Harriett

by King, Rebecca

  HARRIETT

  Tipton Hollow

  Book One

  By

  Rebecca King

  Harriett

  Tipton Hollow Series

  Book One

  Rebecca King

  Copyright 2014 by Rebecca King

  Smashwords Edition © Rebecca King 2014

  Cover by Melody Simmons at ebookindiecovers.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  I would like to take this opportunity to thank the staff at the Black Country Living Museum for their assistance in researching the Victorian detailing in this book. Inspiration for the psychic circles came from tales of the new spiritualist religious movement in the Victorian era. With a dash of romance and a lot of mystery, the Tipton Hollow series was created as a brand new series of adventures that are purely fictitious, but based on real-life events that were reported in newspapers of the era.

  For people who want a full-blown romance, this may not be the series for you. Tipton Hollow is a curious little village where gossips run rife and nothing much happens that everyone doesn’t know about, but I ask you this: if you were living in the Victorian period, with no TV, radio or entertainment other than nights in the pub, and you had read in the newspapers about the new religious movement developing in London, in which people claimed they could talk to the dead, wouldn’t you want to see for yourself whether it was real? What could you have to lose, apart from spending an evening in the dark with a group of friends asking for the dearly departed to bring you messages?

  For the people in Tipton Hollow, their spiritual experiences bring an entirely different set of circumstances that changes their lives in a way that none of them could have ever expected. Carriage accidents, kidnappings, haunting, curious messages, sinister ramblings and dead bodies begin to emerge in these twisting tales of spectral shenanigans that will leave you with not one but two burning questions.

  If you died, would you want to come back and give a message to your loved ones?

  If so, what would they be?

  I have sat in many psychic circles and have come away feeling thrilled, deflated and uneasy about the messages I have received. I have sat in the dark with a group of people and asked for loved ones to come forward and I have received messages. But were these from the dearly departed? Or was my understanding of the messages merely an attempt to convince myself that my loved ones are still around me?

  One thing I have learned from being an author is that the imagination can do wonderful things. Things you never expected..............

  A word of caution.

  The events in this book should not be copied at home. Any séances or attempts to communicate through Ouija boards or dowsing should be conducted with the help and guidance of a fully qualified, professional medium who can ensure that the adequate protection is put into place. After all, you wouldn’t want your invited guests to stay with you now, would you?

  CHAPTER ONE

  The glass moved slowly across the table in a large circle then stopped. Harriett shared an amused glance with Constance, her friend and co-conspirator. The first meeting of the Tipton Hollow Psychic Circle was underway at last, but neither woman really knew what to expect. Even through the darkness Harriett could see Constance roll her large brown eyes and shake her head at Madame Humphries’ rather theatrical incantation. They had agreed to hold a psychic circle more out of curiosity than anything else but, now that their ‘clairvoyant’ for the evening, Madame Humphries, was in attendance, it all seemed a rather ridiculous way to spend their time.

  “Is there anybody here with us?” The rather rotund lady moaned. “Gather around us my friends, and bring us your messages.”

  Harriett fought a smile as the psychic stared at the ceiling as though she expected someone to drop into the room from the upper floor. Mr Bentwhistle smothered a laugh around a cough. Harriett couldn’t bring herself to look at him, but she could sense the mirth that ran through him from the way his shoulders shook and a strange gurgling noise emanated from his vicinity. He was either laughing or having some sort of fit that nobody could see in the darkness.

  “Are you quite well, Mr Bentwhistle?” Harriett whispered out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Yes, I am fine my dear.”

  “Sshh.”

  The ‘Psychic Circle’; for want of a better phrase, consisted of several members of the relatively small village of Tipton Hollow; a rather nondescript little village on the edge of Bodmin Moor, the clairvoyant, Madame Humphries and her assistant, Miss Hepplethwaite. Although psychics were all the rage in London at the moment, none of the villagers had ever actually had the temerity, or the means, to go and witness a psychic ‘demonstration’ for themselves. However, the nearest major town, Great Tipton by the Marshes, had recently received a new occupant; the rather redoubtable Madame Humphries, who had ostensibly moved to the country for a ‘quieter’ life. There were rumours that the recent spate of arrests of fraudulent mediums had forced her move south to avoid detection.

  Still, needs must and, with a shortage of psychic mediums in the vicinity, Harriett and Constance had approached Madame Humphries to join them for an evening of spiritual communication. To their surprise and consternation, Madame Humphries had jumped at the chance to show off her skills to the assembled group of amateur enthusiasts, who now watched the proceedings with a mixture of nervousness and expectation.

  Various people with whom Harriett had an acquaintance had been invited to join and, for various reasons, were now at her dining table in the ‘circle’. The table was now occupied by Mr Montague, the owner of the haberdashery, Miss Haversham, a rather forward spinster, Gertrude Hepplethwaite, assistant to Madame Humphries. Upon her own insistence, the parsimonious spinster of the village, Miss Smethwick, was seated beside the great Madame Humphries. Harriett’s Aunt Babette sat beside her and Harriett’s childhood friend, Beatrice. Mrs Dalrymple, a matronly lady, Harriett’s co-conspirator, Tuppence Dalrymple, Eloisa (new to the village), Constance, Mrs Bobbington, Mr Bentwhistle, and Harriett, completed the table

  So far though, it was turning out to be a rather mediocre evening where nothing much had happened. The glass had jolted and juddered its way across the table and had yet to provide much of interest to the point that most people were starting to look rather bored.

  Harriett smothered a yawn and bit back a sigh of impatience. Her arm ached from having to hold her finger on the glass and there was barely enough room for twelve fingers on the goblet. Nevertheless, she was loath to break contact with the glassware for fear of being reprimanded by Madame Humphries again.

  “Please gather around us my friends. We humbly ask you to bring messages from our loved ones. Please move the glass and spell out your messages for us?” The hope in Madame’s voice was plain to hear and Harriett wondered what the woman would do if the glass continued to randomly move this way and that without actually doing anything useful.

  She peered through the darkness at the small white pieces of paper that contained the letters of the alphabet, along with a Ye
s and No, that had been placed in a wide circle in the centre of the table. The room was so dark that it was difficult to see the dark scrawl written on the white paper. How spirits were supposed to be able to see them she couldn’t quite understand. She could only hope that they had better eye sight, or the ability to see in the dark.

  Beatrice shifted awkwardly in her seat, clearly as bored as everyone else. Harriett shared a smile with her friend, which immediately left her face when the warning cough from Madame Humphries drew her attention. She felt like a small child being warned by mother to eat her greens. She felt, rather than saw, Mr Montague smother a chuckle beside her and fought her smile of defiance with a bit lip.

  “We are all concentrating for you my dears,” came the pointed warning. “Use our energies to come closer to us.”

  “Doesn’t sound like they can hear you,” Mr Bentwhistle interrupted dryly.

  “Of course they can hear us,” Madame Humphries snapped. “They aren’t circus performers you know. They don’t perform on demand. It takes time and energy for them to come forward. Everyone concentrate.”

  Duly chastised, the table returned their attention to the glass. The front parlour of Harriett’s house was well furnished; opulent in a way that befitted one of Tipton Hollow’s most successful businessmen, yet not ostentatious. Nevertheless, the heavy draped curtains did little to diminish the sound of the wind howling around the house. Rain pelted a relentless fury against the window panes with a determination that made Harriett glad that she had decided to have the first ‘circle’ in her front parlour instead of someone else’s. On a purely selfish note, at least she didn’t have to go out when they were finished; and she could only hope they were going to be finished sometime soon. She couldn’t see the clock on the mantle through the gloom, but it felt as though they had been sitting around the large dining table for hours. She shifted a little in her seat and turned her attention back to the table.

  “Good friends, please gather around us on this day,” Madame boomed even louder, as though shouting would make the dead hear her.

  Harriett jumped at the loud cry. Her heart hammered in her throat and she rolled her eyes through the gloom at nobody in particular. She could hardly see anything in the almost claustrophobic gloom, yet Madame seemed to see everything; at least that is what it felt like.

  Her attention was drawn back to the table when the glass began to move. Harriett scowled at the object beneath her finger and wondered who was pushing it. The smooth glide across the highly waxed table-top had an energy behind it that felt as though someone was moving it on purpose. She wondered whether someone else had grown bored too and had decided to move things along a little so they could draw the evening to a halt. A strange, deflated feeling began to creep through her and she wondered how Tuppence would feel if the circle didn’t come up with a message for her. Having lost her uncle recently, Tuppence was the only one of Harriett’s friends who had really wanted a message from the great beyond.

  “Thank you, my friends,” Madame Humphries moaned. “Try and keep the glass moving and give us your message.”

  Harriett twisted in her seat and mumbled an apology to Mr Montague as she inelegantly leaned across him in order to keep her finger on the glass as it moved across the table toward Madame Humphries. She bit back a smile at the sight of Constance, who was practically lying on the table, and Tuppence, who was leaning sideways in her seat to be able to fit neatly between Constance and Mrs Dalrymple, whose horrified gazes were transfixed on the glass. Madame Humphries began to mumble the Lord’s prayer.

  H.

  The glass stopped.

  Harriett sighed and took advantage of the gloom to puff out a long, slow breath as she fought to keep hold of her impatience. At this rate they would be lucky if they got to bed before midnight.

  “Constance, do you have to lie so inelegantly on the table like that?” Miss Smethwick scolded.

  “Sshh,”

  “Oh, shush yourself,” Miss Smethwick snapped and threw a glare in Madame Humphries’ general direction. “Constance, I demand that you get off this table at once. Get a hold of yourself. Such hoydenish behaviour isn’t appropriate, no matter how dark it is.”

  “I am just doing as I am told,” Constance protested. “How else am I supposed to keep my finger on the glass?” She made no attempt to hide the humour in her voice, nor did she try to get off the table. Instead, she lay still and turned her attention back to the glass, which had started to move again.

  “Thank you my friends,” Madame intoned. “Please excuse our rudeness. We won’t interrupt you again.”

  “Will this take much longer?” Mr Montague asked in a hushed whisper. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I really must go and feed my cat.”

  Harriett had no idea why he was whispering given that there was nothing remotely reverent about the evening. She bit back a chuckle and coughed in an attempt to wipe the smile off her face. It didn’t work.

  “Spirits take their own time. Now hush and don’t interrupt again.”

  Duly reprimanded, Mr Montague heaved a put-upon sigh and lapsed into worried silence.

  “We have your ‘H’ my friends. What else do you have for us?”

  E-L-L-O.

  The glass stopped.

  “Is that it?” Babette sighed. Everyone stared down at the glass. A wary sense of disbelief swept over the table as everyone glared either at the glass or Madame Humphries.

  “No, there must be more.” Even Madame Humphries had started to sound desperate and, not for the first time during the evening, Harriett wondered whether she should just draw a halt to the proceedings and declare the evening a disappointing flop.

  Constance began to shimmy off the table when the glass began to move again.

  “Hello, my dearly departed friends. Please pass us your messages,” Madame’s voice held a hint of plea in it that made Harriett want to offer the woman a brandy and a seat beside the fire to steady herself.

  The glass began to move across the table toward the ‘Yes’ square.

  The smooth way in which the glass moved across the surface of the table was something they had all been waiting for. Nobody made a sound when the glass began to move from letter to letter. Babette began to scribble furiously as Harriett called out the letters the glass stopped at.

  T-H-E-D-O-G-I-S-F-I-N-E-H-U-G-O.

  Hugo Montague looked a little puzzled and shook his head at the expectant faces that were now staring at him.

  “I don’t have a dog,” he protested and glared almost accusingly at Madame Humphries.

  “I can take that message,” Minerva Bobbington piped up. “I used to have a dog named Hugo. He was a small grey lurcher that used to follow me everywhere as a child.” Against instructions, she removed her finger from the glass and sat back in her chair to stare at the table for a moment while memories resurfaced. “Heavens above, I forgot all about him,” she whispered.

  “Let’s see what else we get,” Beatrice suggested eagerly and nodded at Mrs Bobbington, to put her finger back onto the glass. With a shiver, the woman did as she was told and they all waited patiently for more messages. They didn’t have to wait for long. No sooner had Mrs Bobbington’s finger landed on the top of the goblet than it began to move again.

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Mr Montague whispered as the glass moved firmly from letter to letter. This time there was no hesitation, no juddering and the words were spelled out in rapid succession.

  Y-O-U-F-O-R-G-O-T-T-O-L-O-C-K-T-H-E-D-O-O-R-A-G-A-I-N-L-O-V-E-M-O-T-H-E-R.

  Mrs Dalrymple emitted a small cry. Her hands flew to her throat and she stared at the glass with a mixture of horror and delight on her face.

  “Mother?” she whispered in a tumultuous voice. Hope and desperation flooded her gaze and she stared avidly down into the middle of the table.

  “Can you take the message?” Madame Humphries’ demanded.

  “Y-yes,” Mrs Dalrymple replied in a quivering voice. After several moments of silence she see
med to snap out of her daze and became aware that people were waiting for her to explain the message. “Oh, well, I have always been a bit forgetful. Even as a small child I was always putting things down and losing things. Anyway, that hasn’t changed as I have grown older and, well, unfortunately I always seemed to be in such a fuddle that I regularly forget to lock my back door. Mother always used to scold me for it, but I am still the same, even now. No matter how much I try, as soon as I leave the house I hurry off. I have obviously forgotten to lock the back door behind me again.”

  Sensing that the woman was apt to ramble on for hours, Harriett eased back in her seat and gently interrupted her monologue. “Let’s see if she has anything else for us, shall we?”

  P-U-T-A-K-E-Y-A-R-O-U-N-D-Y-O-U-R-N-E-C-K.

  Harriett smothered a laugh and even Mrs Dalrymple smiled.

  “Seems a reasonable suggestion,” Mr Bentwhistle remarked wryly.

  “I will do that, mother, thank you,” Mrs Dalrymple replied reverently, although whether she would remember was anyone’s guess.

  Y-O-U-H-A-V-E-S-O-M-E-N-E-W-S-C-O-M-I-N-G.

  “Is that for me?” Mrs Dalrymple asked with a frown. “Oh, I wonder what it could be.”

  The glass shot to ‘No’.

  “Oh, dear. I had hoped -” the woman sighed and looked despondent. “Well, never mind.”

  The glass began to move again.

  U-N-C-L-E-B-E-N-I-S-F-I-N-E.

  Tuppence gasped and stared at the glass. “It’s for me,” she whispered in an awestruck voice. Harriett knew that Uncle Benjamin was someone Tuppence was still in mourning for and, from the look on her face, she was relieved more than upset to have a message about him.

  “Thank you,” Tuppence replied, and flicked a hesitant glance at the ceiling.

  U-N-C-L-E-B-E-N-I-S-W-I-T-H-M-E-H-E-M-A-D-E-I-T-S-A-F-E-L-Y.

  Tuppence gasped and stared at the glass. Tears pooled in her eyes and Harriett watched her blink rapidly in a valiant attempt to keep them at bay. “I am so glad,” she murmured, and smiled her thanks at the neatly pressed handkerchief Mr Bentwhistle held out for her.