Harriett (The Tipton Hollow 1)

“How long have you been living in Great Tipton?”

“About a year now.”

“Have you lived here throughout that year?”

Madame Humphries sighed impatiently. “Yes, all of that time,” she snapped. She clearly considered the matter irrelevant, or Mark was probing a little too deeply, he wasn’t sure which. “Why? What does my personal circumstance have to do with a death in Tipton Hollow?”

“We are merely gathering information about everyone, Madame Humphries,” Mark sighed. “It gives us a clear picture of the people who attended the séance. Tell me, where did you live before you came to Great Tipton?”

A pregnant silence settled between them. The clock on the mantle ticked louder and louder until Mark wondered if she was going to pretend she hadn’t heard him. Eventually, once her internal battle had finished, she tutted and sighed. “Scotland. In a small town just outside of Edinburgh: Macosh, do you know it?”

“No, but give Isaac your address. I take it that there are people in the area who can vouch that you lived there?”

“Look, what is this? Why do you need that kind of information?” Madame Humphries snapped, clearly distressed that Mark wanted to look into her background. “I do hope you don’t consider that I had anything to do with that woman’s murder,” she scoffed in a dismissive manner that was in contrast to the slightly panicked look on her face. “Do you?” She gulped weakly when neither man moved to reassure her.

“I think that you had better tell us your real name, because I am fairly certain that you don’t hail from Scotland, are not Hungarian, and have not done clairvoyance all of your life.” Mark’s tone was wry, but his eyes were hard enough to make the woman’s belligerence vanish in an instant. “This is a criminal investigation and, as such, everyone at the séance is a suspect. That includes yourself and your associate, Miss Hepplethwaite.” Mark leaned forward to study her closely. “Now, how do you think it would look to us if we got back to the station, did some background searches on you, and found that the information you have just given us is false?”

Mark was fairly certain that she was the clairvoyant Scotland Yard were after, but didn’t want to frighten the woman into going on the run. If she was the fraud from Charing Cross, her description was all he needed for now.

Madame Humphries’ eyes widened and she visibly gulped at the realisation that Mark hadn’t fallen for her evasiveness at all. She took a moment to consider her options. Her gaze flickered around the room as she decided what to do.

He wondered if she would give up there and then and tell him what he wanted to know, but mentally cursed when the woman’s self preservation kicked in. Rather than tell him what he wanted to know, she straightened her shoulders and sniffed at him. “My name is Augusta Humphries. I am not a Madame, and never have been. I adopted that because I am a clairvoyant and people relate to foreigners who are clairvoyants. As soon as I adopted the Madame, and a Hungarian accent, my business increased threefold, so I have continued to use the name Madame Humphries. As far as I know, it is not a crime because the rest of my name is my own. You can check it out.”

“Where do you hail from?”

“Somerset.”

Mark knew she was lying. He knew a cockney twang when he heard one. “Village?”

“Taunton.” The word was clipped and snapped out by someone who was clearly unprepared to provide information without having it prized out of her with a crowbar. Mark heaved a sigh of impatience and wondered whether a threat to conduct the interview at the station would loosen her tongue a little.

“Tell me a bit about the conversation in the parlour on the evening of the death. Did Minerva Bobbington seem a little odd to you at all?”

“I cannot remember much about it, you understand. I was in a trance at the time.”

Now that Mark had switched topics away from her personal details, the woman who called herself Augusta Humphries visibly relaxed. She was obviously relieved to have deflected the questions away from her secrets.

“You must have been aware of what was going on in the room though,” Mark argued, feeling strangely reluctant to let the matter drop.

Madame Humphries sighed deeply. “I have already told you that I have Miss Hepplethwaite to deal with earthly matters while I deal with the spiritual world. It is how we work, so I am afraid in that regard I am not in a position to provide you with the information you are looking for.”

“Overall, how do you feel the evening went? Do you think that everyone was happy, or do you think that there were a few naysayers?”

“I think that there are people at evenings like that who only attend so that they can pour scorn on my talents. There are those who are sceptical and curious, and there are those who are genuinely scared. The night was no different to any other night I have attended. There was certainly nothing that stood out as strange or unusual in any way, well except for the death, of course.”

“Nobody seemed overtly upset, or had any contretemps with anyone? You couldn’t feel any hidden animosity between, say, two people at the table?”

“Nothing I am afraid, but then I don’t know any of them. I wouldn’t pick up any undercurrents even if they were there.”

“Nobody argued?”

“Not as far as I am aware, no.”

“What do you make of the messages you were given?”

“I cannot remember many of them. I think that someone wrote them down.”

“Do you usually receive threats towards people at the tables when you get messages?”