Amanderella and the Casket Mystery Chapter 6.

Chapter Six.

 

Constable Mogg.

 

 

“What,” she said, her voice like a cool breeze in the sweltering room, “did you do next?”

Tom cleared his throat.

“We went to fetch a policeman.”

Amanderella blinked.

“A policeman?”

Nellie nodded.

“Standard procedure. You need an officer to sign the accident log if someone’s… well… if someone’s gone.”

Dickie muttered, “Or looks gone.”

Harry whispered, “Or smells gone.”

Tom continued,

“We found Constable Mogg outside the bakery. He was dealing with a dispute over a stale bun.”

Nellie added, “He came at once. Very helpful. Said he’d fetch the hospital cart himself.”

Amanderella’s gaze sharpened.

“And did he?”

“Oh yes,” Tom said. “He marched off toward St Gal’s. Very official. Very determined.”

Dickie nodded.

“And the hospital cart arrived about twenty minutes later. Two porters. One wheel squeaking.”

Harry added,

“They loaded Mr Terkins up. Took him away. We saw them go.”

Amanderella paused.

“So, he was taken to St Gal’s.”

All four nodded vigorously.

“We’re certain of it,” Nellie said. “Constable Mogg saw to it personally.”

Amanderella folded her hands.

“And yet,” she said softly, “St Gal’s insists they have never heard of him.”

The workers looked stricken.

Tom whispered,

“Then where did he go?”

Amanderella did not answer. Because she already suspected the truth:

He had reached St Gal’s, but St Gal’s had not reached him.

The workers watched her, their faces etched with a communal, sticky anxiety. To them, the world was a logical place: you boiled the fruit, you added the brandy, the shelves fell, and the Law, in the form of Constable Mogg, arrived to tidy up the mess.

“Constable Mogg,” Amanderella repeated, the name echoing against the copper vats. “A man of authority, a bakery‑side referee in a case of stale buns. And he personally directed the squeaking cart to the hospital gates?”

“He did, my Lady,” Tom Sugger insisted, twisting his cap until the seams groaned. “He walked alongside it for a bit, tapping his truncheon against his leg, looking very much like a man in charge.”

“And the porters?” Amanderella asked. “Did they speak? Did they wear the grey tunics of the infirmary?”

“They wore the grey,” Dickie Pottle confirmed. “And they looked as miserable as anyone who has to haul a man‑sized portion of Seville Reserve up a steep hill.”

Amanderella turned toward the factory gates, her mind already navigating the sterile corridors of the hospital.

“If the porters were real,” she mused, “and the cart was real, and the Constable was real, then we are left with a very narrow set of possibilities. Either St Gal’s has developed a sudden and total amnesia regarding sticky manufacturers, or Mr Terkins was”, she paused, “mislaid.”

“Mislaid?” Nellie Winkle barked. “To where? There isn’t another hospital for ten miles, and he wasn’t exactly in a state to go for a stroll.”

“A man who is ‘significantly harmonised’ with Seville Sunset Rum,” Amanderella said, “does not need to walk to disappear. He merely needs to be mislabelled.”

She adjusted her silk parasol. The investigation at the factory had yielded the “Who” and the “How,” but the “Where” was now a matter for the bureaucracy.

“Mr Sugger, Mr Pottle, Mr Belcher,” she addressed the men. “Continue your work. If anyone asks, the ‘Imperial Reserve’ is proceeding as planned. Miss Winkle, keep the Flavouring Cabinet locked. I should hate for any more ‘marriages’ to take place in my absence.”

“Gentlemen and lady,” Amanderella said, “I require the whereabouts of Constable Mogg.”

 

The three men exchanged glances. Mr Belcher swallowed. Mr Pottle blinked. Mr Sugger sighed.

“Well, my lady,” Nellie began, rubbing the back of her neck, “Constable Mogg… he keeps a sort of schedule.”

“A very strict schedule,” Mr Pottle added, nodding vigorously.

“Rigid,” Mr Belcher confirmed. “Like a church bell. Or a tax inspector.”

Amanderella waited.

Mr Sugger cleared his throat. “At this hour, he’ll be takin’ his elevenses.”

“At Mrs Lummett’s Pie Shop,” Mr Pottle supplied helpfully. “He says the gravy helps him think.” “Every day without fail,” Mr Belcher said. “Unless he’s off duty. Or avoidin’ someone. But mostly he’s there.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “And where might I find Mrs Lummett’s establishment?”

Mr Sugger pointed vaguely toward the town. “Follow your nose, my lady. Smells of pastry, pepper, and a sort of meaty aroma.”

Mr Pottle nodded. “You can’t miss it. There’s always a queue of men who ought to be workin’.”

“And Constable Mogg,” Mr Belcher added, “will be the one with gravy on his shirt.”

Amanderella closed her parasol with a decisive snap. “Thank you, gentlemen. You have been most helpful.”

Mrs Lummett’s Pie Shop was warm, fragrant, and thick with the sort of steam that suggested vegetables had been boiled until they were mush. Amanderella stepped inside and scanned the tables.

Constable Mogg was impossible to miss.

He sat in the corner, helmet off, tunic undone, and a large meat pie balanced on the shelf of his stomach as though it had been placed there by nature. His cheeks shone with the industrious glaze of a man who took his meals seriously.

Amanderella approached his table.

“Constable Mogg?”

Mogg froze mid‑bite. The pie hovered an inch from his mouth. His eyes widened. Slowly, very slowly, he lowered the pie, as though afraid it might explode if handled too briskly.

“Er… yes?” he ventured.

“I am Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler,” she said. “The men at Terkins’ factory directed me to you.”

Mogg lurched to his feet, which was a mistake. His chair skidded backwards. His stomach surged forward. His tunic gaped like a startled mouth.

He attempted to fasten it.

The buttons refused to cooperate.

He tried again.

The buttons aligned themselves in a formation that suggested he had dressed in the dark during an earthquake.

He tugged his helmet from the table, shook off a few crumbs, and attempted to put it on. It landed backwards. He rotated it. It landed sideways. He tried again. It slid down over his eyes.

Amanderella waited with impeccable patience.

At last, panting and only partially assembled, Mogg managed something that might have been a salute if viewed from a forgiving angle.

“Beggin’ your pardon, my lady,” he wheezed. “Didn’t expect, well, I wasn’t told, I mean, I didn’t know—”

“That much is clear,” Amanderella said.

Mogg swallowed, pushed his helmet up with a thumb, and attempted to stand straighter. His stomach refused to retreat.

“How may I assist you, my lady?”

“I require information,” Amanderella said. “Concerning Mr Pravis Terkins. You conveyed him to St Gal’s Free Hospital.”

Mogg blinked. His helmet slid another inch, “I did, my lady. Carried him in myself. Signed the ledger. Spoke to the porter. Saw him taken inside.”

“Then you will tell me everything you remember,” Amanderella said. “From the moment you arrived at the factory to the moment you came away from St Gal’s.”

Mogg swallowed.

“This’ll take a bit,” he said faintly. “Might need to sit down again.”

“You may,” Amanderella said. “But the pie stays where it is.”

Mogg nodded miserably and obeyed, still pink‑faced from his attempt at rapid self‑assembly. He fumbled inside his tunic and produced a small, much‑thumbed notebook. It was slightly greasy around the edges, as though it had been used as a coaster more often than a record of law enforcement.

He cleared his throat with the solemnity of a man about to read aloud in church.

“If you’ll permit, my lady… I ’ave it all wrote down proper. Well—” he hesitated, “—proper enough for my notes. The official report for the Coroner… I ’aven’t quite… composed that yet.”

Amanderella regarded him steadily. “Why not?”

Mogg shifted, his chair creaking in protest.

“Well, my lady, I was waitin’ for the ’ospital to confirm the particulars. Can’t be sendin’ the Coroner a report what might be contradicted by medical men. They gets very sniffy about inaccuracies. And spellin’.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Very prudent. Continue.”

Relieved to have escaped reprimand, Mogg licked his thumb, turned a page, and began reading in his best Constabulary Voice.

“‘Entry: Tuesday last. Time: eleven‑thirty‑four in the mornin’. Responded to a ’azardous incident at Terkins’ Marmalade Facility.’”

He glanced up, checking she was suitably impressed. She was not.

He pressed on.

“‘Upon harrival, found one Mr Pravis Terkins in a state of sticky collapse, ’avin’ been struck by a fallin’ shelf containin’ jars of Seville Sunset Rum.’”

He squinted.

“‘Victim was… significantly ’armonised with citrus.’”

Amanderella raised an eyebrow. “You wrote that?”

“Word for word, my lady. Mr Sugger said it, and I thought it sounded… official.”

“Continue.”

Mogg nodded, turned another page.

“‘At twelve‑oh‑nine, conveyed the gentleman to St Gal’s Free ’Ospital via Constabulary Stretcher No. 3, which squeaks on the left side and requires oilin’.’”

Amanderella gave him a look.

“Is the squeaking relevant?”

“It is to me, my lady. Nearly drove me mad.”

“Continue.”

Mogg straightened, adopting his most pompous reading tone.

“‘H’arrived at St Gal’s at twelve‑twenty‑one. Proceeded to Side Entrance B, bein’ the one marked Deliveries, Unusual Cases, and After‑Hours Admissions.’”

Amanderella leaned forward slightly. “Side Entrance B.”

“Yes, my lady. Round the back, next to the bins.”

He resumed.

“‘Was met by Porter, name uncertain, possibly Mr ’Arrup, or Mr ’Arrop, or Mr ’Arrip. ’E spoke quick.’”

Amanderella made a mental note.

Mogg turned the final page.

“‘Porter inspected the gentleman, nodded, and said: “Right, we’ll take ’im from ’ere.” Signed the ledger: M. Mogg, Constable, Conveyed with Due Decorum.’”

He tapped the line proudly.

“Wrote that bit meself.”

“And after that?” Amanderella asked.

“‘Left the premises at twelve‑twenty‑six. Noted no irregularities except a strong smell of disinfectant and a trolley wheel squeakin’ worse than ours.’”

He closed the notebook with a snap.

“That’s the lot, my lady. All proper. All witnessed. All wrote down. The Coroner’ll get the full report once the ’ospital confirms the details.”

Amanderella folded her hands.

“The hospital,” she said, “now denies Mr Terkins was ever admitted.”

Mogg’s mouth fell open. His helmet slid down over his eyes.

“Denies—? But I, I took ’im in! I swear it!”

“Then your unwritten report,” Amanderella said, “may prove more valuable than you realise.” Amanderella folded her hands.

“And you are certain,” she said, “that the porter took Mr Terkins inside?”

“As certain as I am that Mrs Lummett waters down ’er gravy,” Mogg said earnestly. “Which is very.”

Amanderella rose.

“Then St Gal’s is lying,” she said. “And I intend to discover why.”

Mogg swallowed.

“Should I… accompany you, my lady?”

“No,” Amanderella said. “Finish your pie. You will need your strength.”

Mogg sagged back into his chair. His helmet finally gave up the attempt to stay on his head and landed on the floor with a clunk.