A Winter’s Tale by Trisha Ashley Page A

run about the house shrieking, ‘It’s mine, mine—all mine!’ at the top of my lungs, now that Aunt Hebe was no longer there to depress my pretensions.
‘The whole house is falling to pieces and that filthy I’m ashamed of it,’ Mrs Lark said forthrightly. ‘I clean my own rooms, but though poor Grace does her best with the rest of it all, it’s too much for her. And I do the cooking andordering, but further than that I don’t go—not at my time of life.’
‘Of course not. You shouldn’t have to do anything else. It isn’t your job.’
‘That’s right,’ she agreed, less defensively. ‘My Jonah, he’s butler, valet, handyman—whatever’s wanted—though he started out as groom when Mr William used to hunt. But he’s a man, so he doesn’t notice what wants doing, never has—you have to tell him.’
That explained the lack of a fire in the Great Hall then: it was merely that no one had thought to give the orders! I mooted the point.
‘I’ll tell him when he comes in,’ she said. ‘September to March it’s always kept lit, because it takes the chill off the whole place.’
‘What do we usually burn?’
‘Logs. The gardeners cut and stack them in the old stables—there’s always plenty. Ecologically sustainable,’ she added conscientiously, ‘from our own woodland.’
‘Oh, good,’ I said. ‘How often does Grace come in?’
‘Weekday mornings generally, unless there’s a party or visitors. She does the beds and towels Wednesdays and Fridays—they go to the laundry, though there’s a machine out through the back, if you want it. Grace does any other washing as required, and the ironing. Other than that, when she’s vacuumed through and done the kitchen floor and the bathrooms, she’s no time for anything else. In fact, I reckon it’s all getting a bit much for her; she’s not as fast as she used to be.’
‘I think it’s amazing she does so much!’
‘She’s not as old as she looks. I keep telling her all them cigarettes she smokes make her look like a living mummy and wheeze like a piano accordion. I’ve never smoked and we’re the same age, but I’ve got the complexion and figure I had at thirty to show for it.’
Leaving Mrs Lark knitting and Charlie sleeping, I took a quick look at the stillroom, Aunt Hebe’s domain, where racks and bunches of anonymous vegetation hung everywhere and the scent of attar of roses and rush matting vied with other, stranger, odours.
A small table with a chair each side stood near the side door to the shrubbery: Aunt Hebe’s consulting desk for furtive evening customers?
Gingerly (and guiltily!) opening a cupboard, I found myself nose to nose with a row of glass-stoppered jars and bottles, all bearing labels written in a spiky black gothic hand: ‘ORRIS ROOT’, ‘HOLY WATER (Lourdes)’, ‘FULLER’S EARTH,’ ‘POWDERED GINGER’, ‘GROUND BARN OWL BONES (Roadkill 1996)’.
Ground owl bones?
‘LIQUORICE EXTRACT’, ‘POWDERED AMBERGRIS’, ‘DRIED BAT WINGS’.
I shut the door hastily, deciding not to open any more cupboards—then immediately did, thinking it was the way out. This one contained shelf after shelf of much smaller bottles and jars with fancier labels. Pinned to the inside of the door was a hand-written price list. ‘Number 2 Essence: A sovereign remedy for restoring the joys of marriage,’ I read, ‘Two pounds fifty.’
After all these years without even a word from Rory, it would take more than an essence to restore my marriage! The next remedy was clearly aimed at all those exhausted wives with priapic elderly husbands, pepped up on Viagra: ‘Number 5 Essence: The tired wife’s friend. Two drops in any liquid given to the husband near bedtime will ensure an unbroken night’s rest. (Do not exceed dose.) Three pounds.’
It looked like Aunt Hebe had gone into production on a large scale.
I popped my head back through the kitchen door. ‘Mrs Lark, do Aunt Hebe’s remedies actually work?’
She looked up.