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She frowned at the silence that greeted her. Usually she could at least hear Mr Montague shuffling around out back. She frowned and walked around the various bolts of cloth.
“Hugo? Are you here?”
It was highly unlikely for Hugo to leave the place unmanned. She glanced at the sign on the door and read the Closed for business that faced her. That meant that the Open sign was visible to the public.
“Hugo? Are you out back?” She wondered if he had popped to the outhouse at the rear of the store and waited for several moments. She took the opportunity to study several rolls of cloth and some off-cuts of lace. When Hugo failed to materialise, she made her way to the rear of the shop.
“Hugo? Hello? Is anyone there?” Harriett sighed despondently. Wherever he had gone, he had forgotten to close up before he left. She briefly contemplated whether she should lock the front doors and leave the key with the man next door. With a sigh, she made her way around the back of the counter.
“Oh, Lord,” she whispered and stared in horror at the highly polished shoes that pointed skyward. Her gaze reluctantly travelled higher, up the short legs, to the bright red waist coat. Her swallow was harsh in the silence of the room. Her heart hammered in her throat as her eyes swept over the four brass buttons that led up to the pristine white collar of Hugo’s shirt. She edged closer, and cried aloud at the sight of Hugo’s blank stare in his far too pale face.
Hugo Montague was dead.
Harriett’s stomach churned. A blessedly numb sensation coursed through her that dampened the immediate grief. She felt a cold breeze drift gently over her chin but couldn’t bring herself to tear her gaze away from the body of her friend.
How long she stood there, she had no idea. She was only vaguely aware of the faint tinkle of the shop doorway but couldn’t turn around; couldn’t absorb the impact of the death of someone she knew so well and had considered a dear friend.
“Harriett?” The familiar rumble of Mark’s voice drifted over her and snapped her out of her fog of grief.
“Oh, God, Mark,” she whispered and turned toward him with horror-filled eyes.
All of Mark’s senses snapped to attention. A quick glance around the small shop assured him that there was nobody else there.
“What’s wrong?” He watched Harriett step aside and point vaguely to something behind the counter. The small hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He knew, even without moving behind the wooden counter, that he would find Hugo Montague dead.
“How long have you been here?” Mark demanded. He studied her for a moment before he hurried to the front door to flick the latch and turn the ‘closed’ sign around. The last thing he wanted was for some hysterical female to turn up and announce the latest death to the gossips. Right now, he had other things to concern himself with. He caught sight of a flurry of movement outside of the large front window and quickly yanked the door open. The young boy looked curious, but didn’t ask any questions as he was handed a couple of pennies and ordered to fetch the constable.
“Be quick about it,” he called to the lad as he raced to earn his reward.
Once inside, he secured the door again and hurried across the shop. Harriett hadn’t moved and seemed to be in a daze. He moved to stand in front of her and tipped her chin up until her eyes met his.
“Are you alright?” He knew she wasn’t, despite the fact that she nodded jerkily. It was there in her eyes: the deep rooted fear and grief that had yet to surface. He carefully lifted a stool over the body and moved her around to the opposite side of the counter where she wouldn’t be able to see the corpse, and gently sat her down.
“How long have you been here, Harriett?”
Harriett felt each word as though it was being spoken through a tunnel. It resounded through her head over and over in an endless echo. “I don’t know. A few minutes, maybe? I came in and called Hugo, but there was no response. It’s odd for him because even if he is out in the back yard, you can hear him moving around, but I couldn’t hear anyone. I thought he might have gone to the outhouse, so I waited for a few minutes and studied the bolts of cloth over there.” She pointed to the far wall with a hand that shook so badly that he captured it and held in the warmth of his palms. He mentally cursed as her cold fingers trembled beneath the weight of his. He could only hope his warmth and reassurance would ease her out of her terror. Right now, he was relieved that she hadn’t succumbed to a fit of the vapours, or hysteria. As it was, she looked as though she wasn’t sure where she was, let al
one what had happened.
“Did you see anyone else here?”
Harriett shook her head slowly.
“Did you hear anyone out back?”
“No, I already told you, it was quiet in the shop. I couldn’t hear anyone out back at all. I waited for a few minutes but he didn’t appear. It’s unusual for him to leave his shop unattended and unlocked. I contemplated whether to lock up for him and leave the key next door, and went around the counter, then found –” she hiccupped a sob, “I found him lying there like that.” She pointed to Hugo’s body and sucked in a deep breath. “God, Mark, what happened to him?”
Mark shook his head and studied the unusual way Hugo lay all bent and twisted out of shape. From the strange trickle of fluid that had run out of the side of his mouth it looked as though he had choked too. He kept that thought to himself and leaned down to sniff Hugo’s mouth. The slight smell of almonds told him that he needed to know: cyanide. With a mental curse, he eased back on his heels and studied the area around the body. The remnants of a tea cup lay in pieces to one side of his body; its contents had long since soaked into the dusty floor boards. At first glance there was nothing else untoward in the area that was as neat and tidy as the man himself.
He took a moment to lower the man’s eye lids and lifted a bolt of cloth off the counter. He carefully draped several yards of material over the body in order to protect him from prying eyes. Luckily, if there was any such luck in this kind of situation, Hugo had collapsed behind the counter and this afforded him some privacy in his hour of death. Mark knew that he had only recently been poisoned because he was still relatively warm, but who killed him? Why?
He pushed to his feet and returned to Harriett, who remained still and silent. He picked her hands up in his and chafed her fingers in an attempt to put some warmth back into them but after several moments gave up.
“God, come here,” he whispered and hauled her off the stool and into his arms.
Harriett hiccupped around a sob and settled into his chest. A steady trickle of tears meandered down her pale cheeks as she stood wrapped in his warm embrace. She felt comforted and reassured to have his solid strength to lean on. It was a wonderful haven of reassurance in a world of turmoil and confusion. She had no idea what was going on in the usually sleepy village of Tipton Hollow, or how he intended to make sense of it all. Her senses struggled to absorb the events of the day, from seeing him holding hands with the beautiful woman in Great Tipton, to finding Hugo’s body behind the counter, to now being held by the man who was so clearly involved with someone else. That thought alone was enough to make her ease slowly out of his arms.
“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to cry all over you,” she whispered and brushed at the damp patch on the shoulder of his jacket.
