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She physically jumped when she realised that he was staring directly at her. His emerald eyes were almost scouring her soul as he studied her and she struggled not to squirm beneath the intensity of his gaze. She understood in that instant exactly why he was in the job he was in. If she was a criminal and this man wanted to know something, she would tell him what he wanted to know just to get that intensely probing gaze off her.
She turned to Babette, and caught sight of Charles as he slid past the parlour doorway. The heavy thud of his booted feet as he climbed the stairs signalled his intention to retire to bed without a word to anyone. Rather disconcertingly, he made no attempt to enquire what had happened, or offer Babette, or Harriett, any support whatsoever. Harriett wondered why the man was there at all. Charles usually got up early, headed to the bakery at the back of the tea shop and worked there until tea-time. He returned home only to have his evening meal and then headed down to the pub where he would remain until bed-time. It seemed that nothing was going to deprive Charles of his sleep. Not even the death of Minerva Bobbington in his own front parlour.
“Can somebody describe what happened?” Doctor Woods asked as he moved to kneel beside Isaac to study the body of the deceased.
When Madame Humphries took a breath, Mr Bentwhistle threw her a hard glare and stepped forward. He described Mrs Bobbington’s death with precise, if slightly clipped words, in a voice that was calm and controlled. Nobody offered any objection and, as soon as he had finished, the room lapsed into expectant silence.
Mark struggled to focus on Mr Bentwhistle’s description. He was too busy thinking about the woman just to the right of him. She was by far the most captivating creature he had ever seen. For the life of him, he couldn’t describe the tumult of emotions that had taken over his senses. Nothing in his entire life had ever affected him like this woman before him now. Why though? Why now? Why her? What was it about her that attracted his attention? He knew that his interest had nothing to do with his job. This was an intrigue on an entirely personal level, and he no idea where it came from, or what to do about it.
In a valiant attempt to keep his mind on the job, he mentally assessed her. She was smallish in height. The top of her head only reached his shoulder if they stood side by side, and she was more gently rounded than the women who usually captured his interest. It couldn’t be the mop of curly, light brown – almost blonde - hair, or the almond shaped honey-coloured eyes that ensnared him, or the slightly rosy cheeks that made her look so captivating that he immediately wanted to know everything about her. There wasn’t anything about her that looked even remotely criminal, and he immediately refuted any notion that she may be involved in Mrs Bobbington’s untimely death. He quickly closed out the small voice that warned him that he couldn’t really discount anyone’s involvement in Mrs Bobbington’s demise, not least the strikingly attractive woman he currently struggled to keep his mind off.
He took a breath and tried to force his attention back to the reason why he was in her house in the first place. He made a valiant attempt to turn his attention to Doctor Woods. “Any ideas?”
The doctor’s lips twisted in a wry grimace and he gave Mark a pointed look. “Can I speak to you outside for a minute?”
Mark looked at Isaac. “Take everyone’s names and addresses. I will be back in a minute.”
“I cannot say for definite right at this moment you understand, but it looks like choking or some sort of seizure,” Doctor Woods whispered as soon as the door was closed behind them and they were alone in the hallway.
“How long before you can know for sure?” Mark asked and shifted impatiently against the need to get back into the room. He hated the fact that the door was closed and he was unable to see Harriett. While he stared blankly at Doctor Woods, his mind was firmly locked on the mental image of her bathed in the gentle glow of the fire.
“I can do an autopsy in the morning and have a definite cause of death by around eleven.”
“Excellent.” Mark moved back toward the door. Once inside the room his gaze immediately returned to Harriett, who hadn’t moved from her place before the fire.
“Why do you need our addresses?” Madame Humphries demanded obstinately.
Detective Brown sighed deeply. It was late and he had to be up in a few short hours. The last thing he wanted was to tussle with a recalcitrant clairvoyant. “We have yet to ascertain how Mrs Bobbington died. If it was of unnatural causes then we will need to ask you some questions tomorrow.”
“But I didn’t do anything. I was busy with the spirit world and cannot tell you anything,” Madame protested. Her eyes darted quickly around the room in a mute appeal for support that failed to materialise.
“Just give me your address, madam,” Isaac snapped, his pencil and pad poised for action. He issued his order with a stern glare that rendered the continued protests unspoken.
“I live at 2b Whiteley Mansions, Hogsmere Road, Great Tipton.” She spoke in clipped tones. Her face mutinously dared anyone to comment on the fact that Whiteley Mansions were a block of flats that were somewhat dishabille and on the less affluent side of town.
“Thank you, Madame Humphries, is it?” Isaac made no attempt to keep his doubt out of his voice as to the legitimacy of her name. He could make a few discrete enquiries tomorrow at a more reasonable hour that would be less challenging than questioning the woman, and undoubtedly gain more accurate results.
“That’s right, Augusta Humphries.”
Isaac wisely kept his mouth shut. Although the woman spoke with a strange foreign accent, she was no more foreign than his left shoe. Unless he was mistaken, there was a faint twang of a Scottish accent in there somewhere. He made a note to find out why the woman pretended to be Hungarian and moved sideways to stand before the small bird-like woman who seemed to be with Madame.
“You are?”
“Miss Gertrude Hepplethwaite.”
“You are part of the -” He waved a hand vaguely around the room as though searching for a name to call the assorted group.
“Oh, no, I am an assistant to Madame Humphries. I have been with her for several years now and -”
“Quite.” Isaac heaved a mental sigh. “Do you live at –” he nodded sideways toward Madame Humphries and lifted his brows at the indignant expressions on both women’s faces.
“Oh no, it’s not like that at all. I live at 14 Thirlmere Gardens, Great Tipton.”
Before the woman could break into a diatribe about her association with the great Madame, Isaac moved sideways again to stand before the woman who had greeted them at the front door.
“Babette Marchington.”
“I take it this is your house?” Isaac felt an immediate kinship toward the woman before him. She was about middle aged, but it was difficult to associate her with the slightly ageing man who had arrived at the station a couple of hours earlier to report a death at the Psychic Circle in Tipton Hollow. The woman before him was of average height with a slightly curvy build but had a practicality about her that immediately assured him that he would get straight to the facts and receive the absolute truth. He liked that in a person. With a nod, he scribbled down the address: 29 Daventry Street, Tipton Hollow, and moved sideways again.
