Dying in the Wool by Frances Brody Page B

parents were. On hearing that her mother was with Aunt Catherine, she hurried towards the mill house, forgetting her exhaustion, running across the two fields. Aunt Catherine must have taken a turn for the worse. Tabitha could not bear another death. Please God, don’t let her die too. Not today.
    Aunt Catherine was sleeping. Tabitha and her mother went into the big dining room. Under the gaze of the stuffed birds, Tabitha felt a pang of fear in her guts.
    ‘Where’s Dad? Where’s Uncle Neville? What’s wrong?’
    ‘I didn’t want to worry you,’ her mother said wearily. ‘Something’s happened. We had a bit of bother over theweekend with your father. Now he’s disappeared.’
    ‘What do you mean “bother”, what kind of bother? What’s happened? Where’s Dad gone?’
    There was a frantic edge to her mother’s voice when she said, ‘Neville’s out looking for him.’

The Weft
     
    When meeting someone for the first time, it’s good to have a little information about them. All I knew about Tabitha’s Uncle Neville Stoddard was that unless Tabitha’s miracle happened and Joshua Braithwaite was found alive and well, Tabitha would walk down the aisle on Uncle Neville’s arm. I also guessed that without Uncle Neville’s steady hand on the tiller, Braithwaites Mill would have sunk.
    Neville Stoddard’s office held a table containing books illustrating what the well-dressed gent would be wearing next season, a large desk, at which he sat, on the telephone, and shelves stacked with rolls of fabrics, grey blanket material with a red stripe, plaid rug and uniform-style navy. I examined the fabrics while waiting for his call to end. When it did, he put down the receiver and offered me his hand with a disarmingly friendly smile.
    He pulled out a chair for me. ‘Tabitha’s told me why you’re here. How are you getting on with your investigations?’
    ‘Not very well, so far.’
    ‘Thanks for bringing your photographic stuff. And a tripod too.’ He picked up a bobbin, rolling it on the desk, like a child might play with a toy car. ‘I used to dabble in photography a little myself. The camera will be useful.’
    ‘Oh?’ I was curious as to why he had asked me to bring a camera.
    ‘Thing is, I’d rather not stir up a hornet’s nest of speculationover Joshua. The workers will look at you and see a lady photographer, interested in mills and weavers.’
    I smiled at this. ‘As it happens I intend to enter the All British Photographic Competition. I hope to find an unusual subject.’
    He slapped his hands on the desk. ‘That’s settled then.’
    ‘Does that mean you don’t want me to talk to your employees?’ I added hastily. He wasn’t to know that Sykes would do that for me. But Sykes would only be able to talk to men in pubs. There must be female employees who might have something useful to say.
    He shook his head emphatically. ‘Nothing to be gained from upsetting the workers. Rule out that line of enquiry, save yourself some time.’
    He leaned back in his chair, rather precariously, looking at me with what seemed like admiration. For a moment I feared for the back of his head against the window sill. At school when I had broken my arm, I leaned back on my chair and couldn’t manage to lever myself up again. Ever since that day, seeing someone tilt a chair gives me the collywobbles.
    ‘Tabitha tells me you’d like a tour of the mill?’
    ‘Yes. I’ve never visited a mill.’
    ‘Then you’ve missed a great deal of muck, a lot of stink and enough noise to blow down Buckingham Palace. Let’s start here.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘This is Joshua Braithwaite’s office, and I make no apologies for purloining it. I’m holding the fort until he returns.’
    He said it as if the words were meant to ward off further questions. I stayed put.
    He sat down opposite me, in the second of the visitors’ chairs. ‘Whatever anyone else says, Mrs Shackleton, I choose to believe that