Harriett (11 page)

Although
Mark knew Alan Bentwhistle by name, he continued to use formalities
in an attempt to ensure that the man understood this was a formal
investigation and, as such, Mr Bentwhistle should not expect any
special treatment or consideration. The message seemed to have been
received loud and clear when a closed look settled over Mr
Bentwhistle’s face.

At the
door, Mark turned and studied Mr Bentwhistle closely. “One more
thing I meant to ask you. What about the message about the fob
watch? Did you have one missing and was it found in the
jar?”

Mr
Bentwhistle looked blank for a moment. It was clear that his mind
was miles away and it took him several moments to reply. “I went
over to the parlour last night and checked, but there is no watch.
I don’t know what that message was all about.” His voice was
clipped and accompanied by a thoughtful frown. Mark wondered if the
frown was one of confusion or concern, and couldn’t help but ponder
whether Mr Bentwhistle was even thinking about the watch at all. He
seemed a little dazed which, given the events of last night, was
entirely understandable. Still, this was a murder investigation now
and Mark had a job to do.

“
Did you mention to anyone that the watch was
missing?”

Mr
Bentwhistle was silent for several long moments. Mark began to
wonder if he would have to prompt the man to reply when he suddenly
seemed to jerk out of his trance and remember they were waiting for
an answer.

“
I have three men on my staff and they overheard the
conversation with the watch’s owner when they reported it missing.
I have searched the entire funeral parlour, but there is no sign of
any watch. I take such matters very seriously you see, and
conducted the search myself to ensure that it was done properly. I
was a little perturbed by the message last night seeing as I had
only used that particular jar that very same afternoon. As soon as
the séance was over and we were allowed to go I did pop in to the
parlour, just to see if the watch was in the jar as suggested.” He
sighed and shook his head. “I cannot find that blasted thing
anywhere,” he mumbled and stared off into the distance again as
though he was miles away.

“
But there is a watch and it has gone missing?” Mark’s voice
was loud in the silence of the house. It helped to keep Mr
Bentwhistle’s attention on him rather than the wall the man kept
staring at.

“
Oh, yes. The client swears it was on the body of a customer
when we brought him into the parlour, but she must have been
mistaken.”

“
Who is the client?”

Mark
sighed when Mr Bentwhistle went vague again.

“
Pardon?”

“
I asked who is the client is?”

Mr
Bentwhistle studied him for several long moments. “Helena
Cridlingham, on the outskirts of the village. It was her
grandfather’s fob watch.”

“
If you do find the watch, please let me know. I need to know
which messages at that meeting were false, and which were real.”
Mark replied. “I am sure you understand the gravity of the
situation given Minerva’s death and the threat that was issued
through the messages?”

Mr
Bentwhistle nodded absently. “Am I free to go about my business
now, or do I have to stay here for a while longer?”

“
No, you are free to go – for now,” Mark replied smoothly and
followed Isaac out of the front door. They didn’t bid Mr
Bentwhistle goodbye and left him staring blankly at the hallway
wall again.

Isaac
puffed out his cheeks and slid a glance at Mark.

“
Do you really think he is that blank?”

“
No, I think that Alan Bentwhistle is a man with a lot on his
mind. We just don’t know what.”

“
Strange about that watch,” Isaac muttered. He sucked in a
deep breath and shook his shoulders in an attempt to shake off the
lingering effects of the strange encounter in the funeral
director’s house. Was it the man or his profession that was so
unnerving?

“
Where next?”

“
I think we need to caution the gossip next, don’t you?” Mark
replied. He prayed that Mr Montague had done as he was told and
stayed at home, safely away from all of the gossip
mongerers.

“
What? Do you mean that the whole of Tipton Hollow may not
already know yet?”

Mark
smiled and shook his head. “Tell me, do you think all villages
operate like Tipton Hollow, or is it just this place?”

As they
walked through the village toward the high street, Mark studied the
rows of mismatched houses. Of varying ages, they ranged from
workmen’s cottages, old thatched cottages, terraced houses to huge
mansions that bespoke of timeless grandeur and wealth more suited
to more affluent towns. The huge village green held a cricket pitch
and was bracketed by several benches on which sat a governess and
her charges, who were out enjoying the sunshine of the
day.

At first
appearance, there was nothing untoward about the place. It was only
if you stood still and absorbed the essence of the place that you
became aware of the chill in the air, and the faint fog that hung
over the village, and the moors surrounding it like a menacing
harbinger of doom.

“
I think that all villages have gossips in, just not many of
them have murderers.” Isaac sighed. He studied the cobbled road
beneath their feet as they walked. He couldn’t help it, he had to
ask. “Which one of them do you think did it?”

“
I have no idea yet Isaac, but I can promise you that by the
end of the day, we will have narrowed our list of suspects down to
at least a handful. It’s either that or I am not a Detective
Inspector.” He knew that he was being a little bit arrogant with
his declaration but knew that the people at the psychic circle were
fairly easy to read: the gossip, the slightly creepy undertaker,
the waspish spinster, the fake psychic, the gaggle of giggling
ladies, and the matronly, bored housewife. All were there. All were
potential suspects. All except for one: Harriett. She was far too
open. Her eyes were far too forthright, too honest, for her to lie
to anyone and do it with any kind of conviction. He knew
instinctively that under questioning, even if Harriett lied through
her back teeth, he would know the truth from the look in her eye
and the guilty blush she wouldn’t be able to hide. Right now
though, he couldn’t rule out her aunt’s involvement in Minerva’s
death. He was fairly certain that the lady had secrets, but as yet
he had to uncover what they were. Until he did, she had to remain
on his list of suspects.

“
Good Morning, Mr Montague,” Mark said when the door to Mr
Montague’s flat at the back of the haberdashery opened. Mark fought
a smile at the sight of the man’s floral smoking jacket and
slightly effeminate slippers, and followed the older man up the
narrow flight of stairs into the sitting room.

“
I need to ask you a few questions about last night,” Mark
began. “I need to ask you to recount events of last night starting
from the moment you arrived.”

“
What? All of it?” Mr Montague’s brows rose and he waved the
men into seats before he slumped onto what appeared to be his
favourite chair beside the fire. No sooner had he sat down than a
tabby cat jumped onto his lap, curled up and promptly fell
asleep.

“
I take it that it was murder then?”

“
What makes you say that?”

“
Well, if it was natural causes, you wouldn’t need to ask me
for more details, now would you?” Mr Montague sighed with startling
clarity.

Mark
took a moment to study the neat room. It wasn’t overly large but
nothing was out of place. The assorted pieces of furniture,
although old, were well cared for and gave the room a comfortable,
homely glow. Mark took a seat in one of the chairs beside the
fireplace, and found his attention captured by a large green,
highly decorative jug on the small round table beneath the window.
There was something about the way the sunlight glistened against
the ornate flower design that caught his attention and held
it.

“
It’s a lovely piece, isn’t it,” Mr Montague sighed, noting
the direction of Mark’s gaze and nodding in pleasure. “It was my
mother’s, you know. It’s about the only thing I have of significant
worth. I like the way the sunlight catches its colours.”

“
It’s lovely,” Mark replied, and meant it. Although he removed
his notebook and pencil, he found his eyes being drawn back to the
window and the vase that had captured his interest. With a slightly
disconcerted cough, he turned his attention back to the matter at
hand. “I am afraid to tell you that this is now a formal
investigation, Mr Montague. As such, I would request that you don’t
discuss our conversation, or the events of last night, with
anybody.”

“
Are you taking statements from everyone?”

“
Yes, we are. Why? Is there something we should know?” Mark’s
eyes met and held Mr Montague’s and he read the flicker of
hesitation in the man’s dark brown eyes.

“
I don’t want to gossip, I really don’t, not over something as
important as Minerva’s death, but I think that there is something
deuced odd about that Madame Humphries. I don’t know for definite
you understand, but I am sure that I have seen her somewhere
before, but without the head scarf and smock-type thing she wore
last night. Hideous thing, that was. Heaven only knows where she
got that material from; shockingly poor quality.”

“
Quite,” Mark interjected crisply before Mr Montague could
ramble any further. “Do you know where you have seen the
clairvoyant before?”

“
I have tried to think, again and again. It has plagued me all
night. I am fairly certain that it wasn’t in Great Tipton. She was
working somewhere, only I cannot remember where.”

There
was nothing untoward about that. Psychics were often known to have
a secondary job, but he made a note to look into Madame Humphries’
true persona.

“
We will look into it. Now then, if you start at the
beginning.”

“
That’s it!” Mr Montague all but shouted. His face was
wreathed in a proud smile. “She was selling tickets at the cinema
in Great Maldon. Not Hungarian then, I can tell you. She was pure
cockney or I am a Dutchman.”

Mark
fought a smile and wondered if they were going to get out of there
before dusk.

“
Tell me a little bit about the circle? Why did you form
it?”

“
Oh, well, I was talking with Harriett and Tuppence, one day
and we were discussing Miss Haversham’s continued mourning of her
mother. Died over a year ago now and Miss Haversham continues to
grieve to this day. We talked about whether there was such a thing
as life after death. Harriett read my newspaper and the article on
a psychic demonstration in London that was held the other week and
heralded a remarkable success. I jokingly suggested that we should
have our own demonstration. Tuppence laughingly said she didn’t
believe in spirits other than those that came in bottles. We argued
a bit about the pros and cons of demonstrations. Anyway, it was all
a bit of a joke really.” His gaze flicked from Mark to Isaac. “You
know, something to do to find out for ourselves if there really was
anything in it. It’s all poppycock, I know, but the ladies were all
for it and I must admit I was rather curious myself, especially
after the arrests of those fraudsters in London. Shocking business
that was.”

“
Did you not consider that Madame Humphries might be a
fraud?”

“
Of course we did.” He leaned forward in a conspiratorial
whisper. “We had a little joke about it, I don’t mind telling
you.”

“
But you went along with it anyway?”

“
Oh, yes, of course we did. Myself, Tuppence, Beatrice,
Harriett and Constance, all thought it was a bit of a joke but were
curious to see what happened. Babette and Mrs Dalrymple came along
out of curiosity more than anything else.”

“
What about everyone else? Why do you think they agreed to
take part?”

Mr
Montague frowned at that and clearly considered his reply. “Well, I
think Alan, Mr Bentwhistle, was curious, but Miss Smethwick?” He
shook his head. “She is a strange bird, that one. It doesn’t seem
like her cup of tea at all, if you know what I mean. Far too airy
fairy for her and she has been so damned odd of late, but I just
cannot put my finger on why. She spent most of the evening telling
everyone to stop what we were doing and that it was all
nonsense.”

“
Did she get a message?”

“
No, she is about the only person who didn’t get one,” he
replied. He continued to rhythmically stroke the cat’s soft fur as
he stared off into the distance, as though looking through a window
into the past. “Everyone else got bits here and there but, to be
frank with you, none of it made much sense.”

“
Who do you think ‘H’ is who is in danger?”

“
Oh, that nonsense,” Mr Montague sighed. “I haven’t the
faintest idea. If you ask me, it is someone having a laugh at all
of our expenses. The glass wouldn’t give us any more information,
even when we asked. I think it may have just been a poke at any one
of us with the letter ‘H’ in our names, you know, just to get us
thinking. I don’t believe for a second that it was a genuine
threat.”