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“There is nothing you can prove.”
“I am afraid you are wrong. There is the vase from Hugo Montague’s that you couldn’t help but get your hands on. It was quite an eye catching thing but, unfortunately for you, relatively easy to find in a pawn shop. The owner of the shop who purchased it from you described you perfectly. Then there is Harriett’s brooch. You were very clever, but also rather too greedy.”
Mark was aware of Isaac’s eyes on him, but made no attempt to hide the disgust and contempt that coursed through him. “You see, everyone in the house confirmed that you, Babette and Harriett, were the only ones who went upstairs that evening. Given that it was Harriett’s brooch, it would hardly be her who was the thief. Babette doesn’t need the money, and so that left you. It has been a little confusing to try to understand why you felt the need to kill two innocent people in the village; especially people who have done you no harm.”
“What would you know about it?” Bentwhistle snorted. “You don’t even live in this God forsaken little place. I told father before he died that the village wasn’t large enough to keep us afloat but he would have none of it. He insisted that we stay here because that is where his father founded the business, in spite of the fact that most of our business comes from Great Tipton. The stupid old bugger refused to re
locate and cut down on expenses. By the time he did bloody well die, the business was barely able to function.”
“So you thought you would steal from your customers. After all, the dead can’t speak, can they?” He knew now that Alan Bentwhistle had pushed the glass to warn Harriett, and had undoubtedly used enough of the gossip to convince everyone that the spirits were around and about them in their daily lives, and knew what everyone was up to.
“Do you really think that I believe in that bloody nonsense? The dead talking to us?” Alan shook his head in mock pity. “I have been working with the dead since I was a young boy and none of them have ever spoken to me, I can tell you. Do you really think that I want to spend the evening sitting in the dark with a bunch of people I don’t even like? To do what? Talk to the man who got me into this mess in the first place?”
“It doesn’t excuse you helping yourself to other people’s belongings. Theft is one thing, but why murder?”
“Minerva Bobbington had a gob on her, that’s why. She was always whining about that missing jewellery of her aunts. She came around to the parlour several times as though she expected me to materialise the bloody stuff out of my drawers. When she didn’t get what she wanted, she told everyone about it; as many people as she could, when she could. I had to shut her up.”
“So you killed her. You used a piece of muslin – very inventive by the way – in her drink to scare her?” Mark tipped his head to one side and studied the satisfaction in Bentwhistle’s eyes. Was the man mad? Or was he just backed into a corner and determined to do whatever he had to do to get himself out of the mire? Whatever the case, Mark had to keep him talking. The issue of the thefts was going to be difficult to prove because they could only go on vague descriptions. Getting Bentwhistle to admit to his crimes in front of so many witnesses would mean that a trial was merely a procedure Bentwhistle had to go through on his way to prison.
“Why the séance, though? Why kill Minerva at the séance with so many people around?”
“Because it was dark and everyone was scared. I don’t move in Minerva’s circles. Do you really think I want to sit and share tea with that odious harridan and trade gossip and lies? The circle gave me the perfect opportunity to slip the muslin into her drink. I was going to give a message at the table to warn her to keep her mouth shut, and hoped that the muslin in her drink would scare her. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the opportunity to give a message because of the stupid stool and the other ridiculous messages given by someone else. Luckily, the muslin worked better than I had hoped, and I shut her up once and for all.”
“It’s murder, Bentwhistle. You took the woman’s life.” Mark sighed and shook his head. “Hugo was a gossip, so you went and had tea with him in his shop. Because your parlour is directly across the street, you could choose your moment and get to Hugo’s without too many people seeing you. Even if they did notice, they wouldn’t think anything odd about you being in the street. Was he gossiping too?”
“Hugo and that Harriett have always got their heads together. She is always scurrying over there and having tea with him while she traded the gossip she hears in the tea shop. It’s scandalous the way those two fed on other people’s lives.”
“Do you know what beggars belief, Bentwhistle?” Mark didn’t wait for Bentwhistle to reply. “You have lived in this village nearly all of your life and you don’t know anyone. Hugo Montague was a lonely old man whom Harriett had a cup of tea with occasionally while they talked about their own lives. Nobody else’s lives, you understand. Minerva Bobbington, had every right to ask if you had seen her jewels and, of course, she would be upset about them going missing. Killing Minerva, Hugo and Harriett, to silence them wouldn’t stop the gossip.” It nearly choked him to include Harriett in the trio of deaths, but he had to do it. He was watching Bentwhistle closely, and had seen the man glance down at the coffin when he had mentioned Harriett’s name. Mark felt strangely sick at what he was potentially going to find beneath the lid. “More and more people are gossiping now about the deaths, and looking for links in all sorts of areas, including yours. What did you intend to do? Work your way around the village, killing people off whom you think are talking about you? Did you plan to keep stealing from the dead and hope the relatives were too upset to notice that their heirlooms were going missing? What then? What did you hope to do when this all ended? Do you really think you can dig yourself out of financial debt through thieving from the dead, and build on your business by creating your own customers?”
Mark heaved a sigh. While he knew that he had to get Bentwhistle to admit to his crimes in front of witnesses to be able to ensure he met the full force of justice, he was acutely aware that Harriett was entombed in the box at his feet. If she needed medical assistance, Mark had to get it to her as quickly as possible. He nodded to Isaac and Fred, who moved to stand behind Bentwhistle. Mark watched the funeral director glance warily at the men and shift uncomfortably. He wondered if the killer would have the audacity to try to make a run for it, but the sight of the men from the pub scattered about the church yard seemed to deter him.
“You cannot prove the thefts,” Bentwhistle snorted defiantly. “Having nothing more than a vague description of the items isn’t enough.”
“Oh, I think you will find that I have more than enough evidence against you to stand up in court and make sure that you go away for a very long time. We already have descriptions of you from the pawn brokers, and have already obtained several of the items back. These have been identified by relieves of your customers as stolen. The case is coming together against you. Fred, arrest him and get him out of here.”
Mark didn’t bother to watch Fred, and several of the men from the pub, escort Bentwhistle out of the churchyard. No sooner had Bentwhistle turned away than Mark bent over the coffin. He flicked a worried look at Isaac.
“Help me get this lid off,” he ordered darkly. He tugged and pulled before a curse broke the silence.
“Here, use these,” Charles offered and began to unscrew the shiny silver knobs on the lid. Several hands moved forward to help and, within minutes, the lid was lifted.
“Jesus,” Charles whispered as he stared in horror at Harriett, who was laid out with her arms across her chest as though she was dead. Her head was matted with blood, which had stained the white silken material that covered the inside of the coffin.
Mark couldn’t speak. His heart hammered and a huge lump had formed in his throat that almost threatened to choke him. He gently slid his arms under her shoulders and knees, and lifted her carefully out of the casket. She was still warm. Unable to find the words necessary for even practical things, he simply stood and cradled her. He was only vaguely aware of Isaac ordering someone to fetch the doctor.
“Is she alive?” Isaac demanded.
Mark buried his face in her neck and almost wept with relief at the faint flutter of her breath on his cheek. “She is.”
“Let’s get her home. The doctor can see her there. We have to get her warm and dry.”
It was the most that Mark had ever heard Charles say, but each word was enshrined on his memory. He knew that until the day he died, he would never forget the feelings that battered him as he stalked across the churchyard. He ignored the sea of curious faces that lined the streets of the village as he carried her home.
Once there, he had no sooner placed her on the bed than the heavy thump of boots on the stairs heralded the arrival of David Woods.
“Isaac has already told me,” David announced as he swept through the door. “Let me check her over. I will come downstairs and see you when I have done.”
Mark shook his head. Nothing would persuade him to be parted from her from now on. He glanced at Babette who had appeared in the doorway but, rather than leave, he dragged a chair closer to the bed and took a seat. He couldn’t break contact with her and continued to hold her hand while David carried out his examination. Babette returned at some point with a bowl of water and began to help David bathe and
