Harriett (The Tipton Hollow 1)

Both men studied the room, the contents of the table and the layout of the room. Isaac drew pictures and made more notes as he asked about who was seated next to whom at the table. Several minutes later, he shook his head at Mark’s look of enquiry.

“I think that is about it for now, ladies. Thank you for your assistance today. If you think of anything else, please contact me. Either call or send a message and I will come and see you. I don’t care what time of day or night it is.”

“I will do that, thank you,” Harriett replied softly. Her soft brown eyes were captured by the emerald blaze of his and her breath locked in her throat. Time seemed to freeze. How long they stood locked in silent contemplation she couldn’t be sure. She wasn’t even certain that she had remembered to breathe. It was only the rustle of movement by the parlour door that made their gazes break away and Mark moved to put a little more decorous distance between them.

He knew that he had just behaved as unprofessionally as it was possible to behave, but he didn’t really care. She had captivating eyes, and the most profound effect on him, both mentally and physically. He knew, in those last few moments, that he would do everything within his power to protect her, far beyond what was required of him as a police officer, even if that meant marriage.

Mark was no idiot. He was very aware of the fact that by simply being called Mrs Mark Bosville, wife of the Detective Inspector at Great Tipton Constabulary, would ensure that no would-be murderer looking for his – or her – next victim would even briefly consider Harriett to be fair game. Strangely, the idea of going so far to protect her didn’t bother him one bit.

With plans beginning to form in his mind, and with a niggling question as to where his sanity had gone, Mark took his leave and quietly followed Isaac out of the house.

CHAPTER SIX

A brisk walk through Tipton Hollow brought them to the door of Mr Bentwhistle, the local undertaker. Within seconds of Mark’s knock, the door was yanked open by a clearly anxious man who frantically beckoned them into the house. They watched as Mr Bentwhistle stuck his head outside, looked up and down the street then quickly slammed the door closed and turned toward them with a frown.

Mark shared a curious look with Isaac, who merely shrugged and stood back to allow Mr Bentwhistle through into the sitting room.

“Well? I take it that you have news?” Mr Bentwhistle wasted no time in frivolities and didn’t bother to offer the men drinks or refreshments, or even a seat for that matter. They had been waved into the room and now stood, rather awkwardly, while Mr Bentwhistle shuffled from one foot to the other, seemingly impatient for news.

“I am afraid that I have to ask you some questions about what happened last night.” Mark waved to the assorted chairs scattered around the room. “Shall we take a seat?”

Mr Bentwhistle’s head jerked up and down in a parody of a nod and, with rather too much haste, plonked himself into a chair. Mark studied the darkness beneath the man’s eyes and wondered whether he had slept at all. While the events of last night had unquestionably challenged everyone, the man looked worse than Harriett, and he was an undertaker used to dead bodies. Why was he so shaken by Minerva’s death?

“How did she die?”

“Choking,” Mark studied the man carefully as he spoke and watched Mr Bentwhistle suddenly go pale and swallow harshly.

Whenever anyone mentioned choking, people immediately swallowed themselves, why was that? Mark wondered with a frown and studied the slightly panic stricken eyes of the older man curiously. Was the man a little too worried?

“On her drink?” Mr Bentwhistle frowned. His gaze flew from Mark, to Isaac and back to Mark as he waited.

“I think you need tell us exactly what happened last night.”

“Have you spoken to any of the others?”

“Just leave the investigation to us, Mr Bentwhistle,” Mark replied in his most officious tone. “Now, about last night; I want you to start at the beginning and leave nothing out.”

Mr Bentwhistle studied the closed expression on Mark’s face and realised that he would get nothing out of the Detective Inspector other than bare facts. Questions tumbled through him but would have to go unanswered for now. He drew in a deep breath and, as instructed, began to recount the events of the previous evening.

“I take it that you poured everyone drinks?”

“I helped Harriett. She poured the brandy and I poured the sherry?”

“Did you see anything untoward about the drinks?”

“Like what?”

“Well, did you notice, say, the colour of some of the drinks being slightly different, or if any of the refreshments had a strange smell perhaps?”

Mr Bentwhistle frowned as he studied the floor and tried to think over the details. “I remember that everyone had quite a lot to drink. I don’t know if it was boredom or fright, but everyone needed a little fortitude. I replenished several drinks, several times, but cannot remember whose I did top up, in which order. I cannot recall anything untoward about the drinks, or people, I am sorry.”

“Did Mrs Bobbington mention that she felt poorly to you at any point throughout the evening?”

“No, but then I talked to Mr Montague during pre-séance drinks and, well, afterwards I was busy pouring drinks while we all had a discussion whether to allow Madame Humphries to conduct the demonstration. I didn’t get the chance to really engage in conversation with anyone in particular. It was a group discussion but at no point did Minerva look ill at all. Well, until -”

Isaac leaned forward in his seat. “Are you aware of any animosity between anyone who attended the circle last night?”

“Animosity? You mean arguments and the like? No, not really. There are all sorts of gossip flying around most of the time. Tipton Hollow is a village after all but, as far as I am aware, there has been no falling out between anyone at the circle last night. Mr Montague is the person to ask that question to. He hears all sorts of things in his haberdashery and thrives on running the hub of the gossip mill, if you know what I mean.”