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“I haven’t had the chance since, no,” Miss Hepplethwaite remarked wryly. “Once we had left dear Harriett’s house, we returned to our respective homes and have been here waiting for you to call by.”
Although the woman had settled down a little, there was something about her that was vague. It was as though she was there but not quite in the room with them, and it gave him the distinct impression that she was trying to avoid his questions. It reminded him strongly of Alan Bentwhistle’s own vagueness yesterday. Did they both have something to hide?
“There was something else,” she sighed, and drew her shawl around her even tighter around her should, as though she wanted to ward off the menace of her memories. “I don’t believe that Augusta was really communicating that night.”
Mark stared at her. “You don’t think she was really talking to spirits?”
Miss Hepplethwaite shook her head. “Oh, dear me, no.” She sighed and began to look around the room as though the thought distressed her greatly. “After séances, Augusta is usually drained because the spirits draw on her energies. That night, on the way home, she was as spritely as she was when she arrived. There was no sign of tiredness or weakness of someone who had been working closely with the spirit world.”
“Why do you think she faked it?”
“I don’t think she faked it all. I think that she may have been speaking to the spirit world, but I don’t think that their energies were used to push the glass and give the messages. I think someone at that table was giving the messages on purpose. That’s why Augusta wasn’t tired at the end of the evening.”
“Do you have prior acquaintance with anyone in Tipton Hollow before you were approached to attend their first Psychic Circle?”
“No. Tuppence came to one of our demonstrations in the Village Hall in town. She dropped us a note to ask us if we would like to visit the circle and do a séance and demonstration. Augusta agreed. It is work, you know. We are more than happy to accept any invitation.”
“But you hadn’t met anyone from Tipton Hollow before?”
“Our work takes us here and there, but I have never been to Tipton Hollow before the night of the séance.”
“So tell me, how does Madame Humphries turn green when she is in a trance? We know that it isn’t spiritual, so don’t even try.”
Miss Hepplethwaite studied them and began to flutter nervously again. Her hands lifted to the curls around her face and she began to tuck them in randomly with a hand that trembled slightly. “I cannot tell you.”
Mark leaned forward in his chair. “Are you doing the séance on Friday, at Beatrice’s house?”
“Well, do you know, I am not sure if Augusta accepted the invitation.”
“I think she did.”
“I think we will be going then,” Miss Hepplethwaite whispered hesitantly. She was clearly unnerved about something else but didn’t want to confide in them.
Mark knew that there was more to their clairvoyance than their apparent ability to speak to dead people. He was more convinced than ever that she and Madame Humphries were the thieves who used the cover of mediumship to burgle people in London. Rather than probe deeper into how they worked, he decided to take the opportunity to study them closer at the Psychic Circle’s next séance with his own eyes.
After asking her several more questions to which he received the same answers as Augusta Humphries, Mark rose to take his leave. He followed Isaac to the front door only
to suddenly stop and spin on his heel. Miss Hepplethwaite gasped and staggered back at the speed of his move. Using his height to his advantage, Mark leaned down to stare the woman in the eye.
“You forgot to tell me where you used to live before you moved here, Miss Hepplethwaite.” He lifted one brow in stern demand and watched panic light the woman’s eyes. He knew the speed of his move had unnerved the woman and was rewarded for his inventiveness when the woman blurted her response.
“Yorkshire,” she snapped before she snapped her mouth closed.
“Address?”
“I-I-I,” she glanced quickly from Mark to Isaac. “I cannot remember.”
Alarm filled her eyes and it was all he could do to keep the triumph off his face. With a brisk nod, he spun around and left the house.
“Do you think that they are both the clairvoyants from Charing Cross?”
“I think they are. I just hope that I haven’t just given them cause to run. She knows something else, I am sure of it. I just don’t know if it is about Minerva’s death, lies at the séance, or their backgrounds.” Mark glanced up and down the road, and caught sight of a carriage parked at the end of the street. He nudged Isaac and issued his colleague with a look. “At the end of the road is a black carriage. I am going to walk toward it. You go down the alleyway there. Walk down to the main street and try to get a good look at it. See if you can identify the coachman, or anyone inside.”
He knew from the pure black horse with the long, shaggy mane and the heavily garbed coachman, that it was the same carriage that had been outside of Beatrice’s house in Tipton Hollow. Unfortunately, the carriage never drew close enough for him to wave the coachman to a stop. He had to assume that whoever was inside was either watching him, or the people who were at the scene of Miss Bobbington’s murder. Was it the murderer in the carriage? As he drew close to the conveyance, unsurprisingly, the coachman nudged the horse into a brisk walk. By the time he reached the end of the road, the carriage was moving at a trot, and flew straight past Isaac, who appeared at the entrance to the alleyway seconds after it brushed past. Isaac shook his head. He hadn’t managed to catch sight of either driver, or occupier.
Mark mentally cursed and met his colleague.
“What now?”
