Search Results for 'fennel'

Mrs. Fennel was beating the dust out of a rug with more violence than was strictly necessary. “Another bloody rug,” she moaned. “If I had a penny for every rug in this place, Boothroyd!”

She shook her head, then cursed, as a cascade of dust floated from her hair. “No idea which of them four picked this one up from god-knows-where, but they’re each as bad as the other.”

She paused to wipe her brow with a corner of her apron, wheezing slightly. “I’m telling you,” she whispered, peering at him conspiratorially, “it’s not just clutter anymore. It’s … REMAINS.”

Boothroyd looked up from a tray of seedlings, his brow furrowing. “Remains, Mrs. F?”

“Human remains!” she hissed, leaning in so close he could smell the peppermint gum on her breath. “A stinking, ancient bone in a plastic box, and Miss Cerenise acting like it’s a piece of the Crown Jewels. Then there’s Miss Yvoise, snapping photos on her fancy phone like she’s … I dunno …  Sherlock Holmes or something. And the smell… dear lord, I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.”

Boothroyd grunted, his gaze drifting toward the cellar door. “They do seem particularly out of control lately. My boots are still damp from that ridiculous boat business. I’m not sure they know which century they’re living in.”

“Anyway bone or no,” Mrs. Fennel huffed, “if that gentleman from the Council shows up, that Varlet fellow they’re on about, we’ll all be out on the street, mark my words!”

“Not so fast, Mrs. Fennel,” said Yvoise, blocking the woman’s path as she tried to make a hasty exit. “You don’t happen to have a clean tea towel on you, do you?”

Gratefully, Yvoise took the proffered tea towel Mrs. Fennel threw at her as she all but ran through the door. She wrapped it over her nose as she watched Cerenise poke delightedly at the yellow lace.

“Honestly, Cerenise, we need to make haste getting rid of it. That thing stinks.” Yvoise liked order; she had learned to arrange her own space around neat piles of files, records, and lists. To her, most of the house wasn’t just a mess — it was an abject failure of hoarding protocols. But she had also learned that in order to live in harmony with others, she had to hold her tongue. She sighed and opened the Relics and Records spreadsheet on her phone. Item 2753, she typed. One bone bobbin. She ventured as near as she could and, reaching out with her phone, snapped a photo of it. Admittedly it wasn’t much, but it did give her some feeling of control.

Helier hovered by the wall, leaning as far as possible away from the stench. “But whose bone is it?” he repeated.

“It’s not just about whose bone it is,” said Spirius, popping his head around the door. “It’s about why it’s here. Austreberthe was a great hoarder, a first-rate hoarder, but,” he paused dramatically, “she always had a reason. She wouldn’t just put it in a Tupperware container for fun.”

“True,” said Cerenise. “She really had a gift for squeezing the joy out of life.” She looked pointedly at Yvoise as she said this.

Fortunately, Yvoise was peering at her phone and didn’t notice. Enlarging the image, she looked puzzled. “There seem to be faint lines scratched into it,” she said. “Like a map.“

“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.