Mark knew exactly what the man meant. Mr Montague was
at the heart of all of the village gossip. If anyone knew anything about anybody, Mr Montague would be the man. Mark could only hope that he hadn’t already gossiped about Minerva Bobbington’s death last night.
“How did Minerva die of choking though? I mean, she was drinking sherry just the same as most of the people there and they were alright. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Tests are still ongoing, but it looks like she didn’t die from natural causes. That’s all I can say right now.” Mark replied blandly. In an attempt to stop any further questions, he stood and looked down at Mr Bentwhistle with a stern look of caution on his face. “I would advise you that this is now a criminal investigation and I would request that you do not discuss matters with anyone for the time being. If you do think of anything that happened last night that you haven’t told us already, please contact either myself or Detective Brown here. We may need to ask you some more questions but, for now, I think that’s all. Thank you for your time, Mr Bentwhistle.”
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.