“Miss Gentleman does not wish to go, Sophia. It is uncivil to insist, and we ought not to keep the horses standing,” said Mr. Kendle.
Sophia drooped, crestfallen. Mr. Kendle looked so self-satisfied that Prunella was suddenly possessed by a spirit of perversity. She had not intended to accept Sophia’s invitation, but she should like to discomfit Mr. Kendle: Prunella disliked a man who would crow over his wife. Then, too, Mr. Kendle’s odd manner kindled her curiosity. What reason had he to dislike her?
“Not at all!” said Prunella. “I should be pleased to go, and it is kind of you to ask, Sophia dear, for I should have been dull here by myself. Let me run up to Lady Wythe to beg her leave, but I am sure she will not mind, and we need not keep your horses waiting any longer.”
Lady Wythe had no objection to Prunella’s accompanying her friend (“Though it is curious I should not have heard of a thaumaturgical ball!” she remarked), and they were soon off in the Kendles’ carriage.
The mystery of Mr. Kendle’s manner was satisfied sooner than Prunella expected. It was dark when the carriage drew up outside a town house. The windows were blazing with amber light; carriages lined the street outside; and altogether it seemed a very considerable party. Prunella was glad she had worn her primrose silk, though it would have been a trifle grand for Mrs. Cornwallis’s party (Mrs. Cornwallis had a wealthy bachelor cousin, who had already declared his fondness for a pair of snapping black eyes).
Prunella had not contrived to catch the hosts’ name amid Sophia’s chatter. She had prepared an expression both charming and apologetic as they entered the house. When she saw the hostess she forgot her preparation altogether, however, and gaped.
“May I introduce my wife’s friend, Miss Gentleman?” said Mr. Kendle.
Mrs. Geoffrey Midsomer did not seem to know the name, or to remember Prunella from the Spring Ball. But then there had been a great many people at the Ball, and Prunella only recognised Mrs. Midsomer because of her part in its spectacular close.
“Delighted,” said Mrs. Midsomer. “How do you do, Miss Gentleman? How kind of you to come, Mr. Kendle. Geoffrey values your support beyond measure.”
Mr. Kendle glanced nervously at Prunella. “We look forward to the evening, indeed.”
Indeed,thought Prunella. She did not at all regret coming.
•••
ITwas clear the Midsomers were not aware of Prunella’s connection with the Wythes, which suited her perfectly. It was a detail they might easily have missed, as Mr. Kendle had done. Prunella doubted he had known that his wife’s friend had any connection with Lady Maria Wythe until Sophia had insisted on going to her house.
She contrived to put Mr. Kendle at his ease by disclaiming any acquaintance with the Sorcerer Royal: “Oh, he frightens me to death! Lady Wythe wonders that I am never to be found when he visits!” When he had left her and Sophia to speak to his friends, Prunella took care to ensure they were lost in the crowd, well away from their hosts.
She wished she had asked Zacharias about Geoffrey Midsomer. He was the ill-tempered man who had been so uncivil to Zacharias at the Ball, but she knew from stray snatches of conversation betweenZacharias, Damerell and Lady Wythe that that was not all. Whatever the trouble was, it must account for Mr. Kendle’s being so froward about her accompanying Sophia.
“What a fascinating party!” she said to Sophia, looking about with unfeigned interest. “But this is not an official Society event, is it, Sophia?”
Sophia was not sure. “There does seem a vast number of thaumaturges! I never saw so many in my life. Kendle said it was to be a gathering only of Mr. Midsomer’s friends, but it seems he has a great many friends. What a curious creature that Mrs. Midsomer is! Did you think her pretty, Prunella?”
“I did not.”
“Nor I. Yet the Midsomer family is an old one, much esteemed in magical circles, Kendle says, though not wealthy. Mr. Midsomer could have had anyone he liked.”
Prunella thought of the broad, potato-like face of Mrs. Midsomer. It had neither charm nor beauty, but there had been a curious power in those restless, searching grey eyes.
“Perhaps he likes her,” said Prunella.
“People have the oddest tastes,” said Sophia. “What are you looking at?”
Prunella’s eye had been caught by a painting, an unremarkable daub in oils of a brownish-grey landscape. Anything less appealing could scarcely be conceived, and yet the painting was housed in a gorgeously worked gold frame, with a spray of hothouse flowers set beneath it like an offering. She pointed this out to Sophia, who exclaimed:
“But that must be the picture that prophesies! Kendle told me of it. It is a family heirloom. The Midsomers have had it since the Conquest, and they are sinfully proud of it.”
There was a dark smudge in the corner of the picture, which closer attention revealed to be a cloaked figure huddled under a ledge of rock.
“That must be the oracle,” said Sophia. “Kendle says the painting is an enchantment, and the oracle speaks prophecies when the mood takes her.”
“‘Her’?” said Prunella, looking at the smudge with fresh interest. She would have questioned Sophia further, if she had not seen the gleam of silver on the small table beneath the painting.
There was a singing orb on the table. It might have been the twin of the one she wore around her neck.
“Is something amiss?” said Sophia.
“No, why should you ask?” said Prunella. She picked up the singing orb, remarking casually: “What a pretty trinket! But you were speaking of this prophetess, Sophia. I thought women were not permitted the practise of magic?”
