Reply To: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26

“Lace, did you say?” asked Cerenise with interest. “I must have a look at it. Stench, you say? How very odd. But I want to see it. Fetch me the container while I look for my mask and rubber gloves.”

“I’m not going near it again, I’ll get Boothroyd to bring it,” Spirius replied making a hasty exit.

“I’d have thought you’d have wanted to bottle the smell, Spirius.”

In due course the gardener appeared holding a container at arms length with a pained expression on his face.  “Stinks worse than keeg, this does, and I’ve smelled some manure and compost in my time, but never anything as disgusting as this.  Where am I to put it?”

Cerenise cleared a space on a table piled with old books and catalogues. “Gosh, that is a pong, isn’t it!  Reminds me of something,” she said twitching her nose.  “There is a delicate note of ~ what is it?”

“Dead rats?” suggested Boothroyd helpfully, adding “Will that be all?” as he backed towards the door.

As Cerenise lifted the lid, the gardener turned and fled.

“Why, it’s a Nottingham lace Lambrequin window drape if I’m not mistaken!” exclaimed Cerenise, gently lifting the delicate fabric and holding it up to the light. “Probably 1912 or thereabouts, and in perfect condition.”

“Perfectly rancid,”  said Yvoise, her voice muffled by the thick towel she had wrapped around her mouth and nose.

“Come and look, it’s a delightful specimen.  Not terribly rare, but it wonderful condition.  Oh look! There’s another piece underneath. Aha! seventeenth century bone lace!”

Yvoise crept closer. “What’s that other thing? Is that where the smell’s coming from?”

“By Georges, I think you’re right.  It’s a bone bobbin.  Bone lace, they used to call it, until they started making bobbins out of wood.”  Cerenise was pleased. She could get Mrs Fennel to wash the lace and then she could add it to her collection. “Spirius can bottle the bone bobbin and bury it in Bobbington Woods.”

Duly summoned from the kitchen, the faithful daily woman appeared, drying her hands on her apron.

“Pooo eee!” exclaimed Mrs Fennel, “That’ll need a good boil in bleach, will that!”

“Good lord woman, no!  A gentle soak in some soap should do it. It won’t smell half so bad as soon as this bone bobbin is removed.”

“Did you say BONE bobbin?” asked Helier from a relatively safe distance just outside the door. “WHOSE bone?”

“By Georges!” Cerenise said again. “Whose bone indeed! Therein lies the clue to the mystery, you know.”

“Can’t you just put it in a parcel and mail it to someone horrible?” suggested Mrs Fennel.

“A capital idea, Mrs Fennel, a politician. So many horrible ones to choose from though,” Yvoise was already making a mental list.

“We can mail the smelly empty box to the prime minister, but we must keep the bone bobbin safe,” said Helier.  “And we must find out whose bones it was made from. Cerenise is right. It’s the clue.”

“An empty smelly box, even better. More fitting, if I do say so myself, for the prime minister,” said Mrs Fennel with some relief. At least she wasn’t going to be required to wash the bone and the box as well as the smelly lace.