Free Dying in the Wool by Frances Brody Page A

fortune, for a bit of fun.’
    ‘She works in’t mill, so don’t go yet.’
    ‘What time should I go?’
    ‘You’ll hear mill hooter go for finishing time. Give her half an hour to have a bite of tea.’

Crêpe-de-Chine
     
    Lizzie Luck’s tiny cottage, its side wall bowed with age, looked as if it dated from the seventeenth century, making it older than the other village houses. Crossing the humpback bridge, I noticed a woman in the garden.
    She had gone inside by the time I opened a low, rickety gate and stepped onto a crazy-paving path. Neat trenches lay ready for onions or potatoes. In this cool, shady spot a few brave snowdrops still survived by the fence along with purple and yellow crocuses. By the door, a sawn-off upturned barrel provided a pair of garden seats. From its perch on the scoured windowsill, a black cat glowered at me, its marmalade eyes catching the glow of the evening sun. When the door opened, the cat bounded down and strolled inside.
    It was hard to judge the age of the woman who answered my knock. I guessed somewhere in her forties. She wore a long black skirt, grey-blue blouse and grey cardigan. Through the open door, I saw that a floral pinafore had been discarded on the chair-back – perhaps not fitting the dress requirements for a teller of fortunes.
    I introduced myself, told her I was staying with the Braithwaites, and asked was she Lizzie Luck, and if so would she be willing to tell my fortune.
    The smile set her eyes twinkling. ‘It’s not me calls meself luck. That’s other folks’ name for me. I’m Lizzie Kellett.’ She waved me inside, with a quick glance across to the humpback bridge, to check whether we were observed.
    I stepped into a cold room with a flagged floor. A black leaded range gave home to a struggling fire. An enamel bowl stood on a low cupboard by the window. Next to the bowl lay a bunch of cuttings from the garden and a sharp knife. A square deal table, a small rocker and a larger bentwood chair, a couple of buffets and a dresser completed the room’s furnishings.
    She assessed me as I peeled off my gloves and took a seat by the table. ‘Will you take some refreshment?’
    ‘No thank you. Becky at the Braithwaites thought you’d be at the mill until half past six, Mrs Kellett. I’m glad to find you home.’
    ‘Loom’s down,’ she said glumly. ‘There’ll be no more weavin’ today.’ She took the buffet beside me. ‘Please speak to my face, so I can see your lips. I’m half-deaf from the weaving.’
    In a businesslike fashion, she gave me the price of reading my palm, and the somewhat higher price of a tarot reading.
    She brought a dark-red chenille cloth from the dresser, disturbing the dust in the air as she spread it across the table with a flourish. A faint odour of cedar came from a carved box as she opened it, and took out a pack of cards.
    She placed her hands flat on the table and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I don’t need to look at cards to know thah’s lost someone. There is a parting of the ways.’
    There is also a mourning brooch and wedding ring, I thought. I swear these people can smell a widow a mile off. Oh here’s a sad soul, good for a guinea or two. Psychic robbery.
    As if sensing my disbelief, she said, ‘It’s not just the outward signs. I see loss in the form of an aura.’
    And you hear it in the tinkling of coins, I wanted to add.
    She examined my palm. As we both leaned forward, I caught the whiff of cheese and onions on her breath.
    My life would be long, she told me. I had been well-placed,and lived a leisured life, though it had not always seemed as if I would. She saw some disruption in my earlier life. My childhood road had two forks, and mine was the fortunate path.
    Goose bumps shivered along my spine. These people, I swear they pick up on something – though who knows what. I didn’t even remember my adoption. But that was her art, I guessed. In spite of my rationality, I was filling in the gaps she