Amanderella and the Casket Mystery Chapter 4.

Chapter Four.

 

The Arrangements.

 

Amanderella frowned. “If the hospital denies Mr Terkins was ever admitted, how does Mrs Terkins know he is supposed to be dead?”

Mr Belling clasped his hands. “Because, my Lady, the hospital itself informed her,”

“In writing,” Mr Sighing added, “that her husband had passed away.”

Amanderella’s brows rose. “On what grounds?”

Mr Belling swallowed. “A junior clerk identified the body as Mr Terkins.”

“Incorrectly, it now appears,” Mr Sighing murmured. “The hospital denies both the admission and the identification.”

“Denies the clerk,” Mr Belling said.

“Denies the message,” Mr Sighing echoed.

“Denies everything,” they concluded together.

Mrs Gaffletter, who had been standing at the sideboard with the air of a woman supervising both the tea service and the moral conduct of the room, cleared her throat.

“If I may enquire,” she said, in her calm, unassailable way, “what style of funeral Mrs Terkins has requested?”

The undertakers jumped as though caught in an indiscretion.

Mr Belling straightened. “A funeral of distinction, my Lady.”

“With certain embellishments,” Mr Sighing added, colouring faintly.

Mrs Gaffletter inclined her head. “I ask only because arrangements of that nature require forethought. And because idle gossip,” she added, with a pointed glance at the pair, “is best avoided by those in responsible professions.”

Both men blanched.

“We do not gossip, madam,” Mr Belling protested.

“Never,” Mr Sighing echoed. “We are models of discretion.”

Mrs Gaffletter gave a small, immovable nod, the kind that suggested she would decide for herself whether that was true.

Mr Belling cleared his throat. “The arrangements, madam, are… extensive.”

“Extensive,” Mr Sighing echoed, “and very precise.”

Amanderella looked up. “Mrs Terkins chose them?”

“Oh no, my Lady,” said Mr Belling quickly.

“Not at all,” said Mr Sighing. “The late Mr Terkins—”

“—or the gentleman believed to be the late Mr Terkins—”

“—left explicit instructions,” Mr Belling finished. “In the event that he should predecease his wife.”

“Every detail,” Mr Sighing added miserably. “Carriages. Plumes. Gloves. Music. The order of procession. Even the colour of the ribbons.”

Mrs Gaffletter gave a small, disapproving sniff. “Men who plan their own funerals,” she said, “are seldom content with modest arrangements.”

“The cortege is to be of the First Class,” Mr Belling stated, a ghost of professional pride flickering through his gloom. “A glass‑walled hearse. Four black stallions. Plumes of the finest ostrich feather.”

“Dyed to a shade of deepest midnight,” Mr Sighing added. “It is a sight to behold, Lady Gottsnobbler. A true credit to the trade.”

The undertakers exchanged a look.

“He was,” Mr Belling said carefully, “a man of narrow social circles and no kin. An only child of only children.”

“A hermit of the jam trade,” Mr Sighing agreed.

“Consequently,” Belling continued, “we have been forced to engage the services of… the Professional Lamenters.”

Amanderella arched an eyebrow. “You have hired people to cry for a man who has absented himself?”

“Six of them,” said Mr Sighing. “Two Sobbers, three Head‑Bowers, and one Chief Wailer for the graveside. They are quite the best in the business. They can produce a damp handkerchief on command and have a collective sigh that can be heard from the back of the nave.”

Mr Belling lowered his voice. “Mrs Terkins has not hired them merely to cry. She insists they serve as watchers. In an age where some fear the dead might wake, she intends her procession to be a moving hospital ward. The mourners are instructed to listen for any scratching, or perhaps a muffled request for tea, coming from inside the casket.”

“And the casket itself,” Mr Sighing added, “is to remain unfastened. She has even demanded velvet‑lined air‑vents, lest Mr Terkins thaw from his sugary trance and find himself in a breathless panic. To her, a bolted lid is not a funeral requirement; it is a murder charge waiting to happen.”

Mr Belling sighed. “Hence the carriage. She insists upon the smoothest ride possible. A cheap, jolting cart might settle the marmalade‑shocked organs incorrectly. Only the finest horses and suspension will do, to ensure the patient remains undisturbed until his miraculous recovery.”

“So,” Amanderella said, leaning back as she smoothed a stray morning letter, “Mrs Terkins is of the opinion that her husband is not so much deceased as he is... preserved?”

“Precisely, my Lady,” Belling whispered. “She believes the citrus acted as a sort of—"

 

“—Embalming fluid for the living,” Sighing finished. “She has requested we check the casket for a pulse every three-quarters of a mile. It is making the horses nervous.”

“It is a delicate balance,” Mr Belling whispered. “The mourners are currently practising their expressions of bereaved shock. If they discover they are weeping over an empty casket…” He shook his head, as though imagining a catastrophe too dreadful to name.

Mrs Gaffletter, who had been listening with the air of a woman mentally balancing several ledgers at once, gave a small, precise cough.

“One assumes,” she said, “that such arrangements come at a considerable expense.”

Mr Belling blanched. “They are… not inconsiderable, my Lady.”

“Not inconsiderable at all,” Mr Sighing echoed. ““Especially when paid for in advance. The Chief Wailer alone commands a premium.”

Mrs Gaffletter’s expression did not change, but something in the temperature of the room seemed to drop a degree.

“I merely observe,” she said, “that when sums of that magnitude are involved, idle speculation is unwise. People talk. And accounts, once opened, must be settled.”

The undertakers shrank a little, as though she had just presented them with an invoice for their own souls.

Amanderella folded her hands. “I see.”

“I see,” Amanderella repeated, and the two men waited for the verdict like schoolboys before a headmistress who also happened to be a Lady of the Realm.

Amanderella let the undertakers’ misery settle for a moment, then lifted her gaze to them.

“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice mild but unmistakably firm, “what is it you wish me to do?”

Mr Belling blinked, as though the question were both obvious and terrifying.

“To… locate him, my Lady,” he ventured.

“Or confirm his absence,” Mr Sighing added quickly. “Preferably the former.”

“We require,” Mr Belling said, clasping his hands, “a discreet inquiry.”

“Discreet,” echoed Mr Sighing, “and untraceable.”

“And,” Mr Belling murmured, “successful.”

“Very successful,” Mr Sighing agreed, “for the sake of all concerned.”

Amanderella regarded them for a long, thoughtful moment. When she spoke, her voice was quiet enough that both men leaned forward to catch it.

“Very well,” she said. “I shall make enquiries.”

The undertakers sagged in identical, silent relief.

“But,” she continued, and both men stiffened again, “I will proceed in my own manner, and at my own pace. You will provide me with every document, message, and memorandum you have received from St Gal’s. Nothing withheld. Nothing added.”

Mr Belling nodded so vigorously his hat wobbled.

“Of course, my Lady.”

“Entirely at your disposal,” Mr Sighing breathed.

Amanderella folded her hands once more. “Then we understand one another.”

And with that, the matter was settled, though not, the undertakers suspected, in any way that would allow them to sleep easily.

Amanderella regarded the undertakers with her usual composure.

“You have given me much to consider,” she said. “The hospital’s contradictions are unhelpful. Paper trails vanish. Clerks evaporate. But factories,” she paused, “are less elusive.”

Mr Belling blinked. “Factories, my Lady?”

“The Marmalade Facility,” Amanderella replied. “It is where Mr Terkins was last seen alive, is it not? If a man is declared dead, yet his place of work continues to account for him, there may be something worth observing.”

Mr Sighing swallowed. “You mean to begin… among the vats?”

“Among the vats,” Amanderella confirmed, folding her hands. “Men who vanish often leave traces where they were most regular. I shall start there.”

The undertakers exchanged a look of mingled relief and dread, as though she had just promised to search for ghosts in the pantry.