Amanderella and the Casket Mystery Chapter 1.

Chapter One

 

Gentlemen Callers.

 

Number 9 Wimple Terrace was a house that liked things to be just so. It stood halfway down the row, with freshly painted railings and windows that were polished every Saturday morning without fail. Even the brass door-knocker was so bright that it seemed to be squinting back at the sun.

The house was run by Mrs Gaffletter. She was a very straight-backed woman who looked as though she had been starched along with the bedsheets. She had a strict set of rules for anyone living under her roof, and she made sure they were followed.

Her most important rule was about boots. No one was allowed to wear them inside unless they were perfectly clean. Mrs Gaffletter would often lean down with a magnifying glass to check for a single speck of mud, and if she found one, the owner of the boots was sent straight back out to the garden to scrub them.

Mrs Gaffletter had endured the mess and the dreadful inconvenience of having the new‑fangled electric light installed. She had complained about the drilling, the plaster dust, and the workmen’s boots, but she had allowed it all because she liked the brighter glow from the bulbs. The stronger light revealed every hidden corner where dust might have the impudence to collect, and Mrs Gaffletter believed that dust should never be allowed to get ideas above its station.

The hallway lamp now shone with that very brightness, casting a clear, steady glow across the polished floorboards. Nothing escaped its beam. Not the umbrella stand. Not the straightened mat. Not even the faintest smudge on the skirting board.

Mrs Gaffletter also expected her lodgers to have a clean conscience. She often said she could scrub a floor, but she couldn't scrub a soul. She was also very strict about necks; she could forgive a great many things, but she would never tolerate a grubby neck.

She had a very firm rule: No gentlemen callers allowed. The only exceptions were delivery men or tradespeople, and she treated them like a necessary chore rather than guests.

This rule was mostly because of Lady Gottsnobbler (Amanderella’s mother). The older woman had a bad habit of sending single young men to the house to "pay their respects" to Amanderella, even though Amanderella had asked her to stop many times.

The rule became absolute after the "Beeschecker Affair." A hopeful young man named Tarpduk Beeschecker had barely stepped onto the doorstep when he was accused of trying to propose marriage. He was dragged through the hallway and chased down the garden path by Mr Gaffletter, who happened to be carrying a full watering can.

Mrs Gaffletter considered the matter settled. And after being soaked to the bone, Mr Beeschecker certainly agreed.

Amanderella approved of the rules, though she privately suspected that prolonged exposure to Mrs Gaffletter’s principles might one day drive her to commit a minor social rebellion simply for variety.

Her rooms were simple: a small sitting room, a bedroom with a view of the neighbour’s laundry, and a writing desk that only wobbled when she was writing a letter it didn't like. It was a quiet, tidy, and very safe place to live. In fact, it was so quiet that Amanderella, who was twenty-seven, was worried she might eventually turn into a fossil from sheer boredom.

Mrs Gaffletter herself was a presence felt long before she was seen. Her footsteps along the corridor were brisk, purposeful, and carried the faintest suggestion that dust and fluff fled before her. She had a talent for appearing at precisely the moment a lodger was about to do something she considered questionable, such as placing a teacup too close to the edge of a table or reading a novel with overly decorative cover art.

On this particular morning, Amanderella sat at her small desk, sorting her correspondence with the calm efficiency of someone who had long ago accepted that letters rarely contained anything more exciting than bills, circulars, and invitations to events she had no intention of attending. Outside, Wimple Terrace was conducting its usual business: milk carts rattling, sparrows arguing, and Mrs Gaffletter’s broom issuing its daily warning sweep across the front step.

It was, in short, an entirely ordinary morning.

Which was why the discreet, apologetic ring of the doorbell, a sound that suggested the ringer wished to cause as little trouble as possible, made Amanderella look up with mild curiosity.

Before Amanderella could rise, Mrs Gaffletter appeared, as though summoned by the bell itself. She moved with the stiff dignity of a guard on duty who believed that answering the door was a serious job. It was not a duty to be left to her lodgers, who might be too soft-hearted and let the wrong sort of person step inside.

"Amanderella heard the front door open, followed by a silence so heavy it felt as if even the grandfather clock had stopped ticking to listen.

Then Mrs Gaffletter’s voice, cool and firm:

“State your business.”

There was a pause, the sort of pause in which a calling card is silently produced, inspected, and judged.

A pair of voices, identical in tone and equally solemn, spoke in unison:

“Our card, my Lady.”

Another pause. Amanderella could almost hear Mrs Gaffletter reading it, line by line, for signs of moral weakness.

At last, Mrs Gaffletter said, in a tone that suggested she had found nothing obviously scandalous but was reserving judgement:

“Undertakers.”

Her footsteps approached. She appeared in Amanderella’s doorway with the air of someone announcing an unfortunate but unavoidable development.

“There are two gentlemen to see you,” she said. “They have presented a card. It states that they are undertakers.”

Amanderella blinked. “Undertakers?”

“So, they claim,” Mrs Gaffletter replied, with the tone of a woman who had not yet ruled out forgery. “They are thin. Very thin. And symmetrical. I do not care for it.”

“Did they give their names?”

“They did. They are printed here.” She held out the card between two fingers, as though it might leave a residue. “I have placed them on the mat. They may enter if you wish it.”

Amanderella rose. “I suppose I had better.”

Mrs Gaffletter stepped aside with the dignity of a butler in a cathedral.

The two gentlemen entered with identical bows.

“Josiah Belling,” said the first.

“Wilbraham Sighing,” said the second.

They bowed again, precisely matched, as though hinged at the waist.

Amanderella regarded them politely. “I am afraid that I do not at present require the services of an undertaker.”

Mr Belling inclined his head. “Indeed, my Lady, you appear to be in excellent health.”

Mr Sighing nodded gravely. “Positively robust.”

Mrs Gaffletter sniffed, as though taking personal credit for this.

Amanderella did not yet know that their visit would involve a missing corpse, a furious widow, and a hospital with something to hide.

But she would soon.