The Guilty Abroad

by Peter J. Heck

  Mrs. Boulton’s eyebrows arched. “Really, Mr. Clemens,” she said, “I am astonished that you need to ask such a question. If you stop a moment to reflect upon that remarkable evening, I think you will agree with me that everything we heard was unusual—to the highest degree.”

  My employer scowled, but then he nodded. “I’ll have to grant you that much, even though I doubt much of it had anything to do with spoo—uh, spirits. I’m looking for something more down-to-earth, I guess. Did you see or hear anything that sounded like someone moving around the room, opening a door or window, cocking a gun—anything at all that might let us nail down when and how the murder was committed? Think hard; anything you can remember is likely to be a help—because, frankly, if evidence was gunpowder, I don’t have enough right now to blow up a flea’s outhouse.”

  Mrs. Boulton stared at him for a long moment before she burst out laughing. She composed herself and sat up straight, then said with a trace of a smile, “I really should take exception to your figure of speech, Mr. Clemens, but I suppose I have laughed entirely too much to convince you of the sincerity of my protest. So I shall pretend to ignore it.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Mr. Clemens, gravely. “You have my permission to ignore the metaphor, as long as you don’t take it as a warrant to ignore the question it was attached to.”

  “Oh, by no means,” said Mrs. Boulton. She set down her empty teacup on the table next to her. “In fact, I have thought about that very question ever since the . . . incident. I fear the answer will disappoint you. Until the moment when I realized the doctor was hurt, I noticed nothing in any way suspicious—and I can say that without qualification. Anyone who studies spiritualism knows that false mediums sometimes impose upon gullible sitters. I had no particular reason to suspect Mrs. McPhee, of course, but I was alert for any deception. If any of the things you suggest had taken place, I am certain I would have noticed it. In fact, I am more certain than ever of Mrs. McPhee’s gift.”

  “Hmm—that’s what I was afraid of,” said Mr. Clemens, clearly disappointed. “I went there with plenty of suspicions, myself, but I didn’t spot anything fishy before Lestrade uncovered Slippery Ed’s bellpulls and peephole. Well, I’m going to talk to the others at the séance if I can, and maybe one of them spotted something that’ll give me a clue. One more question, before Cabot and I go on our way. Is there anyone you know of—it doesn’t matter whether they were at the séance—who might have wanted to see the doctor dead?”

  “I know nothing of his personal affairs,” said Mrs. Boulton, with a disapproving look. “We moved in different circles. I knew his wife from the Spiritualist Society, but we had never spoken more than a few words to one another. As far as any enemies he may have made in the course of his practice, I cannot really say. Dr. Parkhurst had a very fine reputation, which is why my husband went to him for help—of course Richard and I knew nothing of medicine, so we could only judge by what we had heard. And, as I said before, the doctor’s best was not enough. I am sorry to be so vague on these things, Mr. Clemens.”

  “Not at all,” said my employer, waving his hand. “It’s better to admit you don’t know something than to pretend you do. At least I won’t go chasing any wild geese on account of something you’ve told me. Well, then, I reckon you’ve told us everything you can—unless Cabot can think of anything I’ve forgotten to ask.”

  “Only one thing, really,” I said, putting down my notebook. “It’s probably not important, but I’m curious to know how you happened to sit next to the doctor, if you weren’t acquainted.”

  There was the briefest hesitation before she said, “Oh, it was entirely accidental. We were all about to sit down, when Cedric motioned to me to sit next to him, and so I did. And by chance, the doctor had chosen the seat on the other side of me. So you see, there was nothing sinister about it. Nothing at all, really.”

  “I see,” I said. “Thank you, Mrs. Boulton, that’s what I had guessed, but of course I wouldn’t know if it were true unless I asked.” I closed my notebook and returned it and the pencil to my breast pocket.

  “Of course,” she said. She leaned slightly forward and turned to my employer, smiling brightly. “I hope you’ll be able to find your answers somewhere, Mr. Clemens. Please feel free to call me on the telephone if you have more questions.”

  “I’ll do just that,” he said, rising to his feet. “These modern inconveniences do have their uses sometimes, don’t they? Thanks again, and we’ll let you know if there’s anything else you can help us with. Come along, Cabot—we’ve got another appointment to get to.”

  16

  We stopped for luncheon in a neighborhood public house just off Great Russell Street—I remembered it from my visit to the British Museum. The food was very plain, but filling: I had a large wedge of Cheddar cheese, a thick slice of brown bread, pickled onions, and some unidentifiable relish which (after one taste) I left uneaten. The ale, on the other hand, was rich and foamy, considerably better than what one would find in a local saloon back home. Mr. Clemens grumbled a bit about the undistinguished fare, but I decided that his complaints were strictly pro forma, since he cleaned his plate, including the relish. And he evidently agreed with me on the merits of the ale, quaffing two pints in the course of the meal.

  “We’re not making much progress, are we?” I said between bites of the sandwich I had made from my bread and cheese. “Unless somebody saw something that neither of us did, we haven’t made even the first step toward clearing McPhee. Or proving him guilty, either.”

  “Well, we’ve got a few leads to follow,” said Mr. Clemens. “I reckon we’ll need to talk to Parkhurst’s partner, and to his son—and to his wife, if she’ll talk to us. The biggest problem is, I’ve got lectures starting next week, and that’ll pretty much put an end to any snooping I can do. Luckily, the first few talks are here in town, so I won’t have to give up entirely until we have to go on the road. But unless we’re hot on the trail by then, I think we’ll have to pack it in.”

  “I thought we would learn more from Mrs. Boulton,” I said. “But for the life of me, I can’t think of anything she said that was the least bit helpful. Perhaps something will show up when I go over my notes.”

  “I’m amazed you managed to fit them all in that little book of yours,” said my employer, shaking his head. He took a bite of his cheese, then continued. “I swear, Wentworth, asking that woman a simple question is like asking for a glass of water and getting dunked in the river. You’d almost think she’d done it on purpose. But I guess a young widow must get anxious for people to talk to. Still, I think maybe there are a few leads to follow up in what she said. It’s interesting that both Villiers and her husband were Parkhurst’s patients. I’d never have guessed that from the way they all acted before the séance started.”

  “Yes,” I said. “You’d have thought they’d never have seen the doctor before that evening.”

  “Or that they’d met him and didn’t want anything more to do with him,” said Mr. Clemens. “We’ll have to see if he had a record of malpractice or incompetence. Maybe his expatients were all itching to pay him back for the way he treated them. And I mean that literally.”

  “But we’ve heard that he was one of the best doctors in London,” I pointed out. “Cedric Villiers and Mrs. Boulton both told us that he was recommended very highly. That argues against his being incompetent.”

  “Recommendations don’t mean a man’s any good, just that he’s popular,” said Mr. Clemens. He picked up his tankard of ale and drained it. “He could’ve had a streak of lucky cures when he first set out, or he maybe he was just part of the right social set. The patients that die don’t get a chance to run down the doctor’s reputation.”

  “No, but their families do,” I argued. “Mrs. Boulton had the chance to damn him as a quack, if she’d wanted to. Perhaps she could have praised him more highly, but she certainly didn’t accuse him of killing her husband.”

  “Well, we’ll try t
o find out what happened there,” said Mr. Clemens. He picked up the napkin and wiped his moustache. “Well, I’m ready to get back on the case—how about you?”

  I nodded—my plate was empty, except for the relish, and my tankard was dry. “I’m ready to go,” I said.

  “Good—let’s go see what the doctor’s sister-in-law says.” He put twelvepence on the table—more than enough for our two meals, and we went out to find our carriage and driver.

  Ophelia Donning lived in the Southwark section, which I had not previously seen. We crossed the river on Waterloo Bridge, and soon found ourselves in a somewhat older neighborhood. The streets were narrower than those of the Bloomsbury district we had just left, and the houses not as well kept up.

  Miss Donning’s home was on a small side street. Like the others on the street, it was clean and neat, although it had been some time since its last coat of paint. An elderly servant, who squinted at us in the afternoon light, opened the door to our knock. “Come hin,” she said broadly, “Mistress ’as been hexpectin’ you.” She led us into the sitting room, where Miss Donning rose to meet us, and sent the servant off to stow away our coats.

  As before, I was struck with Miss Donning’s aristocratic bearing. Her golden-blonde hair was done up in a knot, without a single strand amiss, and her blue-gray eyes could have been taken from the portrait of a queen—or a general. She was unusually tall, and dressed in impeccable taste—just enough behind the fashion not to seem frivolous, but not dated either.

  On the other hand, her house and furnishings suggested that Miss Donning—or her family—had seen more prosperous days. The chair I sat in was a design I had seen in my grandmother’s parlor, one of a matched set. While it had undoubtedly been of the best quality in its time, now it showed signs of wear, as did the sofa on which our hostess sat. There were no new pieces in evidence. The room was slightly dim, as well, although the curtains had been opened all the way—perhaps to economize on gas.

  After we were seated, Mr. Clemens cleared his throat and began speaking. “I’m glad you were able to see us today,” he said. “I guess you have some idea why we’re here—”

  “Yes,” she said, cutting him off with an imperious gesture. She was impressive despite the threadbare furniture and dim lights. “You want to find out who killed my brother-in-law—the swine. Well, I’d like to find the one who did it, too—to congratulate him. Or her, if it turns out that Cornelia summoned up her courage and finally did what she should have done years ago. I doubt it, though—the poor thing was more likely to have taken her own life than his.”

  Mr. Clemens’s eyebrows rose. “You’re telling me you were happy to see the doctor dead.”

  “I’m not the only one, I assure you,” she said, with a smile that might have been attractive, had it not been so full of outright malice. “I tell you again that Oliver was a swine. London is a far cleaner place without him. I suppose I ought to tell you I didn’t do it myself—not that you’ll believe me, in any case. I would have done it, if I’d thought I could get away with it. But I must confess, I haven’t the courage, any more than Cornelia does.”

  “You call the doctor a swine,” said Mr. Clemens, gravely. “Would you care to explain that?”

  “Why not?” she said, with a little laugh and a graceful toss of her head. “You’d learn it from someone else, if not from me. A moment, though.” She stood and rang for the servant, then turned back to us. “I’m going to drink a glass of sherry while I talk. Would you gentlemen join me? My recital may take a while.”

  “Yes, thank you,” said Mr. Clemens. I nodded my assent, as well—although I was not quite certain about accepting a drink from this singular woman. I had been in the presence of at least one probable murderess before, and in a voodoo woman’s parlor, but never had I felt quite so uncomfortable.

  The servant appeared almost at once, bearing a crystal decanter and three small wineglasses—I wondered whether she’d been listening in on us, or whether the sherry was prepared in advance. The glasses were filled, the servant disappeared (leaving the decanter behind), and Miss Donning took a judicious sip. I followed suit; the sherry was a dry and nutty Amontillado, the perfect drink for an autumn afternoon. “Now, where should I begin?” she said, looking at my employer.

  “Seems to me you already began,” said Mr. Clemens. “I’ll ask you one more time. What did the doctor do for you to call him a swine?”

  “Ask ten people and you’ll get ten different answers,” said Miss Donning, gazing coyly at us. It seemed as if, having opened the door a crack, she hesitated to open it the rest of the way.

  “I can believe that,” said my employer. “It’s the usual run of things. But what’s your answer, Miss Donning?”

  Now a more serious look came to her face. “My sister and I are our parents’ only children,” she said. “Our father was the second son of a gentleman in the country, and so he had only a modest inheritance. Papa had to make his own fortune—which he did, retiring after a successful career in the East India Company. He had saved up a tidy sum, and although our mother died while I was still quite small, we were comfortable growing up. Being young and naive, we expected that our lives would continue to be comfortable.”

  “Yes, I can see there used to be money in your family,” said Mr. Clemens, looking around the room. “And now your share of it’s pretty much gone, if I know the signs. Are you telling me the doctor got his mitts on it, somehow?”

  “You are perceptive, Mr. Clemens,” our hostess said, with an appreciative nod. “Yes, in a nutshell, that is what happened. Oliver was a promising medical student when Cornelia fell head over heels in love with him. I remember him back then—he was handsome, and very persuasive, and he swept her off her feet. I was a very young girl, and I thought he was wonderful, too—little did I know.”

  “Were you jealous of your sister, for winning him?” Mr. Clemens asked. He was peering at her very intently, now, though she did not seem to notice.

  “I suppose I was, in a girlish way. But that soon passed. What I didn’t understand until much later was that he was going to take away not only my sister, but practically everything else that was mine. And once he had that, he had almost no use for me—and even less for poor Cornelia, though she never really understood that.” She stared into the distance for a moment, then looked down at her wineglass and started, as if noticing it for the first time. She took another sip, and then continued.

  “When Oliver finished his medical studies, he needed money to set up in practice. Papa lent it to him—it came out of my dowry, and with my consent. Mother had died of cancer, and we all believed that helping a bright young surgeon to get his start in life was something she would have approved of. Oliver would pay it all back in a few short years, once he was successful. Perhaps he would have, if Papa had lived. But that was not to be.” She paused again, looking down at the floor. “You see, there were no papers signed, nothing to document the loan—my father trusted Oliver implicitly. He had no way of knowing that, after his death, his beloved son-in-law would represent the loan as an outright gift, and leave me helpless to regain what was mine.”

  “Was there anything irregular in your father’s death?” I asked.

  “No, nothing,” she said, with a sad look. “He was going to visit friends in the country, and the coach mired down. The passengers got out to help free it, and the effort burst his heart. He died almost instantly, we were told. Blame it on the bad road, and the bad weather—nothing more. I wish I could blame it on something more. It seems unfair.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” said Mr. Clemens, speaking very gently. “I lost my own father at a young age, so I know how it must have felt. But you were telling us about the doctor—please go on.”

  Miss Donning sat up straight, and nodded. Her voice sounded bitter, now. “Yes, well, Oliver promised to see that I got my share, and to put it directly, his promise was worthless. He and Cornelia bought a fine house, he had fine offices and always the newest su
rgical equipment, and I got the old home and the hand-me-down furniture and seventy pounds a year. There was an occasional dinner invitation, or a night at the theater or the opera if Oliver and Cornelia were getting up a party and thought to include me. I suppose many would think Oliver had taken quite good care of his poor spinster sister-in-law.”

  “But you don’t think so, do you?” said Mr. Clemens. He stood up and took a few paces, then spun around suddenly and asked, “There’s more to it than just the money, isn’t there?”

  Miss Donning lowered her glance again. “You are right, Mr. Clemens,” she said. She picked up her wineglass and drained it, then set it down next to the decanter. “Sometime after my father’s death, I understood that I had been cheated, and I confronted Oliver about it. I didn’t want Cornelia to know what I was about, so I went to his offices. I made my little speech, and he sat there smirking. When I was done, he suggested that I might earn back my dowry. I was a sheltered young woman, Mr. Clemens, but I knew what he was proposing. I left the office in a cold fury, determined to have nothing more to do with him.”

  “I can understand why,” I said. “Good Lord, what a monster!”

  “Monster indeed,” said Mr. Clemens. He walked gently over to our hostess and refilled her wineglass from the decanter. “And yet you were with him just the other night. Why?”

  “I did not go with him, but with my sister,” said Miss Donning. She picked up the glass and took another sip of the sherry. “I have only one sister, Mr. Clemens. She may have been married to an ogre, but she is still my flesh and blood. And she needed me even more than I did her—after all, she had to live with the beast for twenty-six years. I don’t know how she dealt with it, Mr. Clemens. If you will recall, Cornelia sat between me and him. I did not want to hold his filthy hand, even in the name of evoking the spirits,”

  “I am sorry,” said Mr. Clemens. “It must be hard for you to tell these things to a stranger.”