Amanderella and the Casket Mystery Chapter 3.

Chapter Three.

 

A Sticky end.

 

Mr Belling cleared his throat again, the sound now resembling a mausoleum door reluctantly shifting on its hinges. “Mr Pravis Terkins, my Lady, was not a grocer. He was”—he paused, as though selecting a title from a velvet-lined box—“a manufacturer.”

“Of preserves,” Mr Sighing added reverently. “The finest. The most exclusive. The sort of marmalade one does not spread, Lady Gottsnobbler, so much as invest in.”

Amanderella’s eyebrow rose a fraction higher.

Mr Belling nodded solemnly. “His ‘Imperial Seville Reserve’ retailed at a price that caused several of our junior staff to faint dead away when they saw the label.”

“One jar,” Mr Sighing murmured, “was rumoured to cost more than a month’s wages for a respectable clerk.”

Amanderella took a thoughtful sip of tea. “And how did such a giant of citrus come to be in your care?”

The undertakers exchanged a look of shared discomfort.

“There was,” Mr Belling said delicately, “an incident at the factory.”

“A shelving collapse,” Mr Sighing supplied. “A regrettable abundance of jars. A catastrophic failure of structural integrity.”

“A marmalade avalanche,” Mr Belling concluded, with the air of a man confessing to a sin he did not commit but felt responsible for nonetheless.

Amanderella waited. The undertakers exchanged a look, and then, as though obeying some internal clock, Mr Sighing continued.

“Mr Pravis Terkins,” Mr Belling said, “was conveyed to St Gal’s Free Hospital after the… incident on Tuesday morning.”

Amanderella set her cup down. “St Gal’s Free Hospital?”

 “Precisely. We were instructed by Mrs Honoria Terkins, his widow, to collect him yesterday afternoon. But being a Tuesday, and the hospital being what it is, we thought it more... dignified to wait for the morning rush to subside.”

“A Wednesday collection is far more traditional,” murmured Mr Sighing.

“Entirely traditional,” Mr Belling agreed, though his hands shook slightly. “However, when our carriage arrived at St Gal’s at eight o'clock this morning, the staff were... unhelpful.”

Amanderella’s eyes narrowed. “Unhelpful? In what way?”

Mr Sighing inhaled a breath that seemed to come from his boots. “They claim, Lady Gottsnobbler, that no one by the name of Terkins was ever admitted. Not yesterday morning, not yesterday afternoon, and certainly not this morning.”

“In fact,” Mr Belling added, looking as though he might burst into tears, “they claim there was no 'incident' on Tuesday at all.”

Their sentences passed back and forth with such measured regularity that Amanderella felt faintly as though she were watching a very slow, very solemn tennis match. One spoke, then the other, each picking up the thread precisely where the last had dropped it.

Amanderella frowned. “And Mrs Terkins?”

Mr Sighing’s expression tightened. “Mrs Terkins is… adamant.”

“Furious,” corrected Mr Belling.

“Incandescent,” Mr Sighing agreed.

“She insists her husband is dead,” Mr Belling said, “and that the hospital is lying.”

“And she insists,” Mr Sighing added, “that we find him.”

Both men looked at Amanderella with identical expressions of desperate hope.

Mr Belling cleared his throat. “We were informed, Lady Gottsnobbler, that you possess… certain talents.”

Mr Sighing nodded vigorously. “Discretion. Persistence. A regrettable familiarity with unusual circumstances.”

Amanderella sighed softly. “Who told you that?”

The undertakers spoke in unison.

Mr Belling cleared his throat. “We were advised,” he began, “to seek the assistance of a lady of uncommon sense—”

“—and uncommon patience,” Mr Sighing added, “particularly when confronted with administrative irregularities.”

The conversational volley passed neatly between them again, slow and solemn as a tennis rally played with black‑crepe rackets.

Amanderella folded her hands. “And who, precisely, offered this advice?”

The undertakers straightened in unison, as though preparing to announce royalty.

“Mr Paltery Trubshaw,” said Mr Belling.

“Of Scroggins, Shooter, Burnet and Bobble,” said Mr Sighing.

“Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths,” continued Mr Belling.

“Wills and Probate specialists,” concluded Mr Sighing, with the reverence of a man reciting scripture.

Amanderella’s lips thinned. “Paltry Trubshaw,” she repeated, the name tasting of old parchment and damp ink. “I might have known. Only a man from a firm with as many names as a small village could be so loose with my private reputation.”

“Oh yes,” said Mr Belling.

“With enthusiasm,” said Mr Sighing.

“He informed us,” Mr Belling went on, “that you were the young lady who resolved the matter of—”

“—the Haunted Mill,” Mr Sighing supplied, lowering his voice as though the mill might overhear.

Amanderella suppressed a sigh. “That was hardly a legal matter.”

“Mr Trubshaw said,” Mr Belling continued, “that you displayed admirable composure.”

“And a commendable lack of superstition,” Mr Sighing added.

“And,” Mr Belling finished, “that you were unlikely to be alarmed by a missing corpse.”

Amanderella closed her eyes briefly. “He would say that.”

“He spoke of you with the greatest… reverence,” Mr Belling offered quickly.

“And a touch of… desperation,” Mr Sighing added.

Amanderella tilted her head. “Why not the police? They might look for a corpse. Or a non‑existent man.”

The undertakers reacted as though she had suggested summoning demons.

Mr Belling spoke first. “The police, my Lady, are—”

“—not ideal,” Mr Sighing finished, shuddering. “They require forms. Statements. Proof.”

“Proof we do not possess,” Mr Belling added. “The hospital insists Mr Terkins was never admitted.”

“And the police,” Mr Sighing murmured, “are inclined to believe hospitals.”

Amanderella folded her hands. “I see.”

Mr Belling leaned forward, lowering his voice. “Furthermore, my Lady, the police are… audible.”

“Very audible,” Mr Sighing agreed. “Boots. Voices. Questions. They would tramp through the matter with all the delicacy of a bull in a mourning parlour.”

“And,” Mr Belling concluded, “they might suspect us.”

Amanderella raised an eyebrow.

Mr Sighing nodded miserably. “Two undertakers reporting a missing corpse? They would have us in the cells before we could explain the shelving.”

“And Mrs Terkins,” Mr Belling added, “expressly forbade involving the authorities.”

“Expressly,” echoed Mr Sighing. “With emphasis.”

Amanderella sat back. The undertakers watched her with identical, breath‑held hope. Amanderella considered them. “If the police are unsuitable, what of the law? Surely there must be some requirement to report a missing body.”

Mr Belling straightened. “My Lady, it is not illegal to conduct a funeral without a body—”

“—but it is illegal,” Mr Sighing continued, “to have a body without a funeral.”

Mr Belling nodded gravely. “A most inconvenient distinction.”

“Deeply inconvenient,” echoed Mr Sighing.

Amanderella folded her hands. “And your reputation?”

Both undertakers flinched.

“Our reputation,” Mr Belling whispered, “is the foundation of our profession.”

“The only foundation,” Mr Sighing added. “People entrust us with their loved ones. Their last wishes. Their dignity.”

“And should it become known,” Mr Belling said, voice dropping to a horrified murmur, “that we had… mislaid a client—”

“—even temporarily,” Mr Sighing breathed, “we should never recover.”

“Never,” Mr Belling agreed. “One cannot simply advertise for a replacement reputation.”

They sat in stricken silence, the conversational rally finally stilled.

Amanderella regarded them for a long moment. “I see.”

She did not elaborate.

The undertakers, perched on the edge of their chairs, clung to her silence as though she might yet save them.