Harriett

by King, Rebecca

  “Can somebody describe what happened?” Doctor Woods asked as he moved to kneel beside Isaac to study the body of the deceased.

  When Madame Humphries took a breath, Mr Bentwhistle threw her a hard glare and stepped forward. He described Mrs Bobbington’s death with precise, if slightly clipped words, in a voice that was calm and controlled. Nobody offered any objection and, as soon as he had finished, the room lapsed into expectant silence.

  Mark struggled to focus on Mr Bentwhistle’s description. He was too busy thinking about the woman just to the right of him. She was by far the most captivating creature he had ever seen. For the life of him, he couldn’t describe the tumult of emotions that had taken over his senses. Nothing in his entire life had ever affected him like this woman before him now. Why though? Why now? Why her? What was it about her that attracted his attention? He knew that his interest had nothing to do with his job. This was an intrigue on an entirely personal level, and he no idea where it came from, or what to do about it.

  In a valiant attempt to keep his mind on the job, he mentally assessed her. She was smallish in height. The top of her head only reached his shoulder if they stood side by side, and she was more gently rounded than the women who usually captured his interest. It couldn’t be the mop of curly, light brown – almost blonde - hair, or the almond shaped honey-coloured eyes that ensnared him, or the slightly rosy cheeks that made her look so captivating that he immediately wanted to know everything about her. There wasn’t anything about her that looked even remotely criminal, and he immediately refuted any notion that she may be involved in Mrs Bobbington’s untimely death. He quickly closed out the small voice that warned him that he couldn’t really discount anyone’s involvement in Mrs Bobbington’s demise, not least the strikingly attractive woman he currently struggled to keep his mind off.

  He took a breath and tried to force his attention back to the reason why he was in her house in the first place. He made a valiant attempt to turn his attention to Doctor Woods. “Any ideas?”

  The doctor’s lips twisted in a wry grimace and he gave Mark a pointed look. “Can I speak to you outside for a minute?”

  Mark looked at Isaac. “Take everyone’s names and addresses. I will be back in a minute.”

  “I cannot say for definite right at this moment you understand, but it looks like choking or some sort of seizure,” Doctor Woods whispered as soon as the door was closed behind them and they were alone in the hallway.

  “How long before you can know for sure?” Mark asked and shifted impatiently against the need to get back into the room. He hated the fact that the door was closed and he was unable to see Harriett. While he stared blankly at Doctor Woods, his mind was firmly locked on the mental image of her bathed in the gentle glow of the fire.

  “I can do an autopsy in the morning and have a definite cause of death by around eleven.”

  “Excellent.” Mark moved back toward the door. Once inside the room his gaze immediately returned to Harriett, who hadn’t moved from her place before the fire.

  “Why do you need our addresses?” Madame Humphries demanded obstinately.

  Detective Brown sighed deeply. It was late and he had to be up in a few short hours. The last thing he wanted was to tussle with a recalcitrant clairvoyant. “We have yet to ascertain how Mrs Bobbington died. If it was of unnatural causes then we will need to ask you some questions tomorrow.”

  “But I didn’t do anything. I was busy with the spirit world and cannot tell you anything,” Madame protested. Her eyes darted quickly around the room in a mute appeal for support that failed to materialise.

  “Just give me your address, madam,” Isaac snapped, his pencil and pad poised for action. He issued his order with a stern glare that rendered the continued protests unspoken.

  “I live at 2b Whiteley Mansions, Hogsmere Road, Great Tipton.” She spoke in clipped tones. Her face mutinously dared anyone to comment on the fact that Whiteley Mansions were a block of flats that were somewhat dishabille and on the less affluent side of town.

  “Thank you, Madame Humphries, is it?” Isaac made no attempt to keep his doubt out of his voice as to the legitimacy of her name. He could make a few discrete enquiries tomorrow at a more reasonable hour that would be less challenging than questioning the woman, and undoubtedly gain more accurate results.

  “That’s right, Augusta Humphries.”

  Isaac wisely kept his mouth shut. Although the woman spoke with a strange foreign accent, she was no more foreign than his left shoe. Unless he was mistaken, there was a faint twang of a Scottish accent in there somewhere. He made a note to find out why the woman pretended to be Hungarian and moved sideways to stand before the small bird-like woman who seemed to be with Madame.

  “You are?”

  “Miss Gertrude Hepplethwaite.”

  “You are part of the -” He waved a hand vaguely around the room as though searching for a name to call the assorted group.

  “Oh, no, I am an assistant to Madame Humphries. I have been with her for several years now and -”

  “Quite.” Isaac heaved a mental sigh. “Do you live at –” he nodded sideways toward Madame Humphries and lifted his brows at the indignant expressions on both women’s faces.

  “Oh no, it’s not like that at all. I live at 14 Thirlmere Gardens, Great Tipton.”

  Before the woman could break into a diatribe about her association with the great Madame, Isaac moved sideways again to stand before the woman who had greeted them at the front door.

  “Babette Marchington.”

  “I take it this is your house?” Isaac felt an immediate kinship toward the woman before him. She was about middle aged, but it was difficult to associate her with the slightly ageing man who had arrived at the station a couple of hours earlier to report a death at the Psychic Circle in Tipton Hollow. The woman before him was of average height with a slightly curvy build but had a practicality about her that immediately assured him that he would get straight to the facts and receive the absolute truth. He liked that in a person. With a nod, he scribbled down the address: 29 Daventry Street, Tipton Hollow, and moved sideways again.

  “Miss Caroline Smethwick. I live at Morningside Cottage, Mallows Road, Tipton Hollow.”

  Isaac glanced back at Babette and motioned toward Madame Humphries. “Are you helping erm?”

  “Oh no, we are members of the Tipton Hollow Psychic Circle. It was our first meeting tonight,” Babette announced and threw Harriett a rueful glance.

  “And our last,” Harriett muttered. She caught movement out of the corner of her eye and turned around only to find the Detective Inspector mere feet away. Her nervousness dissipated at the smile he only just managed to hide at her comment and her cheeks flooded with embarrassment.

  “Don’t be like that dear. We don’t know what happened yet and I don’t see why it should stop us from having another evening,” Babette murmured wryly. If she was honest, she was going to move heaven and earth to ensure that the Psychic Circle never held another meeting as long as she lived.

  Harriett rolled her eyes and puffed out her cheeks. While she lived and breathed she would never willingly take part in another evening like this. It had been far too strange, even if she discounted the death of one of their members. Sitting in the dark holding hands with her friends was something she could live with. Sitting in the dark while receiving sinister threats and messages that made no sense, while watching a middle aged woman huff and puff, and glow in the dark, was something she could definitely live without.

  “Not in this house,” the words were out before she could stop them and she sensed rather than saw Mr Bentwhistle’s smothered chuckle.

  How anybody could contemplate another evening like this was beyond her, but she had no doubt that at some point someone would suggest doing it again. She could only hope that it wouldn’t be for many, many years hence, and she would be the one sending the messages rather than receiving them. At least then she could make sure that they would b
e understood. She shook her head and watched the tall, distinguished figure of the Detective Inspector step toward her. She watched, transfixed, as he removed a small notepad from his jacket pocket and a small pencil.

  “What is your name?” His soft voice was a deep rumble that was strangely intimate.

  Harriett felt her mouth open but no words came out. She didn’t know what to say. Words hovered in a confused jumble and she knew that if she spoke any of them she would make a complete fool of herself. Was that sandalwood cologne he was wearing? Seconds, or was that minutes, ticked past before a cough from Mr Montague broke her out of her trance.

  “Harriett Marchington,” she replied dully. She tried really hard to gather her wits about her. She wasn’t sure whether she should hold her wrists out so he could handcuff her and take her off to the station. Right now, she wasn’t sure she would object if he did.

  No wonder he is so successful, she mused as she eyed the seemingly endless expanse of broad shoulders beneath the precision cut of his expensive suit.

  “Marchington?” Mark frowned into her eyes but inwardly smiled at the awkwardness she struggled so hard to hide. He knew he had thrown her off balance. The knowledge that he had such a profound effect on her made him want to shout for joy. At least he wasn’t alone with the awareness that hovered within them. He felt all at sea too. “Are you related?”

  “To who?” The words were out before she could stop them. Harriett inwardly cringed and glanced over at Babette. “Oh, yes, of course. We share the house. Well, she is my aunt.” Harriett lapsed into silence and wanted to climb behind the curtain and hide until he had gone. What was it about this man who had such a strong affect on her intelligence? Usually she had no problem having a normal, sensible conversation with anyone. With him? Logic disappeared out of the window and she turned into a babbling wreck.

  Mark’s lips twitched but he wisely remained silent and jotted her name and address down in his notebook with a hand that trembled slightly.

  “Did she report to anyone that she felt ill prior to her collapse?”

  Harriett frowned and mutely shook her head. Her response was echoed by the murmurs of denial that rippled around the room.

  Mark was only vaguely aware of Mr Hugo Montague giving Isaac his name and the address of the Bobbin and Lace Haberdashery above which he lived at 66 High Street, Tipton Hollow, as he moved sideways to face the rather dour man who stood beside Harriett.

  He took the opportunity to glance at Harriett. She was staring at him with a slightly stunned look in her eye; as though she wasn’t sure what had just happened. He wanted to sit with her for a while and find out everything about her, and almost wished he had more questions about the woman’s death so that he had a reason to talk to her some more. Harriett. He rolled the name around in his mind, testing its size. It felt strangely comfortable; just like the woman beside him. When Mr Bentwhistle shifted awkwardly, Mark gave himself a mental shake and looked at the familiar figure of the funeral director.

  “I take it you are not one of Madame Humphries’ assistants?” he asked wryly. He watched Alan Bentwhistle roll his eyes and shake his head. “Oh yes, this is my evening job. I decided to come out of curiosity, that’s all,” he reported dryly.

  “I don’t need to ask if you still live at 48 High Street?”

  “The one and the same,” Alan replied. “What do you think it was?” He asked as he nodded toward Mrs Bobbington on the floor.

  “Don’t know yet. But until we have a definite cause of death, we have to make sure that we have everything covered,” Mark replied. He offered Harriett a reassuring look. “I will arrange for her to be removed quickly.”

  Harriett nodded but before she could speak, Doctor Woods appeared in the doorway. “Two men from the station are outside now and are going to arrange a carriage to take her to the hospital.”

  “Thank you,” Harriett replied before Mark could speak.

  Mark reluctantly moved on to the rather pretty young lady who stood beside Mr Bentwhistle.

  “My name is Beatrice Northolt. I live at Brantley Manor on Tiverton Street, Tipton Hollow.” Her voice was crisp and clear. Mark had no doubt that she was one of Harriett’s friends, and he offered her a smile of reassurance.

  “Thank you,” he nodded only to frown slightly when her eyes widened and she gasped. Had he said something wrong? He glanced at Harriett only to find her gaze locked on him just as intently. What was wrong with everyone? Were they all spooked, or just really strange? He immediately discounted the notion that there was anything unusual about Harriett: She was very pretty, but definitely not strange. A small voice reminded him that most of the people present had never been in a psychic circle before, and had experienced heaven only knew what before they had witnessed a death of one of their acquaintances. They had then waited with the body for some time until he and his colleagues arrived. The hour was now well past midnight and everyone was bound to be tired and over-wrought.

  He stepped sideways toward the pretty blonde woman who had yet to speak and looked more than a little shell-shocked. He jotted down her details: Eloisa Jones, Hope Cottage, Perkins Road, Tipton Hollow. The last words were barely written before Isaac appeared at his elbow and took the details of the woman who was beside Eloisa.

  Tuppence Smethurst, Hilltop Farm, Tipton Hollow. Her voice was almost harsh and, from the look of it, she had some sort of problem with Isaac. At least, that was one reason why she seemed to be glaring at Mark’s associate as though she wanted to throw him out of the door.

  Mark hadn’t seen Tuppence before and wondered if she was new to the area. “How long have you lived in Tipton Hollow, Miss Smethurst?”

  “All of my life,” Tuppence replied, her voice now soft and amiable.

  Mark nodded and looked at Isaac, who was uncharacteristically scowling deeply at Tuppence. He sighed and nudged Isaac who dutifully moved along the line.

  “I am Constance Dalrymple, and this is my mother.” She beckoned to the rather matronly lady beside her. “We live at Windmill Mews, just off the Manor Road, Tipton Hollow.”

  “I know it,” Mark replied with a smile. He didn’t need to ask if the ladies lived together. The resemblance between them was remarkable. He moved on to the last person in the line. He watched Isaac jot down the details of Miss Betty Haversham who lived at 88 Daventry Street, Tipton Hollow.

  With a sigh, Mark turned to the group just as there was a knock on the front door. He watched David Woods head out to let the latest arrivals in. Everyone was solemn and silent as they watched the men carefully place Mrs Bobbington on the stretcher and carry her from the house. David followed them to the door and paused to look at Mark. “I will be in touch with you tomorrow.”

  Mark nodded and turned his attention to the room. As soon as the body had gone everyone seemed to imperceptibly relax, although nobody moved.

  “Until we can ascertain the cause of death, I suggest that you all go home and stay there. Unfortunately, because of the fact that this is an unexplained death, you must remain at home tomorrow until you either receive word that you are allowed to go about your business, or myself and Detective Brown arrive to ask you further questions.”

  “But I have appointments tomorrow, I simply cannot sit at home and wait,” Madame Humphries protested. She was clearly horrified at the thought that she might actually be suspected of anything untoward.

  “It is either that or I can arrest everyone here and now while we wait for a cause of death from Doctor Woods. I don’t know about you but I think everyone would be better off after a good night’s sleep.”

  “Quite right,” Mr Bentwhistle replied. He glared at Madame Humphries to silence her further protests. “I would rather remain at home for a few hours in the morning and cancel my appointments than spend the night in the cells.” He turned to Mark. “I will be at home if you need me. Is it alright for us to go now?”

  “Yes, but I would like to add that if any of you are not at home when we call tomorrow, I
will not hesitate to arrest you.” His tone was as hard as the glare in his eyes as he stared pointedly at Madame Humphries and her assistant for several long moments.

  “Ladies, I think that given the lateness of the hour, Mr Bentwhistle, Mr Montague, myself, and Detective Brown will escort you home. It isn’t wise for you to go out into the night by yourselves.” He knew that Isaac lived in Great Tipton. “Detective Brown, I suggest that you take Madame Humphries and Miss Hepplethwaite home and I will see you in the morning.”

  He turned to Mr Bentwhistle and Mr Montague.

  “I live on the High Street closer to Hilltop Farm, so I am happy to take Tuppence home and can drop Beatrice and the ladies Dalrymple on my way. Assuming that Mr Bentwhistle here is happy to take Eloisa, Miss Smethwick and Miss Haversham?” Mr Montague glanced at everyone enquiringly but nobody made any objection. His suggestion rendered Mark’s involvement unnecessary. Mark mentally applauded the man’s ingenuity and didn’t even attempt to object and instead watched while everyone took their leave.

  As soon as the front door closed behind the last guest, Mark turned toward Harriett. “As soon as I have a cause of death for you, I will pop around and let you know if we need to take any further action. Meantime, I should be obliged if neither you nor Babette, leave the house either.”

  “Is Charles alright to go? He wasn’t here at all this evening and will have no idea what went on. We need to open the tea shop, you see. Our regular customers will expect it.”

  Mark reluctantly drew his gaze away from Harriett and turned toward Babette. “Charles is fine to carry on as normal. We know that he was at the pub throughout the evening. It is just everyone who was present at the time of the death who needs to remain at home. It will just be until we know for certain how Mrs Bobbington died.

  Harriett tried hard not to stare at him. He really did have the most mesmerising green eyes. Her gaze skimmed over the high cheekbones to the firmly chiselled lips bracketed by the faint outline of dimples and she wondered if they appeared when he smiled.