Amanderella and the Mystery of Wittering Crags. Chapter 1.

Chapter One.

 

An Explorer Returns.

 

It was early morning at No. 9 Wimple Terrace. Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler was just reaching for a second piece of toast when her landlady, Mrs Gaffletter, came in waving a newspaper like a weapon.

“I thought you might be interested in this,” she said darkly. “After the silly way they wrote about your talk on the Blue Whistling Monkeys. I don’t know how they get away with it.”

Amanderella put down the toast and held out her hand for the offending piece of newsprint.

THE MORNING TRUMPETER

“ASTONISHING DISCOVERY IN THE AMAZON!

BRITISH PEER FINDS FLOATING ROCKS” 

By T. P. Wibberley, Senior Investigative Journalist

Amanderella laid the paper down on the table, picked up the butter knife, and calmly buttered the piece of toast.

“That man!” Mrs Gaffletter exploded, brandishing the newspaper as if it were a contaminated rag. “That Wibberley! I knew he’d be up to mischief again. I could feel it in my elbows.”

Amanderella blinked. “Your elbows?”

“They twinge when fools are abroad,” Mrs Gaffletter declared. “The last time he wrote about you, he had half the city convinced there was a citrus‑scented monster prowling the streets! A MONSTER! When it was only that poor Mr Terkins, God bless him, staggering about covered in marmalade like a badly glazed ham!”

Amanderella buttered the toast.

“And did he apologise?” Mrs Gaffletter demanded, stabbing the air with the newspaper. “Did he retract? Did he print so much as a tiny correction saying, ‘Oh, terribly sorry, turns out the creature of the night was actually a jam‑soaked factory owner who’d been declared dead by mistake’? No, he did not!”

She slapped the paper onto the table so hard the teacups rattled.

“No! He doubled down! He printed a follow‑up claiming the monster had ‘retreated to the sewers’ and was ‘biding its time’. Biding its time! The only thing Mr Terkins was biding was the queue at St Gal’s Hospital!”

Amanderella took a bite.

Mrs Gaffletter paced the kitchen like a general preparing for war.

“And now THIS,” she said, waving the paper as if it were a personal insult. “Floating rocks! Humming stones! Chatty boulders! And all reported by the same man who couldn’t tell the difference between a mythical beast and a marmalade‑drenched businessman!”

She jabbed the headline again.

“And now he’s dragging some poor peer into it! Lord Crankleboot, whoever that is. Probably invented. Wouldn’t put it past him. Next week he’ll be interviewing the Duchess of Moonbeams about her collection of levitating teacups.”

Amanderella swallowed, dabbed her lips, and said mildly:

“I believe Lord Crankleboot is real.”

Mrs Gaffletter froze mid‑rant, eyes narrowing.

“Well, if he is, he ought to sue Wibberley for telling lies. Or at least for too much nonsense.”

She leaned in, apron quivering with righteous fury.

“Well? What are you going to do about him, Lady Gottsnobbler? Because if you don’t, I swear on my best china, I shall march down to The Morning Trumpeter myself and give that man a piece of my mind he will never recover from.”

Amanderella set down her toast.

“I am going to finish my breakfast.”

Mrs Gaffletter made a strangled, despairing noise that suggested civilisation itself was hanging by a thread.

Mrs. Gaffletter took a deep breath and calmed herself down. “Lord Crankleboot is real, you say?”

Amanderella nodded. “He was one of the explorers I met when I went looking for the Whistling Blue Monkeys in Brazil. He was searching for the fabled floating rocks. So, if he is back home and lecturing about them he must have found them.”

“Floating rocks?” Mrs Gaffletter sounded as though someone had just informed her the moon was made of blancmange.

“Floating rocks?” she repeated, her voice climbing an octave and wobbling there like a nervous soprano. “You mean to tell me he went all the way to Brazil to look for floating rocks? On purpose?”

Amanderella nodded, serenely untroubled. “It was something of an obsession with him. He had charts, diagrams, a special net, and a notebook labelled ‘For Levitation‑Related Observations Only’.”

Mrs Gaffletter stared at her as if she’d announced she’d once holidayed on Mars.

“Floating rocks,” she said again, slower this time, as though tasting the words and finding them faintly ridiculous. “Rocks. That float. In the air. Like balloons. Or badly trained pigeons.”

Amanderella sipped her tea.

Mrs Gaffletter pressed a hand to her chest. “And you’re telling me he’s found them? Actual floating rocks? Not just stones he threw in the air and photographed quickly?”

“So, it would seem,” Amanderella said. “If he’s lecturing about them, he must have carried some home with him.”

Mrs Gaffletter’s eyes widened to saucers.

“He brought them back? To Britain? Floating rocks? In a trunk? In this country? Where people have windows? And roofs? And crockery?”

Amanderella nodded again.

Mrs Gaffletter sat down abruptly, as though her knees had given up.

“Well,” she said faintly, “that’s it then. We’re all doomed. First the Citrus Monster, now levitating boulders. Next week it’ll be flying cabbages. Mark my words.”

Amanderella reached for her toast.

Mrs Gaffletter watched her, aghast.

“You’re very calm about this, Lady Gottsnobbler.”

“I’ve seen them before,” Amanderella said mildly.

Mrs Gaffletter’s jaw dropped so far it nearly hit the table.

“You WHAT?”

Amanderella took a bite of toast.

“I said,” she repeated, perfectly composed, “I’ve seen them before.”

Mrs Gaffletter made a noise somewhere between a gasp, a squeak, and the opening note of a scream.

“They don’t actually float in the air though,” went on Amanderella. “They just float on water. I found them in a stream. “The explorers had rules. I couldn’t tell Lord Crankleboot what I’d found, or it would count as my discovery instead of his.”

Mrs Gaffletter froze mid‑gasp, her mouth still open from the last attempted comment. Slowly, very slowly, she lowered herself into the nearest chair as though her legs had suddenly become theoretical, “They… don’t float in the air,” she repeated faintly. “They float… on water.”

“Yes,” said Amanderella, buttering the toast with the serene precision of a woman discussing the weather. “Quite peacefully, in fact. Like corks. Or very small, very lazy boats.”

Mrs Gaffletter stared at her, “On water,” she said again, as if trying to persuade her own ears to behave. “Not hovering above the ground. Not humming. Not drifting about like lost balloons.”

“No.”

“And you found them in a stream.”

“Yes.”

Mrs Gaffletter pressed both hands to her temples, “Then why in the name of St Gal’s laundry basket is that man”, she jabbed a trembling finger at the newspaper, “writing about levitating boulders that hum and respond to being told off?”

Amanderella shrugged. “He misunderstood.”

“He misunderstood,” Mrs Gaffletter echoed, in the tone of someone repeating the diagnosis of a terminal condition.

Amanderella nodded. “Under the rules of the explorers, I couldn’t tell Lord Crankleboot what I’d found otherwise it would not have been his discovery, it would have been mine.”

Mrs Gaffletter’s eyes bulged , “So you found the real things, and you couldn’t tell him, and now he’s come home with some in his luggage.”

“So, it would seem,” agreed Amanderella calmly.

Mrs Gaffletter closed her eyes.

“I knew it,” she whispered. “I knew it. This is how it always starts. First the Citrus Monster, now the Floating Rocks That Don’t Float. Next week Wibberley will be reporting on a volcano that turns out to be a molehill.”

Amanderella took a calm bite of toast.

Mrs Gaffletter opened her eyes again, blazing with a new, terrible clarity.

“You,” she said, pointing at Amanderella as though appointing her to a sacred quest, “are going to that lecture.”

Amanderella swallowed. “I had rather thought so.”

“Good,” Mrs Gaffletter declared. “Because someone sensible needs to find out what that man has actually brought back starts Before he starts saying it sings bedtime songs or demands a seat in the House of Lords.”

She folded her arms with the grim satisfaction of a woman who has just saved the nation.

Amanderella reached for the marmalade.

Mrs Gaffletter eyed the jar warily.

“Careful with that,” she muttered. “We’ve had enough marmalade‑related incidents for one lifetime.”

“It  would be nice to find out about the other explorers,” said Amanderella.  “The Reverend Tiddlewink, Doctor Porridgepump, Colonel Jibberjack and Sir Humbuggle. I think about them often and wonder if they are still searching the Amazon shore.”

“Mrs Gaffletter’s expression softened, only slightly, but enough that the thunderclouds behind her eyes thinned to a sort of suspicious drizzle.

“You think about them often?” she said, lowering herself back into her chair. “Those other explorers? The Reverend… what was it, Tiddlewink? Doctor Porridgepump? Colonel Jibberjack? Sir Humbuggle?” She said each name as though tasting a series of increasingly questionable puddings.

Amanderella nodded, her voice gentler now.

“Yes. They were a very odd group, but… well, one grows fond of people one survives the Amazon with. I often wonder if they’re still out there, somewhere along the riverbanks, arguing about maps and boiling their socks.”

Mrs Gaffletter blinked. “Boiling their socks?”

“It was Colonel Jibberjack’s method of sterilisation,” Amanderella said. “He swore by it. The others swore at it.”

Mrs Gaffletter made a small, involuntary noise of sympathy, or possibly horror.

Amanderella went on, her gaze drifting somewhere far beyond the kitchen walls.

“The  Reverend Tiddlewink always insisted the floating rocks were a metaphor for spiritual uplift. Doctor Porridgepump believed they were a new species of amphibian. Sir Humbuggle thought they were a sign that the world was finally becoming interesting again. And Colonel Jibberjack…” She paused, smiling faintly. “He mostly shouted at them.”

Mrs Gaffletter folded her arms, but her tone had lost its earlier fire.

“And you haven’t heard from any of them since?”

“No,” Amanderella said quietly. “Not a word. They stayed behind when I left. They stayed behind, still searching along the Amazon until they found whatever it was they wanted.”

She coloured faintly, “Then there was Ramone, the extremely handsome Brazilian boatman who spoke with a perfect English accent.”

Mrs Gaffletter’s eyebrows shot up so sharply they nearly joined her hairline.

“Ramon?” she repeated, in the tone of a woman who has just discovered an unexpected subplot. “A very handsome Brazilian boatman… who spoke with a perfect English accent?”

Amanderella coloured a little more, which only encouraged Mrs Gaffletter like a terrier catching the scent of scandal.

“Well now,” Mrs Gaffletter said, settling herself more firmly in her chair, “this is new. You’ve never mentioned any handsome boatmen before. You’ve mentioned frogs, snakes, tribes, temples, and that unfortunate business with the exploding canoe, but never a Ramon.”

Amanderella cleared her throat. “He was very helpful.”

“I’ll bet he was,” Mrs Gaffletter muttered.

Amanderella pressed on, trying for dignity.

“He ferried me up and down the tributaries while I was searching for the Whistling Blue Monkeys. He had impeccable manners. And he spoke English better than most of the explorers.”

Mrs Gaffletter gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Better than Reverend Tiddlewink?”

“Considerably.”

“And Doctor Porridgepump?”

“Infinitely.”

“And Colonel Jibberjack?”

Amanderella hesitated. “Colonel Jibberjack’s English was… enthusiastic.”

Mrs Gaffletter leaned forward, eyes gleaming with the thrill of a new angle.

“So, this Ramone, did he also go hunting for floating rocks? Or was he too busy being handsome?”

Amanderella looked down at her toast. “He… did not believe in the floating rocks.”

Mrs Gaffletter pounced. “Sensible man!”

“He said,” Amanderella continued, “that if rocks were meant to float, the river would be full of them, and the fish would be very confused.”

Mrs Gaffletter snorted. “I like him already.”

Amanderella’s faint blush deepened.

Mrs Gaffletter’s eyes narrowed with delighted suspicion.

“Oh ho. Oh ho. So that’s why you’re wondering about the others. Not just the Reverend and the Colonel and Sir Humbuggle. You’re wondering if this Ramon is still out there, poling his boat along the Amazon, speaking perfect English and being very handsome at unsuspecting lady explorers.”

Amanderella set down her toast with great care.

“I am wondering,” she said with quiet dignity, “whether they are all safe.”

Mrs Gaffletter softened again, just a touch.

“Well,” she said, patting Amanderella’s hand, “we’ll find out. One way or another. And if this Lord Crankleboot fellow has come back, perhaps the others aren’t far behind.”

She paused, then added slyly:

“And if Ramone turns up on your doorstep, I shall not be surprised.”

Amanderella reached for her tea, trying, and failing, to look entirely unruffled. “Ramone was married and part of his job was selling the diamonds that paid for everything for the explorers. His son goes to school here in England. Mrs Gaffletter’s expression, which had been hovering somewhere between scandalised and intrigued, snapped instantly back to scandalised.

“Oh!” she said, sitting bolt upright. “Oh, well then. That’s different. Entirely different. You didn’t mention he had a son.”

Amanderella coloured again. “It didn’t seem relevant.”

Mrs Gaffletter gave a snort that suggested it had been extremely relevant.

“So, he was married,” she said, folding her arms with the air of a woman putting everything back the way she thought it should be.” “Good. That’s good. Handsome boatmen ought to be married. It keeps them from causing trouble.”

Amanderella looked faintly pained. “He was very fond of his family.”

“I should hope so,” Mrs Gaffletter muttered. “Going about being impossibly handsome in two languages. They stayed behind, still searching along the Amazon until they found whatever it was they wanted.”

Amanderella tried not to smile., Mrs Gaffletter’s expression softened again, properly this time, without the armour of bluster.

“Well,” she said, patting Amanderella’s hand, “we’ll find out. One way or another. And if this Lord Crankleboot fellow has come back, perhaps he’s brought news. Or at least clues.”

She straightened, businesslike once more.

“But I’ll tell you this, Lady Gottsnobbler: if that man Wibberley writes one word, one word, suggesting Ramon is a floating rock, I shall personally march down to The Morning Trumpeter and throttle him with his own typewriter ribbon.”

Amanderella took a sip of tea, trying not to laugh.

Mrs Gaffletter nodded firmly.

“Good. I’m glad we understand each other.”