The Guilty Abroad

by Peter J. Heck

  Lestrade went back downstairs to see to the disposition of his other men, and while he was gone, the rest of those who had been present at the fatal séance began to arrive. Cedric Villiers, who lived within walking distance, was the first. This surprised me; a late entry would have been more in character with his nonchalant dandyism. Under his arm was a bundle—presumably whatever objects he had brought along to the séance before. I wondered briefly if the real killer would be arrogant enough to bring the weapon that killed Dr. Parkhurst. Or had the killer already disposed of the weapon? I thought I would have done so, had I been the guilty party.

  Villiers nodded to us, set down his bundle, and went over to a vacant chair. He sat down, looked around the room with a smirk, and said, “Well, the ravens begin to gather! What sort of feast does the famous Inspector Lestrade intend to offer us?”

  “I reckon we’ll find out soon enough,” said Mr. Clemens. “The others ought to be here soon enough, and then the show can start.”

  “Yes, but who will play the part of the unfortunate doctor?” asked Villiers, tapping his ebony cane upon the floor. “We can’t do a proper reenactment of the sitting without him, can we? Or does the inspector intend to bring him back for an encore?” He grimaced at his own wit.

  “That is hardly a pleasant topic,” said Mrs. Clemens, wrinkling her nose. I thought perhaps she found the speaker as unwelcome as the subject, but we did not have the luxury of choosing our own company this afternoon. Otherwise, I would hardly be planning to spend the day with two known swindlers, a team of policemen, a sneering poseur, and (most probably) a very dangerous murderer.

  Almost as if he had read my thoughts, Villiers answered her, “I fear there will be few pleasant topics before us this afternoon, Mrs. Clemens. I had planned on visiting the opening of an art exhibit this afternoon, but Inspector Lestrade would not hear of it. Pity—the organizers have got work from some very innovative people. I was so looking forward to speaking with some of the artists. Well, the paintings will be there tomorrow, even if the artists aren’t.” He lolled in his chair, the very image of elegant and idle aristocracy.

  “You’re probably just as well off to miss the artists,” said Mr. Clemens. “At least the paintings won’t get drunk and insult you, or try to borrow money from you.”

  “Ah, one must make some allowance for artists,” said Villiers, smirking again. He evidently managed to hold himself superior to the general run of humanity, though as far as I could tell he had never deigned to prove it by accomplishing anything noteworthy.

  I thought that Mr. Clemens was about to reply to this latest sally, but the moment passed as the door opened to admit two more guests: Mrs. Parkhurst, the doctor’s widow, and her sister, Ophelia Donning. They were accompanied by Mrs. Parkhurst’s son, Tony. I thought of the unfortunate encounter Mr. Clemens and I had had with Tony Parkhurst after our interview with Miss Donning, and found myself resenting his presence.

  “Why, Tony, I didn’t know you were invited to this little party,” said Villiers. “I fear there won’t be much in the way of diversion.”

  “I wish I were invited,” said young Parkhurst, scowling. “That blockheaded bobby downstairs tried to keep me out until I told him I meant to escort my mother and aunt upstairs. I suppose they’ll make me leave before the pantomime starts.”

  “Oh, that’d be a shame,” said Villiers. “It should be quite diverting. We were just trying to decide who should take your father’s place at table, and of course you’d be perfect for the role. Don’t you think so, Mr. Clemens?” He raised an eyebrow and favored my employer with a sardonic smile. The murdered man’s son glared at him, but held his temper in check. Apparently he was sober this afternoon.

  Mr. Clemens shrugged. “I don’t see why Tony shouldn’t stay, if Lestrade doesn’t think he’d be in the way. Scotland Yard’s running this show, after all.”

  “I’m sure Tony won’t be in the way,” said Miss Donning. “If he could stay, it would be a particular help to his mother.” She indicated Mrs. Parkhurst, who was dressed in the deepest mourning. A thick veil covered her features, and the unremitting black of her garments reminded us what occasion had brought us all together. Somehow, it made Villiers’s levity seem even more distasteful.

  “Well, then, I’ll stay until I’m told to leave,” said Tony Parkhurst. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to drink?”

  “I can offer you tea, or soda water,” said Martha McPhee, “I haven’t got anything stronger. I thought it would be best for us all to keep our wits about us. This is a police investigation, after all.”

  “I didn’t know Scotland Yard had started running temperance meetings,” muttered Tony Parkhurst. I thought he was about to say more, but a sharp look and hissed admonition from his aunt changed his mind. He closed his mouth and wandered over to peer sullenly out the window overlooking the back garden.

  An awkward silence fell upon the room at Martha’s reminder of the true purpose of this meeting. All of us were too aware of what had taken place the last time we had all gathered here. Previously their faces had shown an anticipation of what might come of our attempts to communicate with spirits from another world. Now I could sense each of them asking themselves, “Which one of the others shot the doctor?” or just as likely “Do any of them think I am the murderer?” Of course, unless Mr. Clemens’s guess had gone far astray, one of them was in fact the murderer.

  If I had nourished any hopes that we might avoid a long and thoroughly unpleasant afternoon, they had now vanished. Perhaps things would be somewhat improved if Lestrade decided to eject Tony Parkhurst. On the other hand, the chief inspector might well consider it useful to have this additional suspect on hand. The victim’s son certainly had as good a motive for the murder as anyone here, although as my employer had pointed out, it was by no means clear that he had the patience or ability to carry out the sort of complex planning this murder had obviously entailed.

  For his part, Mr. Clemens was packing a pipe, carefully avoiding looking anyone—including his wife and daughter—directly in the eye. I hoped he was using the brief respite to collect his thoughts. He was likely to need his full powers of concentration and observation once we were all seated at the séance table. And, needless to say, it was imperative upon me to be alert, as well. I knew that, for all his theories and hunches, he still did not know for certain who had fired the shot.

  The door opened again, this time to admit the final three of our original party: Sir Denis DeCoursey, his wife Lady Alice, and Hannah Boulton, whom they had given a ride (as they had the night of the séance). I assumed that they had taken the railroad into town, and a cab from the station—first up to Bloomsbury, then out to Chelsea. I doubted they would trust the motorcar for such a long journey; even with a mechanic aboard, a breakdown might mean a serious delay. When one actually needed to travel, a good horse still had all the advantage over the motorcar—which might have a great future, but for now was still a rich man’s toy, expensive and unreliable.

  “Heigh-ho, are we all here?” said Sir Denis, bouncing through the door. He was surprisingly cheerful considering our macabre business today. He wore a bright red cravat, with matching spats, inevitably clashing with the somber hues worn (for very different reasons) by the widow Parkhurst and Cedric Villiers. Lady Alice, for her part, ventured a timid smile, but said nothing.

  “All but Lestrade,” said Mr. Clemens, looking up from his pipe. “I reckon he’ll return directly.”

  “Good, good, can’t wait to get started,” said Sir Denis. “The sooner we get on with this, the sooner we can each go about our own business. I don’t mind coming into town every now and then, but twice in a week is a bit of an imposition, don’t you think?”

  “Some of us live here, you know,” said Cedric Villiers. “I suppose a man who inherits an estate and a title must play the country squire, and do his duty by his loyal country tenants, but I’d soon wither away if I had nothing to do but cavort with rustics. I believe London
to be the only milieu for a true man of culture.”

  “Meaning fellows like yourself, I suppose,” said Sir Denis. His raised eyebrow suggested that he might have said more on the subject, but we were deprived of his remarks by the arrival of Chief Inspector Lestrade.

  Lestrade walked a few feet into the room, then stopped and looked at the assembled group. He was accompanied by Sergeant Coleman and a uniformed bobby. I recognized the latter as Constable Wilkins, whom McPhee and I had fetched from the square the night of the murder. The two men spread out to either side and slightly behind him, forming a sort of blunt wedge. “I see we’re all here,” said Lestrade, removing his hat. “Shall we begin?”

  “Sooner begun, soonest done,” said Sir Denis, but Hannah Boulton stood up and faced the Scotland Yard inspector.

  “This is disgraceful,” she began. “I hardly expected Scotland Yard to attempt to stoop to stealing the Spiritualist Society’s thunder.”

  “Beg your pardon, ma’am?” said Lestrade, clearly caught off guard.

  “Don’t pretend you didn’t see Sir Ellington Tichbourne’s announcement of a séance to call up the spirits that perpetrated this tragedy,” she said, waving a finger in his face. “There is the only sure way to discover this murderer. This mock séance is a waste of our time and yours, Chief Inspector.”

  “Mrs. Boulton, I hope you’ll let us be the judges of how best to employ our time,” said Lestrade.

  Mrs. Boulton would not let him off so easily. “Do you have any intention of being present at the sitting Sir Ellington will hold tomorrow night?”

  “Why, if nothing comes of today’s meeting, I suppose it can’t hurt,” said Lestrade, backing off a step.

  “Which of the spirits do you think shot the doctor?” asked Mr. Clemens. “If I remember right, you husband was the only one who might have known him. Do you think he was the murderer?”

  “You obviously know nothing of the spirit world,” said Mrs. Boulton, turning red. However, she had nothing further to reply to this sally, and Lestrade seized the opportunity to regain control of the assembly.

  “Very well, then, let me explain why I’ve asked you here,” he said. He paused a moment to look around the room, and his eye lit on Tony Parkhurst. “I didn’t ask you here,” he said.

  “No,” said Tony, scowling. “But you asked my mother and my aunt, who didn’t have a blessed thing to do with shooting the old man. I’m here to see they get proper respect.”

  “And to make sure nobody gives evidence against you, I suspect,” said Hannah Boulton, latching onto a new victim. “If the police had any sense, you’re the first one they’d have taken in.”

  “Tsk, Hannah, you should remember the old saying about glass houses and stones,” said Ophelia Donning. “I seem to remember that you were sitting next to the doctor when he was shot. Might you have had something to do with it?” She threw a malicious look at Mrs. Boulton, as if daring her to respond.

  Mrs. Boulton raised her eyebrows and gave a short laugh that conveyed no humor at all. “If we’re judging guilt by proximity to the deceased, there’s another person here who was just as close on the other side,” she replied, with a significant stare toward the doctor’s widow.

  “You old witch, who appointed you a judge?” said Tony Parkhurst, shaking his fist. I remembered his violent temper, and worried for a moment he might actually attack the poor woman.

  “We’re not quite ready to declare anyone’s guilt,” said Lestrade, flushing angrily. “But I will remind you all that the police are present, and that any statements you make here will be noted as evidence. Mr. Parkhurst, I didn’t invite you but I suppose you might as well stay, if you promise not to cause any further interruption. Now, the fact is, we are here to reenact the séance, so as to determine the exact sequence of events on the evening of the murder. Has everyone brought along the things they had with them then?”

  There was a general murmur of assent. Lestrade nodded, then said, “Excellent, then to begin with, why don’t each of you take out the things you brought, and show us where you put them that night.”

  The bundles came open. Miss Donning had a large silver bell, which she set in the center of the table—it clearly jingled as she set in down. Even if a weapon had been concealed in it, it would be almost impossible to move without a telltale sound. Villiers had an ancient-looking book, which I recognized as the copy of Sir Thomas Browne’s Popular Delusions that he had been reading when we visited his home. That certainly appeared to be genuine, unless he had a duplicate copy. Then I saw what Lady Alice DeCoursey was setting out. It was the silver candlestick that had been on the table during the séance. But I was certain I had seen it again, since—on the table of the room where Sir Denis kept his weapons collection!

  Susy Clemens recognized it, too. “That’s the candlestick that disappeared after the shooting,” she exclaimed. “I knew I didn’t just imagine it!”

  “Why don’t we have a look at that,” said Mr. Clemens, stepping forward and holding out his hand.

  “What on earth do you mean?” said Lady Alice, looking around at the group.

  But Sir Denis grinned. “Oh ho, I see what you’re after, Clemens! By all means—show him, Alice!”

  His wife turned a thin smile toward the group, picked up the candlestick, and handed it to Mr. Clemens. He held it with the candle toward the ceiling, pushing and prying on several of the ornately carved bosses and ornaments at the base. “Nothing happens,” he said, looking accusingly at Sir Denis.

  “I say not, old man,” said Sir Denis. “This couldn’t hurt a fly—well, if you swatted the beggar with it, of course, but short of that, no.”

  “What the devil is going on?” said Lestrade, stepping forward to look at the candlestick.

  “You can fry me for a catfish if I know,” said Mr. Clemens. “I saw this candlestick, or one just like it, in Sir Denis’s home, right at the time we were talking about disguised weapons.”

  “Well, not everything an amateur thinks is a clue turns out to be one,” said Lestrade. His smirk was a fraction less obnoxious than the one on Villiers’s face, but not enough to make it any more pleasant. “Now, will you all please take a seat—exactly where you were the other night?”

  “One moment, please, Inspector Lestrade,” said Martha McPhee, raising her hand. “Mr. Clemens, what is the significance of the candlestick, if I may ask?”

  “I can answer that,” said Sir Denis. “I was going to bring it up myself, in any case. This candlestick is a replica of a very clever assassin’s weapon—a nonworking replica, I should add. Mr. Clemens saw it in my collection, which is undoubtedly why he thought it significant. Would the inspector object to my showing it to everyone?”

  “An assassin’s weapon?” said Lestrade, his face taking on an eager expression that emphasized his resemblance to a ferret. “I’d like to see that, yes.”

  Sir Denis picked up the candlestick and held it in both hands. “As I say, this is a copy I had made, fixed so it won’t shoot. But look here . . .” He pressed a raised section of the casting, and a small hatch opened. “You have to know exactly how to work it. Here’s where you’d insert your bullet. Now, this part of the foot is a lever to compress the air . . .” It turned out to be hinged, and he pumped it a couple of times. “And the face of this angel is the trigger.” He held the piece in both hands, pointed it toward the ceiling, and pressed the button. There was a slight hiss, but no other effect.

  “Let me see that,” said Lestrade. Sir Denis handed it to him, and the Scotland Yard man inspected the concealed weapon. “Heavy little thing,” he said. “Wouldn’t be much good at a distance, but I suppose that’s not what it’s designed for, is it?”

  “Just so,” said Sir Denis. “I’ve never fired the real one, myself, but I understand it could hit a man-sized target within ten or fifteen feet. Good enough for the work it’s designed for.”

  “And good enough to have done the job the other night, too,” said Lestrade. He peered int
ently at the baronet, then asked, “What exactly was your reason for bringing it here?”

  Sir Denis smiled. “It does appear suspicious, doesn’t it? But I assure you, this doesn’t work and never could have been made to work. Your weapons experts are free to look it over to verify that it doesn’t shoot—naturally, I’ll expect it back afterward.”

  “We’ll do just that, you can be sure” said Lestrade, firmly. “Now, why did you say you brought it with you?”

  “We brought it because it had been in my daughter Emily’s room while she was young,” said Sir Denis.

  “Yes,” said Lady Alice, a wistful smile in her eyes. “The dear girl loved the angels on it, and was fascinated by its secret history. Later, she took it with her to school.”

  Sir Denis nodded and continued. “So you see, it fit Mrs. McPhee’s request to bring a metal object that a departed one had used—and it was large enough that it would be unlikely to go missing in the dark. I’d heard of spirits who decided to take rings and necklaces back to the other side with them, and all the medium could do was act surprised when the lights came on and the jewelry was missing. No offense, Mrs. McPhee, but one hears stories—and one would be a fool not to learn from others’ misfortune.” He bowed apologetically to Martha, who did not look at all pleased.

  “But there was another point to bringing it, as well,” he added. “It was a test for the medium’s knowledge. Unfortunately, we never got to try it out this time. It has long been my practice to bring to a séance something that only I know the true nature of—something with a secret history, as it were. Then, at an appropriate point, I challenge the spirits to reveal the secret of the object I have brought.”