Harriett (19 page)

“
I think that you had better tell us your real name, because I
am fairly certain that you don’t hail from Scotland, are not
Hungarian, and have not done clairvoyance all of your life.” Mark’s
tone was wry, but his eyes were hard enough to make the woman’s
belligerence vanish in an instant. “This is a criminal
investigation and, as such, everyone at the séance is a suspect.
That includes yourself and your associate, Miss Hepplethwaite.”
Mark leaned forward to study her closely. “Now, how do you think it
would look to us if we got back to the station, did some background
searches on you, and found that the information you have just given
us is false?”

Mark was
fairly certain that she was the clairvoyant Scotland Yard were
after, but didn’t want to frighten the woman into going on the run.
If she was the fraud from Charing Cross, her description was all he
needed for now.

Madame
Humphries’ eyes widened and she visibly gulped at the realisation
that Mark hadn’t fallen for her evasiveness at all. She took a
moment to consider her options. Her gaze flickered around the room
as she decided what to do.

He
wondered if she would give up there and then and tell him what he
wanted to know, but mentally cursed when the woman’s self
preservation kicked in. Rather than tell him what he wanted to
know, she straightened her shoulders and sniffed at him. “My name
is Augusta Humphries. I am not a Madame, and never have been. I
adopted that because I am a clairvoyant and people relate to
foreigners who are clairvoyants. As soon as I adopted the Madame,
and a Hungarian accent, my business increased threefold, so I have
continued to use the name Madame Humphries. As far as I know, it is
not a crime because the rest of my name is my own. You can check it
out.”

“
Where do you hail from?”

“
Somerset.”

Mark
knew she was lying. He knew a cockney twang when he heard one.
“Village?”

“
Taunton.” The word was clipped and snapped out by someone who
was clearly unprepared to provide information without having it
prized out of her with a crowbar. Mark heaved a sigh of impatience
and wondered whether a threat to conduct the interview at the
station would loosen her tongue a little.

“
Tell me a bit about the conversation in the parlour on the
evening of the death. Did Minerva Bobbington seem a little odd to
you at all?”

“
I cannot remember much about it, you understand. I was in a
trance at the time.”

Now that
Mark had switched topics away from her personal details, the woman
who called herself Augusta Humphries visibly relaxed. She was
obviously relieved to have deflected the questions away from her
secrets.

“
You must have been aware of what was going on in the room
though,” Mark argued, feeling strangely reluctant to let the matter
drop.

Madame
Humphries sighed deeply. “I have already told you that I have Miss
Hepplethwaite to deal with earthly matters while I deal with the
spiritual world. It is how we work, so I am afraid in that regard I
am not in a position to provide you with the information you are
looking for.”

“
Overall, how do you feel the evening went? Do you think that
everyone was happy, or do you think that there were a few
naysayers?”

“
I think that there are people at evenings like that who only
attend so that they can pour scorn on my talents. There are those
who are sceptical and curious, and there are those who are
genuinely scared. The night was no different to any other night I
have attended. There was certainly nothing that stood out as
strange or unusual in any way, well except for the death, of
course.”

“
Nobody seemed overtly upset, or had any contretemps with
anyone? You couldn’t feel any hidden animosity between, say, two
people at the table?”

“
Nothing I am afraid, but then I don’t know any of them. I
wouldn’t pick up any undercurrents even if they were
there.”

“
Nobody argued?”

“
Not as far as I am aware, no.”

“
What do you make of the messages you were given?”

“
I cannot remember many of them. I think that someone wrote
them down.”

“
Do you usually receive threats towards people at the tables
when you get messages?”

Madame
Humphries frowned at him. “I have already said that I cannot
remember much because I deal with the spirit world in the first
instance. I am not responsible for the messages the spirits put
forward.”

“
But how can you be sure that they are from the spirit world?
Can you be certain that the messages didn’t come from someone
sitting at the table?”

Mark was
aware that Isaac’s head swivelled this way and that as he tried to
keep up with the rapid fire questions he threw at the woman, and
the quick, almost off-hand way she answered them. He knew that the
woman was able to hold firm under pressure, and only started to
panic when questions grew a little too personal. It pointed to the
fact that she had secrets, but they were more of a personal nature
than anything to do with murder.

“
One message at the table was ‘H is in danger’. Although
Minerva Bobbington didn’t have an H in her name, we have to
consider the warning very real. To that end, I would inform you
that under no circumstances are you to discuss the night with
anyone, including Miss Hepplethwaite. It is vital that we find out
who killed Minerva Bobbington, so if you remember anything about
that night that you may have forgotten, please let either myself or
Detective Brown know. Until then, please take extra precautions
with your safety. We don’t know just how real the threat to the
unknown ‘H’ is,” Mark warned briskly.

It was
on the tip of his tongue to warn the woman that she would be
arrested if she was found to have lied to him, but he wisely kept
his mouth shut. When they had the description from Scotland Yard,
he could decide what to do about the secretive clairvoyant. He was
now fairly certain that she was no more able to speak to the dead
than he was, but just couldn’t prove it yet. His eyes were lit with
determination as he strode toward the front door, and he was only
vaguely aware of Isaac as he hurriedly put his notebook and pencil
into his jacket pocket as they swept out of the door.

Madame
Humphries looked a little shaken, and was quiet as she followed
them to the door. “Is it going to be safe to go out at
night?”

“
I think that it would be better if you don’t go out but if
you have to for the sake of your work, just make sure that you come
back with someone. Keep your doors locked and don’t answer them at
night to anyone.” He paused beside the door. “Are you going to
conduct the séance at the next Tipton Hollow Psychic Circle meeting
on Friday?”

He saw
hesitation in the woman’s eyes before she nodded. “It’s my job. I
have been invited, you know.”

“
As long as there is nobody else joining the spirit world
during the evening, then I am sure I would be happy to come along
and see what you do,” he replied wryly and blithely ignored her
gasp of protest. He hadn’t missed the look of horror on her face,
and began to walk away before she could speak.

In stark
contrast to Augusta Humphries, Miss Gertrude Hepplethwaite was a
hive of energy. Within seconds of being ushered into her tiny
hallway, the small, bird-like woman twittered and fluttered about
them, as though she couldn’t quite make her mind up whether to
stand or sit. In the end, Mark waved her to a chair but, no sooner
had her bottom hit the covers, than she popped up again.

“
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.”