Amanderella and the Mystery of Wittering Crags. Chapter 6.

Chapter Six.

 

Woldscar Hall.

 

The path to Woldscar Hall ran along the edge of the reservoir, a long stretch of dark water that made Amanderella shiver just to look at it.

A man in a coat that had long forgotten how to be waterproof paced the shoreline. He carried a clipboard, a long pole, and an expression of deep misery.

He spotted Amanderella and jumped.

“Oh! Oh dear. You’re not a bird, are you?”

“No,” Amanderella said.

The man sagged with relief. “Good. Birds are… difficult.”

He shuddered.

“You look like someone from the Water Board,” Amanderella said politely.

The man looked down at his muddy boots, damp coat, and frantic notes. “Yes. I suppose I do. My name is Jollop Crin.”

“Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler.”

Mr Crin’s eyes widened. “Oh no. You’re not here to complain, are you?”

“Complain?” Amanderella asked.

Mr Crin pointed at the reservoir as though it had betrayed him. “About that.”

The water was undeniably brown.

“I wasn’t planning to,” Amanderella said gently. “Has it always been brown?”

“No!” Mr Crin wailed. “It used to be clear. Clear as glass. And now look at it. Murky. Cloudy. Suspicious.”

“Have you taken samples?” Amanderella asked.

“Samples?” Mr Crin looked horrified. “If I take samples, they’ll want results. And if I give results, they’ll blame me. They always blame me.”

“I’m sure they won’t,” Amanderella said kindly.

Mr Crin gave her a look of deep disbelief. “They blamed me when ducks got into the pipes. They blamed me when the gate jammed. They blamed me when Mrs Plover’s dog fell in. They’ll definitely blame me for brown water. Especially with what the village is saying.”

“And what are they saying?” Amanderella asked.

“They say it’s the Beast!” Mr Crin whispered. “They say digging up the valley woke it from its sleep. Now it’s stomping about and muddying the water!”

Amanderella made a mental note.

Mr Crin leaned closer. “And there’s something else.”

Amanderella waited.

“Something’s been drinking from it.”

“Drinking?”

“Yes. Big gulps. I heard it last night. Slurping. Loudly. And then something flapped.”

“Flapped?” Amanderella repeated.

Mr Crin nodded miserably. “I didn’t look. I don’t look at flapping things. Birds are bad enough. Giant flapping things are worse.”

Amanderella made another note.

“If the water gets any browner,” Mr Crin said, wringing his hands, “they’ll send inspectors. And if they send inspectors, they’ll ask questions. And if they ask questions—”

“You’ll be blamed,” Amanderella finished.

Mr Crin nodded, eyes wide with doom.

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Amanderella said. “Perhaps the cause is simpler than you fear.”

“Nothing is simple,” Mr Crin muttered. “Not here. Not with birds. Or Beasts. Or water.”

Amanderella thanked him and continued up the path.

Behind her, Mr Crin resumed pacing, muttering about feathers, beasts, and certain ruin.

The wind pushed her along the lane, past wind‑battered firs and a stone wall leaning tiredly after years of weather. The Hall appeared slowly: first the chimneys, then the sagging roof, then the whole tall, grey front.

A wooden sign hung beside the gate:

WOLDSCAR HALL

Visitors Welcome

(Within Reason)

Amanderella walked up the drive. The house stood on a small rise, tall and grey.

She lifted the brass knocker.

Before she could use it, the door opened a cautious inch.

One eye peered out. “Are you… the post?”

“No,” Amanderella said. “Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler.”

The door opened wider. A thin man with a worried face and an old waistcoat blinked at her.

“Oh. Good. I’m Crispinshaw Woldscar. Do come in. Quietly, please.”

Amanderella stepped inside.

The entrance hall was dim and smelled faintly of damp carpet. A single lamp tried bravely to brighten the gloom.

“Are you here to see my uncle, Lord Crankleboot?” Crispinshaw asked. “He’s spoken a lot about you.”

“If he is receiving visitors,” Amanderella said.

“He’s in the drawing room,” Crispinshaw whispered.

Amanderella followed him down a corridor lined with portraits of ancestors who all looked as though they disapproved of something.

Crispinshaw paused at a door.

“He’s not quite himself,” he said. “The expedition didn’t go well. The funding stopped. The societies stopped inviting him. And then the… rocks.”

“Floating rocks?” Amanderella asked.

Crispinshaw winced. “He thought they floated. They did, just not the way he hoped.”

He opened the door.

The drawing room was cold. A man sat hunched in an armchair, wrapped in a worn tartan blanket. His moustache drooped. His shoulders drooped. Even his eyebrows drooped.

He stared into the fire as though defeated by life and geology.

“Uncle?” Crispinshaw said softly. “You have a visitor.”

Lord Crankleboot looked up.

“Lady… Gottsnobbler?”

“It has been some time,” Amanderella said.

He tried to stand, thought better of it, and nodded instead.

“You’ve come about the rocks,” he said quietly. “Or the lecture. Or the whole mess.”

Amanderella sat opposite him. “I came to hear the truth.”

Lord Crankleboot gave a small, tired laugh.

“The truth is they didn’t float. Not properly. They bobbed in a puddle. Then sank.”

Amanderella waited.

“I wanted it to be real,” he said. “I wanted to discover something important.”

He rubbed his forehead.

“Now the newspapers mock me. The societies ignore me. And the villagers whisper about a Beast as though it’s more real than anything I ever found.”

Crispinshaw cleared his throat from the doorway.

“In fairness, Uncle, the villagers whisper about the Beast even when nothing is happening. Last winter they blamed it for the post being late. And for Mrs Plover’s cat going bald.”

Lord Crankleboot groaned.

“And last week Mr Happle said the Beast took his wheelbarrow. It was behind the pub. Again.”

Amanderella allowed herself a small smile.

“But they have been talking more lately,” Crispinshaw said. “Ever since the roaring started. And the feathers. And the laundry.”

Lord Crankleboot winced. “Not the laundry.”

“I’m afraid so,” Crispinshaw said. “Mrs Plover says it was a warning.”

“A warning?” Amanderella asked.

Crispinshaw nodded. “Apparently the Beast has strong opinions about pillowcases.”

Lord Crankleboot groaned again and pulled the blanket tighter.

“A lifetime of study,” he muttered, “overshadowed by missing laundry.”

Amanderella closed her notebook. She had learned what she needed. The floating rocks were a disappointment, but whatever was causing the brown water, the slurping sounds, and the falling feathers was very real.

She stood. “Thank you, Lord Crankleboot. I look forward to your lecture.”

He waved weakly.

Crispinshaw escorted her back down the corridor and opened the front door. The northern wind rushed in, making the lamp flicker.

“Good luck, Lady Amanderella,” he said. “Mind the bogs. And the feathers.”

“I always do,” Amanderella replied.

She walked down the drive. The wind pushed her along the reservoir path. By the time the inn’s chimneys came into view, the sharp air had given her a fine appetite.

The Beast of Wittering Crags would have to wait until after luncheon.