“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.