Harriett

by King, Rebecca

  Y-O-U-H-A-V-E-S-H-E-D-M-A-N-Y-T-E-A-R-S-T-I-M-E-T-O-S-T-O-P-N-O-W-M-A-N-Y-C-H-A-L-L-E-N-G-E-S-A-H-E-A-D-Y-O-U-W-I-L-L-B-E-F-I-N-E.

  “Many challenges? What are those going to be?” But her question remained unanswered. The glass remained still. Clearly Aunt Mavis wasn’t prepared to divulge pertinent facts, and a pregnant pause fell over the group as they waited to see what would happen next.

  “Well, I never,” Babette whispered. “It is right. You have mourned greatly for your uncle, Tuppence.” There was no censure in her voice, it was merely a statement.

  “I know,” Tuppence replied. She straightened her shoulders and sucked in a deep breath as she dabbed gently at the corner of her eyes. She would shed her tears another time, of that she had no doubt. For now, there were far too many eyes on her for comfort and she offered a brave smile that quivered at the corners a little. “Let’s see if there is anything for anyone else, shall we?”

  “Good idea,” Harriett replied, offering a supportive smile to her friend. She had spent many hours with Tuppence while she had wept, wailed and raged against the deaths of firstly her parents, then her Aunt Mavis before a wasting disease had befallen her Uncle Ben. Their deaths had rendered Tuppence the only member of her family left at Hilltop Farm alive, apart from her elder brother, Peter. Together, they had taken over the family homestead with a drive and determination that had been humbling to witness.

  Harriett’s musing was interrupted by the movement of the glass as it began to move across the table again.

  “Are there any messages for me?” Minerva Bobbington asked hesitantly. She too glanced at the ceiling as though expecting a dearly departed relative to poke their head through and shout ‘boo’.

  T-H-E-C-H-I-L-D-R-E-N-A-R-E-F-I-N-E.

  Harriett frowned up at the ceiling again and turned quizzical eyes on Mrs Bobbington. During the pre-meeting tea, Minerva had fussed and fluttered about how nervous she was, and how relieved she was to be able to get away from the house for a while. She had declared again and again, to anyone who would listen, that she would dearly love to receive a message from her aunt.

  “Can you take the message, Minerva?” Harriett asked softly.

  The message hadn’t said who it was from, but Mrs Bobbington began to cry. “Thank you. Thank you so much,” she whispered, and smiled her thanks at Mr Montague as he handed her a handkerchief.

  “What children?” Tuppence burst out, staring curiously at Mrs Bobbington. Although she hadn’t had much time to engage in gossip lately, she was fairly certain that Mrs Bobbington had been at home prior to the séance, and would be perfectly capable of knowing if her children were alright or not.

  “Several years ago, I lost two children to polio when they were just babies.”

  The table lapsed into sympathetic silence. “Would you like to stop for a break for a while?” Harriett offered. She ignored the impatient sight from Madame Humphries, and watched Minerva continue to dab at her yes with a hand that visibly shook.

  “No, thank you. I am fine, really. I would prefer it if we could carry on and get the messages while they are coming through.”

  “Thank you, my friends. Can you tell us anything else?” Madame Humphries cried. Everyone watched the glass begin to slide again.

  Yes.

  Harriett wondered why the spirits were being so particular and answering every question Madame Humphries put forward, especially if they needed so much energy to move the glass.

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

  Mr Bentwhistle sat back in his chair and stared in disbelief down at the glass. “It’s for me. That message is for me,” he whispered.

  “Do you understand it?” Harriett demanded. From the look on his face, it was indeed for him and it had shaken him greatly.

  “Yes, I do, my dear. A few days ago, I lost a watch that belonged to one of my clients. I have searched the parlour from top to bottom but could not find the blasted – apologies ladies – thing, anywhere. It must be in the embalming fluid,” he whispered, clearly nonplussed.

  “How would it get in there?” Babette shushed Madame Humphries, who had taken a breath to speak.

  “This is preposterous. How would a spirit know that?” Miss Smethwick scoffed and earned herself a glare from Madame Humphries.

  “I have no idea, but I am certainly going to take a look when I get back to the parlour.”

  “Why don’t we go now?” Beatrice asked with an ebullient enthusiasm that made everyone stare at her in horror.

  “No!” The reply was chorused by at least eight of those present, and the room lapsed into awkward silence while a range of excuses were considered and dismissed.

  Harriett shivered as a particularly strong gust of wind rattled the window panes. There was no earthly possibility that she was going to go outside at all tonight, least of all to visit a funeral parlour.

  She turned to Beatrice with a shiver, and shook her head. “I am not going, and that is a fact,” she replied firmly and mutinously sat back in her seat with her arms folded.

  “You must tell us if it is there,” Constance declared firmly. She made no attempt to gather her cloak for a trip down the street to the parlour either. The thought of going anywhere near the ominous looking building in the daytime was bad enough; there was no possibility of her going there at night, even with half of the psychic circle in attendance. She wasn’t that enamoured of getting in contact with the spirits to want to sit amongst their bodies at their temporary place of rest.

  “Oh, I will my dear. I most certainly will tell you if I find it,” Mr Bentwhistle replied fervently.

  “Can we get on with this please?” Madame Humphries snapped impatiently. “The spirits are waiting.”

  With a collective sigh of relief and nervousness, everyone turned their attention back to the table.

  CHAPTER TWO

  As soon as everyone had settled down again, Madame Humphries called for another message.

  The glass began to move.

  P-E-T-E-Y-S-A-Y-S-E-L-L-O.

  Babette spelled the words out. “Shouldn’t there be an ‘H’ in there?”

  “Does it really matter?” Madame Humphries snapped impatiently. “They are giving us messages. I don’t think they are all that bothered about spelling and punctuation.”

  Harriett shared an amused look with Mr Montague. Although the dapper little man was sometimes officious and tended to bumble around a lot, he really was a sweet gentleman who had a wicked sense of humour. At times, when he was in full flow, he was apt to come out with quips and innuendo that had Harriett clutching her sides with laughter. She smiled at Mr Montague’s rueful wink.

  “Anybody understand a Petey?” He glanced around the table but everyone shook their heads and looked at each other blankly. “Nobody understands Petey. Is there another message for me?” Mr Montague whispered theatrically.

  The glass hovered for a moment and began to move toward him. All trace of humour vanished from his rotund face, and was replaced with nervous expectation as the glass slowly made its way across the table before it circled around and moved toward the ‘No’.

  Mr Montague heaved a sigh of relief, and Harriett smothered a nervous laugh, unsure if the sigh was really one of annoyance, relief or consternation.

  H-I-S-I-N-D-A-N-G-E-R.

  Babette read the message hesitantly, a dark frown on her face. “You would think they would be able to spell better than this,” she grumbled. “Who is HIS? Can you ask them for clarification?”

  H-I-S-I-N-D-A-N-G-E-R.

  The glass stopped, then began to move slowly around in a circle.

  “What is it doing?” Tuppence cried. She had to stand up to be able to keep her finger on the glass as it spun around faster and faster.

  “It’s spelling out the letters for us,” Miss Haversham gasped. “Keep a note of it, Babette, I will spell the letters to you.” She clearly relished the fact that they were getting somewhere after what seemed an indeterminable wai
t, and practically wriggled in her seat in eagerness.

  “What does it say?”

  “Keep it going!” Madame Humphries’ face was lit with excitement. Her assistant, Miss Hepplethwaite, didn’t look too convinced, but remained silent and merely stood up so she could keep her finger on the glass as it moved rapidly around the table. “Keep the energy flowing.”

  “H!” Miss Haversham cried. “The first letter is H.”

  “Who is H?” Miss Hepplethwaite demanded with an air of desperation.

  Harriett glanced at the horror on the woman’s face and began to grow worried herself.

  “Tell us, my friends, who is H?” Madame Humphries cried loudly. “Who is he?”

  H-I-S-D-

  The glass immediately shot toward Harriett and Mr Montague. Everyone watched as it flew past both of them and smashed into the wall behind.

  The ladies screamed while the men uncharacteristically swore.

  Silence settled over the room for several long moments. Everyone was stunned speechless, and more than a little shaken by what had just happened.

  Harriett’s blank gaze met and held Mr Montague’s horrified stare. Nobody seemed to know what to do.

  “Well, I –”

  Whatever Madame Humphries was going to say next was interrupted by a loud thump from the floor above.

  “Oh, my stars!” Miss Smethwick screamed, and cowered back into her seat with large, terror-filled round eyes. For once, she seemed to be as caught up in the evening’s events as much as everyone else was.

  “What on earth?” Mr Bentwhistle scowled at Madame Humphries as though it was all her fault.

  “There is nobody here but us,” Babette announced.

  “What’s up there?” Miss Haversham asked. She looked somewhat deflated that her excitement had been dashed. She stared at the ceiling as though she wanted to stomp upstairs and capture the miscreant responsible for interrupting them.

  “It’s my room,” Harriett replied quietly. A ripple of unease shimmered down her spine.

  They had all taken cursory glances at the ceiling over the course of the evening while communicating with the ‘spirits’, however Harriett had never once put any thought to the fact that the room directly above them was actually hers. She shared a worried glance with her aunt and, together, they pushed away from the table.

  Harriett glanced down as her feet crunched the shattered glass on the floor.

  “Oh, dear,” she whispered, feeling slightly overwhelmed at the speed in which events had taken an unusual turn. She wasn’t sure what to think of any of it: the messages, the glass or the noise upstairs.

  “Somebody light the gas lamps,” Babette ordered and handed Constance the pot of spills that were beside the fireplace.

  “I will come with you,” Mr Bentwhistle manfully offered and muttered an apology when he turned around and bumped into Mrs Bobbington in the gloom. “Please excuse me. I cannot see a blasted thing in this darkness.”

  “Language!” Miss Haversham tutted at his blasphemy.

  “Language yourself,” Mr Bentwhistle snapped and stomped toward the door.

  “Shall I open the curtains?” Harriett offered. With the dexterity of someone who was comfortably familiar with the layout of her own home, Harriett skirted around those she could see in the gloom and moved toward the front room windows. The lamplighters had already been around and lit the street lights outside. It didn’t do much to ward off the darkness, but the eerie glow was enough to eradicate the worst of the inky night to allow the gas lamps inside the front parlour to be lit safely. Within minutes, the room was bathed in a warm, comforting glow.

  Harriett stood with her back to the window and studied the room before her. The wide eyes and pale faces of the occupants who remained around the table bespoke of a night that they would talk about for weeks to come: at least until the next psychic circle.

  An uncomfortable and somewhat expectant silence settled over the room and they all watched the door while they waited for Babette and Mr Bentwhistle to return with news. With each second that ticked by the tension rose until Harriett positively bristled with impatience by the time the knob turned on the door and Babette re-appeared, followed by Mr Bentwhistle. The rather worried eyes she turned on Harriett did little to ease her fears.

  “Your dressing table stool had fallen over, that’s all,” she replied cheerfully in a voice that was at odds with the nervousness that had fallen over everyone.

  “How did that happen though? We are all down here,” the ever practical Beatrice piped up. As soon as the words were out she seemed to realise that she was not helping matters and mumbled an apology before she lapsed into silence.

  “Quite,” Mr Bentwhistle replied crisply as he resumed his seat. “The doors are locked. We have searched the house from top to bottom, even in the cupboards, but nobody else is here.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Mrs Bobbington muttered and crossed herself. “Do you think the spirits are angry with us?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Miss Smethwick snapped. “How could they be angry with us? We haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Nobody raised question with the fact that none of them had discounted the presence, or feasibility of ‘spirits’.

  “How can a stool fall over though?”

  “Is it three legged?”

  “Where was it in your bedroom?”

  “Do you have cats?”

  Harriett’s head began to whirl and she glanced at Babette, who looked more than a little confused. Babette wasn’t able to offer any reasonable explanation either. Harriett raised her hands to stem the steady flow of seemingly relentless questions and moved toward the hallway. She didn’t want to leave the room and go anywhere by herself right now, even though this was her own home, but someone had to clean up the glass from the floor.

  “I am sure that it is just one of those things, that’s all,” she hastened to reassure them but, from the looks on their faces, they were far from convinced.

  “Where are you going?” Mr Montague demanded.

  “I think that we all need to take a deep breath to compose ourselves and have a little break. I suggest we all have a drink and then we can do the circle, demonstration thing,” she replied smoothly and made circling motions with her hands.

  “I think we should carry on while we are getting messages.” Madame Humphries adopted an almost mulish look that warned everyone she was not about to be deterred without a fight.

  “Quite,” Miss Haversham added. “We have waited long enough for things to get started. It seems silly to stop now, especially when it is only just starting to get interesting.” She ignored Madame’s offended huff and glared around the table in search of anyone who dared argue with her.

  Mr Montague glanced at Mr Bentwhistle for masculine support. “I agree with Madame Humphries. I think we should carry on while the glass is moving. It took us long enough to get this thing going, it seems silly to give up now.”

  Harriett sighed and fought to keep a hold of her impatience. She stared at Babette and silently willed her aunt to object, but Babette merely shrugged and turned her attention back to the glass.

  “If everyone is happy to continue then I think we should carry on, for the time being at least,” Babette replied smoothly, completely unaffected by the last few minutes. “I don’t know about everyone else, but I think we should find out a bit more about this last message.”

  “Well, if everyone else is happy,” Harriett sighed, “I will sweep up the mess. Babette, if you would like to get another glass?” She didn’t wait for Babette’s reply and hurried out of the room in search of a broom. The small hairs on the back of her neck prickled as she stalked through the sitting room at the back of the house toward the kitchen. Keeping her eyes firmly facing forward, she hurried to the cupboard, removed a dustpan and brush and stomped back to the parlour.

  She had not realised just how palpable the tension in the house had become until she returned to the now darkened parlour
. Every instinct she possessed screamed at her to call a halt to the evening and insist that everyone have drinks and then leave, but she knew that would be incredibly rude, even if she could get Miss Haversham and Madame Humphries to comply. She was somewhat relieved to be able to close the door behind her and quickly resumed her seat between the reassuring solidity of Messrs Montague and Bentwhistle. Nervous expectation settled over everyone as they each placed their forefingers tentatively on the glass in the centre of the table.

  Harriett jumped when Madame Humphries sucked in a huge, very loud breath through her teeth.

  Nobody had sought fit to close the parlour curtains. The room was now cast in a rather eerie glow that did little to offer anyone reassurance, let alone comfort.

  Mr Montague’s face, once so gentle and familiar to her, was now shadows and hard edges that defined the almost inset eyes and over plump lips. It gave him a rather hideous look of macabre intent that made her glance away quickly. She turned her gaze firmly to the glass and silently willed it to remain where it was. If the wretched thing didn’t move again then maybe everyone would be willing to call it a night. She briefly contemplated exerting a little pressure on the glass to stop its flow around the table, but couldn’t discount the notion that the messages they had received this evening might really have been from the spirit world. The last thing she wanted - needed - to do was upset any spirit who may have a thirst to give her a sound ticking off.

  “Dear friends, please accept our apologies for our anxieties earlier.” Madame Humphries glared at Tuppence’s disparaging snort.

  “Do you really think we should carry on Augusta?” Miss Hepplethwaite twittered. She ignored Madame’s instructions and removed her finger from the glass long enough to wipe a hand across her brow.

  Harriett frowned at the woman. She could see that the psychic’s assistant was scared, even if she discounted the fine tremors in her hands that even she could see through the darkness. If Miss Hepplethwaite, who dealt with these matters on a daily basis, was frightened, surely they all had a reason to be concerned, didn’t they?