‘And will Mrs Dunthorpe be joining the party?’ Albert asks evenly, and that small frown of disapproval that Hester can’t bear puckers his brow again.
‘I … I really don’t know, Albert. I doubt it, as she didn’t come the last time …’
‘She really is not the right kind …’
‘I know, dear; I do know. But even if she does come along, I can assure you that we’ll only be playing for matchsticks, nothing more,’ Hester assures him. Mrs Dunthorpe’s love of gambling is widely renowned. Over Christmas last, she lost so much in a hand of poker that her husband was forced to sell his horse.
‘It’s not only that which troubles me—’
‘Oh, don’t be troubled, Bertie! Mrs Avery’s character is unimpeachable, after all – and I hope you have some faith in my own mettle?’
‘Of course I do, dear Hester.’ Albert smiles. ‘You above all people have proved the uncorrupted nature of your soul to me.’ A telltale blush creeps up from the neckline of Hester’s dress.
She hasn’t actually lied about anything, Hester reassures herself, as she waves Albert off on his bicycle. He is to pedal the two miles to Thatcham, then catch a train into Newbury for the lecture. With him safely out of sight, she wraps herself in a lightweight coat and fastens her hat with the pins Cat hands her, patting her hair into place all around it.
‘I’ll be back by half past ten, when a little cocoa will go down a treat,’ Hester says brightly, eager to be away.
‘Very good, madam,’ Cat mutters. Hester notes the dark circles under Cat’s eyes, the fact that she has not yet, many days after her arrival, filled out at all. She makes a mental note to talk to Sophie Bell about it as she sets off along the garden path. There are angry purple and black clouds on the northern horizon, bulging up towards heaven like vast and ominous trees. Hester doubles back for an umbrella.
Albert’s real objection to Mrs Dunthorpe lies less in her gambling, though that is bad enough, and more in the fact that she is a medium, and has more than once led a seance on a night that had begun as a game of bridge. And however much Hester tells herself that she doesn’t know for sure, the fact remains that she spoke to her friend Claire Higgins after the service the previous Sunday, and Claire had hinted in the strongest possible terms that tonight might be just such a night. Hester feels a thrill of anticipation.
Mrs Avery’s house is the largest in the village, and well appointed, as a rich widow’s should be. Her husband had invested heavily in the railways, had seen his money grow tenfold, and had then been cut down by the very thing that made him, when his cab was struck by a train as it crossed the tracks late one night. The driver had fallen asleep at the reins, and his passenger, by all accounts, had drunk himself to falling down. He left Mrs Avery very well off and very bored, so that the widow has become the centre of society in the village, and indeed in the whole district of Thatcham – outside the realm of the truly grand houses, of course. She spends a lot of time visiting friends and family in London, is always quite on top of the latest fashions; and Hester finds her more than a little frightening. But, as the vicar’s wife, it would not do to be excluded from Mrs Avery’s company, and so she makes every effort to maintain her good standing with her. On nights when Mrs Dunthorpe is present, it is no chore.
Mrs Dunthorpe is thickset and well-bosomed. Her hair is a faded chestnut colour, her eyes a faded blue. Aged about fifty, she has come lately to wealth; so lately that she speaks with a Thatcham twang that she can’t be rid of, however hard she tries. Were it not for her extraordinary powers, perhaps she might not have been such a regular guest in Mrs Avery’s drawing room. As it is, she sits proudly on a damask chair as the other guests arrive, to be greeted by each of them perhaps with less deference, but with more enthusiasm, than they show their hostess.
‘Mrs Dunthorpe … I had so hoped you would be here! Will you lead us in a circle tonight? Will we hear from the spirits at all?’ asks tiny Esme Bullington, her reedy voice little more than a whisper as she grips the older woman’s hands.
Mrs Dunthorpe smiles with a hint of reserved mystery. ‘Well, my dear; that does depend upon the wishes of our charming hostess, of course. But, should she assent, and it be the will of the party, I could of course lead a foray into the unseen world,’ she says, loudly enough for all to hear, and for Mrs Avery to scowl.
‘Perhaps we might wait at least until we are all assembled, and have taken a glass of sherry?’ Mrs Avery suggests, rather coolly. Mrs Dunthorpe seems quite oblivious to the rebuke, but Esme Bullington retreats from the medium with two spots of colour high in her cheeks.