“I think that all villages have gossips in, just not many of them have murderers.” Isaac sighed. He studied the cobbled road beneath their feet as they walked. He couldn’t help it, he had to ask. “Which one of them do you think did it?”
“I have no idea yet Isaac, but I can promise you that by the end of the day, we will have narrowed our list of suspects down to at least a handful. It’s either that or I am not a Detective Inspector.” He knew that he was being a little bit arrogant with his declaration but knew that the people at the psychic circle were fairly easy to read: the gossip, the slightly creepy undertaker, the waspish spinster, the fake psychic, the gaggle of giggling ladies, and the matronly, bored housewife. All were there. All were potential suspects. All except for one: Harriett. She was far too open. Her eyes were far too forthright, too honest, for her to lie to anyone and do it with any kind of conviction. He knew instinctively that under questioning, even if Harriett lied through her back teeth, he would know the truth from the look in her eye and the guilty blush she wouldn’t be able to hide. Right now though, he couldn’t rule out her aunt’s involvement in Minerva’s death. He was fairly certain that the lady had secrets, but as yet he had to uncover what they were. Until he did, she had to remain on his list of suspects.
“Good Morning, Mr Montague,” Mark said when the door to Mr Montague’s flat at the back of the haberdashery opened. Mark fought a smile at the sight of the man’s floral smoking jacket and slightly effeminate slippers, and followed the older man up the narrow flight of stairs into the sitting room.
“I need to ask you a few questions about last night,” Mark began. “I need to ask you to recount events of last night starting from the moment you arrived.”
“What? All of it?” Mr Montague’s brows rose and he waved the men into seats before he slumped onto what appeared to be his favourite chair beside the fire. No sooner had he sat down than a tabby cat jumped onto his lap, curled up and promptly fell asleep.
“I take it that it was murder then?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, if it was natural causes, you wouldn’t need to ask me for more details, now would you?” Mr Montague sighed with startling clarity.
Mark took a moment to study the neat room. It wasn’t overly large but nothing was out of place. The assorted pieces of furniture, although old, were well cared for and gave the room a comfortable, homely glow. Mark took a seat in one of the chairs beside the fireplace, and found his attention captured by a large green, highly decorative jug on the small round table beneath the window. There was something about the way the sunlight glistened against the ornate flower design that caught his attention and held it.
“It’s a lovely piece, isn’t it,” Mr Montague sighed, noting the direction of Mark’s gaze and nodding in pleasure. “It was my mother’s, you know. It’s about the only thing I have of significant worth. I like the way the sunlight catches its colours.”
“It’s lovely,” Mark replied, and meant it. Although he removed his notebook and pencil, he found his eyes being drawn back to the window and the vase that had captured his interest. With a slightly disconcerted cough, he turned his attention back to the matter at hand. “I am afraid to tell you that this is now a formal investigation, Mr Montague. As such, I would request that you don’t discuss our conversation, or the events of last night, with anybody.”
“Are you taking statements from everyone?”
“Yes, we are. Why? Is there something we should know?” Mark’s eyes met and held Mr Montague’s and he read the flicker of hesitation in the man’s dark brown eyes.
“I don’t want to gossip, I really don’t, not over something as important as Minerva’s death, but I think that there is something deuced odd about that Madame Humphries. I don’t know for definite you understand, but I am sure that I have seen her somewhere before, but without the head scarf and smock-type thing she wore last night. Hideous thing, that was. Heaven only knows where she got that material from; shockingly poor quality.”
“Quite,” Mark interjected crisply before Mr Montague could ramble any further. “Do you know where you have seen the clairvoyant befo
re?”
“I have tried to think, again and again. It has plagued me all night. I am fairly certain that it wasn’t in Great Tipton. She was working somewhere, only I cannot remember where.”
There was nothing untoward about that. Psychics were often known to have a secondary job, but he made a note to look into Madame Humphries’ true persona.
“We will look into it. Now then, if you start at the beginning.”
“That’s it!” Mr Montague all but shouted. His face was wreathed in a proud smile. “She was selling tickets at the cinema in Great Maldon. Not Hungarian then, I can tell you. She was pure cockney or I am a Dutchman.”
Mark fought a smile and wondered if they were going to get out of there before dusk.
“Tell me a little bit about the circle? Why did you form it?”
“Oh, well, I was talking with Harriett and Tuppence, one day and we were discussing Miss Haversham’s continued mourning of her mother. Died over a year ago now and Miss Haversham continues to grieve to this day. We talked about whether there was such a thing as life after death. Harriett read my newspaper and the article on a psychic demonstration in London that was held the other week and heralded a remarkable success. I jokingly suggested that we should have our own demonstration. Tuppence laughingly said she didn’t believe in spirits other than those that came in bottles. We argued a bit about the pros and cons of demonstrations. Anyway, it was all a bit of a joke really.” His gaze flicked from Mark to Isaac. “You know, something to do to find out for ourselves if there really was anything in it. It’s all poppycock, I know, but the ladies were all for it and I must admit I was rather curious myself, especially after the arrests of those fraudsters in London. Shocking business that was.”
“Did you not consider that Madame Humphries might be a fraud?”
“Of course we did.” He leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper. “We had a little joke about it, I don’t mind telling you.”
“But you went along with it anyway?”
“Oh, yes, of course we did. Myself, Tuppence, Beatrice, Harriett and Constance, all thought it was a bit of a joke but were curious to see what happened. Babette and Mrs Dalrymple came along out of curiosity more than anything else.”
“What about everyone else? Why do you think they agreed to take part?”
Mr Montague frowned at that and clearly considered his reply. “Well, I think Alan, Mr Bentwhistle, was curious, but Miss Smethwick?” He shook his head. “She is a strange bird, that one. It doesn’t seem like her cup of tea at all, if you know what I mean. Far too airy fairy for her and she has been so damned odd of late, but I just cannot put my finger on why. She spent most of the evening telling everyone to stop what we were doing and that it was all nonsense.”
“Did she get a message?”