Free Dying in the Wool by Frances Brody Page B

left.
    The cards revealed that I would be going on a journey. I encouraged her, confirming that this was so, and soon. If I did not catch the train to King’s Cross next week, seats reserved by dear Mother, the prediction for my long life might prove mistaken.
    What she said next jarred with her previous pronouncements.
    ‘Sometimes to be still is the best course.’ She looked at me, waiting for a response.
    Perhaps she had some inkling of my mission to find Joshua Braithwaite and was warning me not to waste my time.
    Undaunted by my failure to respond, she began to lay out cards, with encouraging remarks about my future.
    ‘At Miss Braithwaite’s wedding, catch the bouquet,’ she instructed. ‘There’ll be a stranger, an older man, who’ll change the course of the future for thee. Only don’t judge off first appearances.’
    ‘I’ll be sure not to.’
    I found it difficult to believe that I would find true love outside the church in Bingley, in spite of Tabitha’s assurance that the C. of E. delivers a high class wedding.
    I tentatively voiced my reason for being there, feeling sure that a proper detective would not have gone through this charade. ‘The one person Miss Braithwaite hopes will turn up at her wedding – besides the groom – is her father.’
    She did not respond to the bait but instead said, ‘Have you seen Miss Braithwaite’s wedding gown?’
    ‘Not yet. She had a fitting today.’
    ‘It’s crêpe-de-chine. Mr Stoddard had a special loom set up. He asked me to weave it. It’s as fine a piece as you’ll see in England if I do say so meself.’
    She went to a drawer and took out a sample piece of shimmering ivory. ‘Feel that.’
    The silky fabric slid across my fingers. ‘It’s beautiful.’
    ‘That’s the end piece. I asked if I could cut it off for a keepsake.’
    ‘You must be very proud to be the one weaver chosen to do this.’
    She smiled, pride in her work transforming her into a glowing subject for a photograph.
    What kind of detective will suddenly forget all about the questions she needs to ask and see the potential for an album entry?
    Weaver, broad face, tight mouth, eyes deep set under arched brows, sloping shoulders, sinewy hands, perched on the upturned barrel by her door, woven fabric in her hands. Still just sufficient light outside, and with a bit of luck and careful timing I might have my winning picture for the photographic competition.
    I forced myself back into detective mode.
    ‘Are you able to say whether a man exists in this world or the next, Mrs Kellett? Will Tabitha get her wish to see her father? She’s sure he’s still alive.’
    With that mixture of guile, mockery and outspokenness familiar in Yorkshire, she said, ‘If you’d said sooner, I could have asked the cards.’
    ‘I don’t think you need to do that – not after all this time. A woman of your sensitivities must have a view on the matter.’
    There was a slight stiffening of her shoulders. ‘He will be there in spirit. Miss Braithwaite is by way of being whatwe call a sensitive herself. Perhaps the feeling she has comes from the spirit world. Her brother Edmund came through to her, you know, in this very room.’
    She seemed as proud of her ability to summon spirits as of her weaving.
    ‘The bairns used to play out there, Tabitha and Edmund, paddling and fishing by the bridge. Edmund’s spirit found its way home. He come into this very kitchen.’
    If I were Edmund’s spirit I would have preferred my own room at the villa. But then, I’m a mere know-nothing mortal.
    ‘Did Mr Braithwaite ever find his way here, in body or spirit?’
    She watched my face more carefully than lip-reading warranted. Her own lips stayed tight shut for a moment as she gave me a questioning look.
    ‘Tabitha would love to find him,’ I said again. ‘If anything comes back to you about where he may have ended up, or what may have happened, we might set her mind at rest.’ I produced my card and handed it