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Madame Humphries frowned at him. “I have already said that I cannot remember much because I deal with the spirit world in the first instance. I am not responsible for the messages the spirits put forward.”
“But how can you be sure that they are from the spirit world? Can you be certain that the messages didn’t come from someone sitting at the table?”
Mark was aware that Isaac’s head swivelled this way and that as he tried to keep up with the rapid fire questions he threw at the woman, and the quick, almost off-hand way she answered them. He knew that the woman was able to hold firm under pressure, and only started to panic when questions grew a little too personal. It pointed to the fact that she had secrets, but they were more of a personal nature than anything to do with murder.
“One message at the table was ‘H is in danger’. Although Minerva Bobbington didn’t have an H in her name, we have to consider the warning very real. To that end, I would inform you that under no circumstances are you to discuss the night with anyone, including Miss Hepplethwaite. It is vital that we find out who killed Minerva Bobbington, so if you remember anything about that night that you may have forgotten, please let either myself or Detective Brow
n know. Until then, please take extra precautions with your safety. We don’t know just how real the threat to the unknown ‘H’ is,” Mark warned briskly.
It was on the tip of his tongue to warn the woman that she would be arrested if she was found to have lied to him, but he wisely kept his mouth shut. When they had the description from Scotland Yard, he could decide what to do about the secretive clairvoyant. He was now fairly certain that she was no more able to speak to the dead than he was, but just couldn’t prove it yet. His eyes were lit with determination as he strode toward the front door, and he was only vaguely aware of Isaac as he hurriedly put his notebook and pencil into his jacket pocket as they swept out of the door.
Madame Humphries looked a little shaken, and was quiet as she followed them to the door. “Is it going to be safe to go out at night?”
“I think that it would be better if you don’t go out but if you have to for the sake of your work, just make sure that you come back with someone. Keep your doors locked and don’t answer them at night to anyone.” He paused beside the door. “Are you going to conduct the séance at the next Tipton Hollow Psychic Circle meeting on Friday?”
He saw hesitation in the woman’s eyes before she nodded. “It’s my job. I have been invited, you know.”
“As long as there is nobody else joining the spirit world during the evening, then I am sure I would be happy to come along and see what you do,” he replied wryly and blithely ignored her gasp of protest. He hadn’t missed the look of horror on her face, and began to walk away before she could speak.
In stark contrast to Augusta Humphries, Miss Gertrude Hepplethwaite was a hive of energy. Within seconds of being ushered into her tiny hallway, the small, bird-like woman twittered and fluttered about them, as though she couldn’t quite make her mind up whether to stand or sit. In the end, Mark waved her to a chair but, no sooner had her bottom hit the covers, than she popped up again.
“Oh, dear me, now, I have forgotten to offer you gentlemen some tea, haven’t I?” she worried. “That will never do. Oh, no. I will put the pot on to boil. Tea, gentlemen? Let me get some cups, now. Oh, dear, me.”
Mark shared a look with Isaac, and craned his neck around the door to look into the back room. It was shabbier than the tiny parlour they sat in. Isaac was perched nervously on a sofa that sagged dangerously in the middle and was covered with threadbare throws that should have been chucked out years ago. The pictures on the walls were old and caked in grime and dust. It seemed that Gertrude Hepplethwaite was hardly ever at home either, or had absolutely no interest in chores. As if he could read his thoughts, Isaac suddenly sneezed and earned himself a rueful look from Mark who nodded at the dust beneath his boots.
Rather than return to the sitting room, Gertrude remained in the kitchen. Mark could see through the gap between the door and the door jamb that the woman stood perfectly still and stared into space while she waited for the pot to boil. Determined not to be thwarted, or made to wait any longer than was absolutely necessary, Mark joined her in the kitchen. His suspicions were accurate when he found her doing nothing in particular next to a small square table.
“We came to ask you some questions about the night of the séance.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Miss Hepplethwaite replied vaguely, and cast a worried glance around the kitchen as though she was trying to find something to do to get out of the house.
Before she could twitter off, Mark sighed and leaned his hips against the wall. He folded his arms carefully and studied the woman before him. She was without doubt the most evasive of the entire Psychic Circle put together, and that included Madame Humphries and her questionable background.
“I would advise you that this is a murder investigation. If it makes you uncomfortable to be questioned in your own home, I am more than happy to take you down to the station,” Mark offered reasonably and hid a smile of satisfaction when the woman stopped and turned to stare at him with a look of dread on her face.
“Oh, no. That would never do, no.”
“Then tell me what happened on the night of the séance. Start at the very beginning and leave nothing out.”
“Well, I don’t know that there is all that much to tell, really,” Gertrude replied with a frown. She ignored the kettle and stared blankly out of the window beside the fireplace.
She began to ramble but eventually took them through each step of the evening until, nearly an hour later they arrived at the moment Minerva collapsed onto the floor.
“Did she mention to anyone that she felt ill?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Madame Humphries, God bless her soul, was busy with her spirit friends, you know.”
“But you were paying attention to what was going on at the table.” It wasn’t a question. Despite her nervousness, for one brief moment, her eyes met and held his with a steadiness that convinced him that her vagueness was nothing more than a front.
“Tell me, Miss Hepplethwaite, where did you live before you came to Great Tipton?” His face was a mask of sternness that wasn’t lost on the older woman. He saw the calculation in the depths of her brown eyes and knew she was contemplating lying.
After several moments of thoughtful silence, she sighed and motioned back to the sitting room. “There was something odd that happened that evening. I can remember at the time thinking that I needed to ask Augusta about it but, for the life of me, I cannot remember who it was.”
“Who it was, what?”
Miss Hepplethwaite turned toward them. “I have been doing these séances with Augusta for many years now. It is evident when someone earthly is pushing the glass and when the spirits are pushing it. It glides a lot easier, and doesn’t catch on any bits on the table-top when spirits use their energies. To begin with, someone was definitely pushing the glass but, when the ‘H is in danger’ warning came, the glass moved by a strange mix of earthly pushing and spirit. I looked at each person in turn, even though it was so dark, but couldn’t detect anything untoward. Unfortunately, with the lights out it is really difficult to tell if someone is playing the fool and pushing the glass to force a message. Augusta was busy with her spirit friends, and everyone else was watching the glass move about the table. I cannot forget the oddest feeling though that someone at that table gave us the message.”
“Have you had the chance to ask Augusta about it?” Mark thought about yesterday when he hadn’t had the time to call around. Had the ladies met to talk about their stories?
