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Harriett glanced sideways at Mark. He looked as bored as she felt; although there was a slight glint of cautious watchfulness on his face that made her wonder if he had seen something that she had missed. She glanced at the sea of faces around them. Miss Haversham and Eloisa looked enthralled; Beatrice was just as defiant as Tuppence, while Babette and Henrietta were clearly amused by the entire evening. Everyone else looked either bored or sceptical.
If she was honest, she was shaken by Mark’s announcement of their engagement. It was the last thing she had expected, especially given what she had seen in Great Tipton. Had she misread what he had been doing with the beautiful woman in the shop? Was she a relative he had merely been trying to comfort?
She wanted to convince herself that he was only trying to protect her, but police officers didn’t usually offer people they were investigating personal protection in such a way. So why had Mark done it? Did he really believe that her life was in danger? Or was he playing some sort of trick to try to lure the murderer into revealing themselves so that he could arrest them? She immediately blocked that thought out and a shiver of foreboding swept down her spine. She hoped to heaven that she would never find that particular truth out. The last thing she wanted was to be used as bait to goad the murderer into striking again.
Feeling strangely uncomfortable, she glanced up and caught the beady eyes of Miss Smethwick on her. Another shiver of unease swept up her spine and she felt goose bumps ripple down her arms. She shifted in her seat and offered the woman a weak smile as she turned her gaze away. She was acutely aware that the woman didn’t return the smile and merely continued to stare far too directly at her for far too long. Had she done something to offend Miss Smethwick? Did the old woman object to Mark’s announcement?
Harriett jumped when a sudden icy chill swept down her back. She turned her head to glance around her but couldn’t see any reason for the draught.
“Is there a window open in here, Beatrice?” she whispered when a second blast of air swept over her arm.
Beatrice shook her head, all trace of defiance gone from her features. She too was staring at Harriett far too intently and it made Harriett’s increasingly nervous. What were they looking at? Aware of movement beneath her finger, she looked down and gasped when she realised that the glass was slowly creeping steadily toward her. Her heart began to hammer in her throat. Her thoughts turned to the last séance when the glass had flown off the table. She would prefer it to do the same again now; anything but the slow, almost sinister glide across the table. She pushed her finger on the glass in a desperate attempt to stop it but watched in horror as it continued to glide unhindered; straight through the letters, right up to the edge of the table in front of her.
She quickly snatched her finger off the glass. Should she shove it back onto the table and laugh it off as a prank, or allow it to fall on to her lap? She glanced up at Mark. He had long since taken his finger off. The only people who remained in contact with the glass were Miss Haversham, Eloisa, Miss Smethwick and Madame Humphries. But did that mean that one of them was responsible for the threats? Harriett tentatively placed the glass carefully back into the centre of the table. Nobody spoke as they all put their fingers back on it and waited. Within seconds, the glass began to move around the letters.
“I am cold, is the fire on?” Henrietta asked nobody in particular as she peered around the end of the table toward the hearty glow in the fireplace. “I keep feeling a cold draught.”
Harriett almost slumped with relief. “So do I,” she sighed. “I thought it was my imagination, but several times now I distinctly feel a cool breeze across my hand and arm.”
“The windows are all closed and the curtains drawn.”
“Shall we ask them why they gave Harriett the glass?” Miss Smethwick asked around a smothered yawn. “Is there any particular reason why they would shove it at her like that?”
Madame Humphries didn’t appear to be listening though. She was staring off into the distance as though she was miles away from the small house in Tipton Hollow.
“Is she alright, dear?” Miss Haversham asked as she quite rudely pushed her hand in front of Madame Humphries’ face and clicked her fingers.
“She is in a trance at the moment. The spirits must be close,” Miss Hepplethwaite whispered dramatically. “We won’t interrupt her right now. Just ask your question and we will see what we get.”
Miss Smethwick frowned at her. “Well, I just did ask my question,” she replied with a disgruntled sigh. “I just asked why they pushed the glass at Harriett.”
The glass remained motionless.
“It doesn’t look as though they want to answer you,” Babette replied after several moments of silent watchfulness. Tension began to build within the room. Everyone glanced at each other and began to flick random glances around the room, searching the shadows for hidden spectres that weren’t there.
Wedged between Harriett and the broad shoulders of Mr Bentwhistle, Mark shifted uncomfortably. Harriett felt his long, muscular thigh push against hers but had no room to move. As the glass remained still, and those gathered around th
e table remained silent, her mind began to wander and inevitably turned toward the gossips in the village, and what they would make of Mark’s announcement tonight of the fictitious engagement.
What would the latest turn of events mean to her reputation? She had no suitors on the horizon, well none that she had considered of any merit. Brian Hildrew had asked for her hand a year or so ago, but the butcher’s son, as nice as he was, had about as much appeal as the rabbit carcasses that hung in the shop window. Given the size of Tipton Hollow, her marriageable prospects were not all that great and, until now, it had never bothered her. That is, until Mark appeared on her doorstep. Now she was starting to consider things that simply weren’t possible for someone like her. She worked in her uncle’s tea shop and quietly went about her fairly humdrum life. Seated at the séance table tonight though, with sinister threats hanging over her and two of her acquaintances dead, she rather wished her life was still nondescript and boring.
If only she could stop the gossips from ruining her reputation, she would have a fairly decent chance of being able to hold her head up when she went about her business after this was all over. Now, once the investigation was over and Mark returned to Great Tipton, their fictitious engagement would be over. She would forever be known as the woman who was jilted by the Detective Inspector at Great Tipton. The gossips would have a field day when Christmas came, and went, and there was no wedding they could attend and talk about for months to come.
Unfortunately though, even when she took into account the problems she would encounter as a result of his announcement, she couldn’t bring herself to find any true and strong objection to his deceit, and she was fairly certain that it had nothing to do with her need for him to protect her.
Her thoughts were snapped back to the table when the glass suddenly lurched into action, and began to slide firmly around the table with more force and precision than they had ever had before.
W-E-W-A-N-T-T-H-E-G-O-S-S-I-P-S-T-O-S-T-O-P-W-O-R-K-I-N-G-T-H-E-T-R-U-T-H-W-I-L-L-C-O-M-E-O-U-T-T-H-E-D-E-A-T-H-S-M-U-S-T-S-T-O-P.
At the final letter the glass stopped. Madame Humphries sucked in a huge gulp of air and jerked upright. Her head tipped back and she stared blankly at the ceiling again. Harriett waited for her to speak in her theatrical tone but was slightly perturbed when the clairvoyant remained perfectly still and silent.
“What did it say?” Tuppence whispered. All evidence of her previous reluctance had vanished with the speed, and length, of the latest message.
“I can’t read it all in the darkness,” Babette replied as she squinted down at the paper in her hand. She tipped the paper toward the light and read the message aloud.
“Good God,” Mr Bentwhistle muttered.
“Who –”
