“Oh, dear me, now, I have forgotten to offer you gentlemen some tea, haven’t I?” she worried. “That will never do. Oh, no. I will put the pot on to boil. Tea, gentlemen? Let me get some cups, now. Oh, dear, me.”
Mark shared a look with Isaac, and craned his neck around the door to look into the back room. It was shabbier than the tiny parlour they sat in. Isaac was perched nervously on a sofa that sagged dangerously in the middle and was covered with threadbare throws that should have been chucked out years ago. The pictures on the walls were old and caked in grime and dust. It seemed that Gertrude Hepplethwaite was hardly ever at home either, or had absolutely no interest in chores. As if he could read his thoughts, Isaac suddenly sneezed and earned himself a rueful look from Mark who nodded at the dust beneath his boots.
Rather than return to the sitting room, Gertrude remained in the kitchen. Mark could see through the gap between the door and the door jamb that the woman stood perfectly still and stared into space while she waited for the pot to boil. Determined not to be thwarted, or made to wait any longer than was absolutely necessary, Mark joined her in the kitchen. His suspicions were accurate when he found her doing nothing in particular next to a small square table.
“We came to ask you some questions about the night of the séance.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Miss Hepplethwaite replied vaguely, and cast a worried glance around the kitchen as though she was trying to find something to do to get out of the house.
Before she could twitter off, Mark sighed and leaned his hips against the wall. He folded his arms carefully and studied the woman before him. She was without doubt the most evasive of the entire Psychic Circle put together, and that included Madame Humphries and her questionable background.
“I would advise you that this is a murder investigation. If it makes you uncomfortable to be questioned in your own home, I am more than happy to take you down to the station,” Mark offered reasonably and hid a smile of satisfaction when the woman stopped and turned to stare at him with a look of dread on her face.
“Oh, no. That would never do, no.”
“Then tell me what happened on the night of the séance. Start at the very beginning and leave nothing out.”
“Well, I don’t know that there is all that much to tell, really,” Gertrude replied with a frown. She ignored the kettle and stared blankly out of the window beside the fireplace.
She began to ramble but eventually took them through each step of the evening until, nearly an hour later they arrived at the moment Minerva collapsed onto the floor.
“Did she mention to anyone that she felt ill?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Madame Humphries, God bless her soul, was busy with her spirit friends, you know.”
“But you were paying attention to what was going on at the table.” It wasn’t a question. Despite her nervousness, for one brief moment, her eyes met and held his with a steadiness that convinced him that her vagueness was nothing more than a front.
“Tell me, Miss Hepplethwaite, where did you live before you came to Great Tipton?” His face was a mask of sternness that wasn’t lost on the older woman. He saw the calculation in the depths of her brown eyes and knew she was contemplating lying.
After several moments of thoughtful silence, she sighed and motioned back to the sitting room. “There was something odd that happened that evening. I can remember at the time thinking that I needed to ask Augusta about it but, for the life of me, I cannot remember who it was.”
“Who it was, what?”
Miss Hepplethwaite turned toward them. “I have been doing these séances with Augusta for many years now. It is evident when someone earthly is pushing the glass and when the spirits are pushing it. It glides a lot easier, and doesn’t catch on any bits on the table-top when spirits use their energies. To begin with, someone was definitely pushing the glass but, when the ‘H is in danger’ warning came, the glass moved by a strange mix of earthly pushing and spirit. I looked at each person in turn, even though it was so dark, but couldn’t detect anything untoward. Unfortunately, with the lights out it is really difficult to tell if someone is playing the fool and pushing the glass to force a message. Augusta was busy with her spirit friends, and everyone else was watching the glass move about the table. I cannot forget the oddest feeling though that someone at that table gave us the message.”
“Have you had the chance to ask Augusta about it?” Mark thought about yesterday when he hadn’t had the time to call around. Had the ladies met to talk about their stories?
“I haven’t had the chance since, no,” Miss Hepplethwaite remarked wryly. “Once we had left dear Harriett’s house, we returned to our respective homes and have been here waiting for you to call by.”
Although the woman had settled down a little, there was something about her that was vague. It was as though she was there but not quite in the room with them, and it gave him the distinct impression that she was trying to avoid his questions. It reminded him strongly of Alan Bentwhistle’s own vagueness yesterday. Did they both have something to hide?
“There was something else,” she sighed, and drew her shawl around her even tighter around her should, as though she wanted to ward off the menace of her memories. “I don’t believe that Augusta was really communicating that night.”
Mark stared at her. “You don’t think she was really talking to spirits?”
Miss Hepplethwaite shook her head. “Oh, dear me, no.” She sighed and began to look around the room as though the thought distressed her greatly. “After séances, Augusta is usually drained because the spirits draw on her energies. That night, on the way home, she was as spritely as she was when she arrived. There was no sign of tiredness or weakness of someone who had been working closely with the spirit world.”
“Why do you think she faked it?”
“I don’t think she faked it all. I think that she may have been speaking to the spirit world, but I don’t think that their energies were used to push the glass and give the messages. I think someone at that table was giving the messages on purpose. That’s why Augusta wasn’t tired at the end of the evening.”
“Do you have prior acquaintance with anyone in Tipton Hollow before you were approached to attend their first Psychic Circle?”
“No. Tuppence came to one of our demonstrations in the Village Hall in town. She dropped us a note to ask us if we would like to visit the circle and do a séance and demonstration. Augusta agreed. It is work, you know. We are more than happy to accept any invitation.”
“But you hadn’t met anyone from Tipton Hollow before?”
“Our work takes us here and there, but I have never been to Tipton Hollow before the night of the séance.”
“So tell me, how does Madame Humphries turn green when she is in a trance? We know that it isn’t spiritual, so don’t even try.”
Miss Hepplethwaite studied them and began to flutter nervously again. Her hands lifted to the curls around her face and she began to tuck them in randomly with a hand that trembled slightly. “I cannot tell you.”
Mark leaned forward in his chair. “Are you doing the séance on Friday, at Beatrice’s house?”
“Well, do you know, I am not sure if Augusta accepted the invitation.”
“I think she did.”
“I think we will be going then,” Miss Hepplethwaite whispered hesitantly. She was clearly unnerved about something else but didn’t want to confide in them.
Mark knew that there was more to their clairvoyance than their apparent ability to speak to dead people. He was more convinced than ever that she and Madame Humphries were the thieves who used the cover of mediumship to burgle people in London. Rather than probe deeper into how they worked, he decided to take the opportunity to study them closer at the Psychic Circle’s next séance with his own eyes.
After asking her several more questions to which he received the same answers as Augusta Humphries, Mark rose to take his leave. He followed Isaac to the front door only
to suddenly stop and spin on his heel. Miss Hepplethwaite gasped and staggered back at the speed of his move. Using his height to his advantage, Mark leaned down to stare the woman in the eye.
“You forgot to tell me where you used to live before you moved here, Miss Hepplethwaite.” He lifted one brow in stern demand and watched panic light the woman’s eyes. He knew the speed of his move had unnerved the woman and was rewarded for his inventiveness when the woman blurted her response.
“Yorkshire,” she snapped before she snapped her mouth closed.
“Address?”
“I-I-I,” she glanced quickly from Mark to Isaac. “I cannot remember.”
Alarm filled her eyes and it was all he could do to keep the triumph off his face. With a brisk nod, he spun around and left the house.
“Do you think that they are both the clairvoyants from Charing Cross?”
“I think they are. I just hope that I haven’t just given them cause to run. She knows something else, I am sure of it. I just don’t know if it is about Minerva’s death, lies at the séance, or their backgrounds.” Mark glanced up and down the road, and caught sight of a carriage parked at the end of the street. He nudged Isaac and issued his colleague with a look. “At the end of the road is a black carriage. I am going to walk toward it. You go down the alleyway there. Walk down to the main street and try to get a good look at it. See if you can identify the coachman, or anyone inside.”
He knew from the pure black horse with the long, shaggy mane and the heavily garbed coachman, that it was the same carriage that had been outside of Beatrice’s house in Tipton Hollow. Unfortunately, the carriage never drew close enough for him to wave the coachman to a stop. He had to assume that whoever was inside was either watching him, or the people who were at the scene of Miss Bobbington’s murder. Was it the murderer in the carriage? As he drew close to the conveyance, unsurprisingly, the coachman nudged the horse into a brisk walk. By the time he reached the end of the road, the carriage was moving at a trot, and flew straight past Isaac, who appeared at the entrance to the alleyway seconds after it brushed past. Isaac shook his head. He hadn’t managed to catch sight of either driver, or occupier.
Mark mentally cursed and met his colleague.
“What now?”
“Well, I read the report from David Woods last night. There was no trace of powders or pills in that muslin Minerva choked on, or Minerva herself, so we can be fairly certain that it was the cloth in her drink that killed her. We know the messages were fake and given by someone at that table. I think that for now, we need to put the word out with the local beat bobbies that the mysterious black carriage is in the area and behaving suspiciously. I want the owner found as soon as possible. They have more than a few questions to answer. Meantime, I think I have just had my Friday evening commandeered, all in the name of psychic research.” He ignored Isaac’s slightly horrified look.
“You don’t want me to go, do you?” Isaac asked with a frown. There were some things even he wouldn’t do for his job.
“No, I think that is something that I need to do, don’t you?” He saw Isaac’s reluctance for what it was and didn’t relish the prospect of having to go either, if he was honest, but at least Harriett would be there, and it gave him the perfect opportunity to keep an eye on her.
CHAPTER TEN
Two days later, Harriett sauntered through the market at Great Tipton. Thursdays were always an exceptionally busy day, but she didn’t mind the hustle and bustle of the busy square today because it made her feel glad to be alive. A gentle haze hung over the busy thoroughfare that did little to ward off the chill of autumn, but even the nip on her cheeks was something she relished.
After Minerva Bobbington’s funeral yesterday, it was nice to be out and about for a change. She meandered through the various stalls, happy to simply absorb the atmosphere of the traders and shoppers when her gaze was caught by the sight of a constable. Her heart began to hammer in her throat and her thoughts immediately turned toward the one man she had spent the last few days trying hard to forget. A now familiar pang of hurt swept through her and she sighed despondently as she turned away.
When she had seen him last, he had promised to check on her and update her on the investigation, but hadn’t returned. Although a small part of her warned her that he had no real duty to check on her daily, she was still hurt at the ease in which he had forgotten her.
She straightened her shoulders, threw her head back and turned her thoughts firmly toward the contents of her basket. Now that her goods had been purchased, she was free to head home. She spied the small sign above the door to the tea shop, and headed in that direction. As she covered her basket with a brightly coloured cloth, she glanced up and froze at the sight that greeted her eyes. Her stomach dipped and she was immediately flooded with a ruthless wave of hurt that made her feel slightly sick.
There, inside the shop, seated opposite a beautiful blonde woman, was none other than Detective Inspector Mark Bosville. From the intimate way in which their heads were tipped toward each other, their conversation had nothing to do with business. These two were familiar with one another’s presence. Just how familiar was emphasised in the companionable way he held her hand in full view of the other tea shop patrons.
She swallowed against the lump in her throat, and turned her head away. Despite the fact that she was now heading in the wrong direction, she hurried past the shop, all thoughts of a cup of tea forgotten. She wanted to put as much distance between her and the sight she knew would stay with her for some considerable time yet. She physically trembled with the haste in which she walked, but lengthened her stride until she almost ran. All of her thoughts were locked firmly on the need to get home before the tears fell.
Well, what did you expect? A small voice reasoned with her. He is handsome, intelligent and of marriageable age. It was perfectly natural for someone like him to have a beautiful girlfriend. Besides, her association with him had been purely professional. There was nothing about her acquaintance with Mark that had given her any cause to have expectations of him. He had certainly not done anything that would give her reason to assume that she could consider herself anything other than a victim of crime he happened to be investigating through his work. It was ridiculously foolish of her to be hurt as much as she was. Her heart wasn’t broken, nor was it battered or bruised in any way. No, the feelings she had at the moment were purely down to the emotional turmoil of the very trying week she had just experienced. He had been the one person who had brought an air of calm to a situation that had confused and frightened her. She sucked in a deep breath, and brazenly blanked out the feelings that pulled apart her logic. With her shoulders thrown back defiantly, she marched resolutely toward home.
Mark studied Harriett’s back as she swept past the shop. The immediate thrill of anticipation at her being there was immediately replaced with frozen horror at the thought that she had seen him holding hands with Alice across the table of a tea shop. He realised then just how foolish he had been, not only to break his association with Alice in such a public place, but to offer her comfort so blatantly with so many people in plain view. He cast a dark look around the shop and caught the quickly averted gazes of a couple of the patrons, one of whom was a close acquaintance of his mother’s, and groaned inwardly. Although he tipped his head a little to be able to get a better view out of the window, he couldn’t see Harriett, but knew she was around somewhere. She seemed to have been in a hurry. Was that because she was in a rush, or had she seen him with Alice and been upset? He secretly hoped it was the latter, even though it would mean he had to explain the situation to her.
Determined not to leave her with any misunderstanding a moment longer than was necessary, Mark glanced across at the woman he had just broken up with.
“Please accept my apologies, Alice. I didn’t mean to mislead you in any way. It is just that with as much work as I have on at the moment, it is difficult to get any time off at all. Someone like you deserves to
be with a man who is able to take you out to places.”
“But I don’t mind waiting, really I don’t,” Alice whined tearfully. When she was calm and in control, she really was quite beautiful, however, with anger in her eyes, and a whine in her voice that he had never heard before, he was profoundly grateful he had chosen not to take matters further and turn their courtship into anything more permanent.
“I simply cannot allow you to have false hope.” He made his voice firmer than was really necessary and gave her an apologetic smile as he sat back in his chair. He dug a few coins out of his pocket and dropped them onto the table. “It really would be best if you found someone who deserves you.”
He felt the bite of impatience when Alice began to snivel and wondered how long she would keep up the dramatics. She had yet to shed a single tear. Not that he wanted her to cry, but he was annoyed that she thought she could pull on emotional strings to get her own way. He shuddered in horror at what he could quite conceivably have been landed with had he not met Harriett.
Harriett.
The thought of her hurrying in the opposite direction propelled him to his feet with more force than was necessary. He mumbled an apology when the woman seated behind him gasped and began to cough as his chair rammed into the back of hers, and propelled her forward with such force that tea splashed into her face.
He muttered apologies as he handed her a cloth and began to dab her chin with hurried jabs, only to jump when she squeaked a protest and snatched the cloth off him with an indignant glare. The lady seated beside her began to thump her back in earnest, which rendered Mark useless. With the look of a man who scented freedom, Mark mumbled another apology and hurried out of the shop. He didn’t even think to take one last look at Alice, or even stop to say goodbye.
Once outside, he quickly glanced left and right and groaned at the sheer volume of people in the busy market square. It would be impossible to find her, even if she was still in town. He wondered if she had called by the station but then decided that rather than waste time going to check, he had to go and find her. She had a ten minute head start on him, but his legs were longer than hers and, with any luck, he would be able to catch her up before she reached Tipton Hollow.
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