sooner we can all get out—the ladies in particular. My wife and daughter won’t stay the night next to a cadaver—not if I can help it, they won’t. So we’ve got to send somebody. I say we send ’em both, and get it over with.”

  Neither Sir Denis nor Cedric Villiers could think of any further objection, and so McPhee and I put on our coats and hats and went down the stairs to look for a policeman, or failing that, a telephone. As we came out on the street, something occurred to me. “Where’s the other fellow who was here when we arrived—the Irishman? Did you send him home already?”

  “Oh, Terry?” said McPhee. “Why, once Martha started her show, he wanted to go wet his throat. There wasn’t nothing I needed him for, so I told him to go ahead, long as he came back to straighten up when things were over. Martha usually runs just two hours, so Terry knew how much time he had. You can bet he’ll be surprised when he gets back and finds that fellow dead, and cops all over the place.” McPhee chuckled, as if amused at his assistant’s probable discomfiture. He himself seemed to have accepted the necessity of informing the police of the shooting.

  “I should imagine so,” I said. “Well, if he can prove his whereabouts during the séance, he shouldn’t have much trouble with the police.” I looked around me, trying to see through the thick mist that now shrouded the streets in every direction, reducing the flickering gaslights to a nebulous glow and chilling me despite my coat and hat. It had been an eerie scene an hour earlier, when we were merely on our way to the séance, without any notion of what was about to happen. But the fog had thickened, and there was a definite sharpness in the air. After having heard the spirits’ voices, I found the atmosphere downright macabre. Add to that the shock of knowing that a man had died violently, not ten feet away from me . . . I shuddered, in spite of myself.