Amanderella and the Casket Mystery Chapter 9.

Chapter Nine.

 

Terror on the Streets.

 

Amanderella stepped out into the grey morning, the hospital doors swinging shut behind her with a sigh of institutional relief. The air outside was sharp and brisk, carrying the faintest hint of coal smoke and something else… something citrus.

She paused.

A smear of orange clung to the railings by the steps, thin but unmistakable.

Terkins had passed this way.

She set off at once Halfway down the street, a newspaper vendor was bellowing with the enthusiasm of a man who had been handed a miracle, or at least a headline large enough to pay for his supper.

“TERROR IN THE TWILIGHT!” he cried.

“CITRUS MONSTER STALKS THE STREETS! Read all about it!”

Amanderella stopped dead.

The vendor waved a copy at her, the headline so enormous it could be read from the next parish. She handed over a penny, the going rate for a daily paper in 1912, and unfolded the sheet.

The City Trumpeter

Established 1784 — “Truth, Temperance, Tenacity”

Wednesday Edition — One Penny

TERROR IN THE TWILIGHT!

A CITRUS‑SCENTED MONSTER STALKS OUR STREETS!

By T. P. Wibberley, Staff Correspondent and Eye‑Witness to Horror

Citizens of our fair metropolis are advised to remain indoors after dusk, bolt their windows, and avoid all contact with unidentified fruit products, following the shocking appearance of a monstrous figure in the vicinity of Pottleby Lane late last night.

At approximately eleven o’clock, several respectable residents reported seeing a lurching, shambling creature, described variously as:

- “a man‑shaped heap of glowing jelly,”

- “a ghastly apparition dripping with yellow ichor,” and

- “something that smelled powerfully of oranges and moral decay.”

One witness, who prefers to remain anonymous (though this reporter can confirm she was wearing curlers and a housecoat at the time), stated:

“It come round the corner moaning like a soul in torment, all sticky and shining. I thought it were the end of days, or possibly the milkman.”

The creature, according to multiple accounts, left a trail of bright yellow slime upon the cobbles, interspersed with streaks of unnatural white gore which glistened under the gas lamps “like the innards of a fallen angel.”

This reporter, ever vigilant in the pursuit of truth, arrived upon the scene moments after the terror had passed. The air was thick with a sweet, cloying citrus vapour, so potent that your correspondent was forced to steady himself against a lamppost and breathe shallowly, lest he succumb to the fumes.

Local authorities have offered no explanation, though one constable (who asked not to be named, but whose moustache is known to all) confided:

“If that weren’t a monster, then I’m a bishop. It near took the polish off my boots.”

Rumours abound that the creature may be connected to recent disturbances at a certain marmalade manufactory, though the establishment in question has issued a firm denial, stating that “all employees are accounted for, and any resemblance between our products and ambulatory horrors is purely coincidental.”

This newspaper, however, believes the public deserves answers.

Her eyes travelled down the column.

Her expression did not change.

But her nostrils flared ever so slightly.

When she reached the line about “the innards of a fallen angel,” she closed the paper with a soft, decisive snap.

“Wibberley,” she murmured. “Of course.”

The streets were already buzzing.

A lamplighter was telling anyone who would listen that he’d smelled oranges in the fog.

A pair of schoolboys were daring each other to poke a puddle of something yellow with a stick.

A constable was warning shopkeepers to “keep an eye out for suspicious fruit.”

Amanderella closed the paper.

“This,” she said, “is getting out of hand.”

She tucked theTrumpeter under her arm and continued toward Pottleby Lane.

The Terkins Marmalade Works loomed ahead, its tall brick chimney coughing out a thin plume of steam. The gates were locked, the yard deserted, except for four figures huddled together like sheep awaiting the wolf.

Tom, Dick, Harry, and Nellie.

They jumped as Amanderella approached.

“Oh, Lady Amanderella!” Nellie cried, clutching her shawl. “Thank heavens you’re ’ere!”

Tom pointed a trembling finger at the factory windows. “We seen ’im, miss. Walkin’ about inside. Groanin’ somethin’ awful.”

“White as a sheet,” Dick added.

“Sticky as a pudding,” Harry supplied.

“And cryin’ out for the bottle of Special Reserv.”

Amanderella paused, her umbrella tip hovering over a sticky patch on the floor. “I was under the distinct impression that Mrs Terkins had... liberated... the factory of all its liquid spirits.”

“She did, My Lady!” Mr Pottle squeaked. “Scoured the place from the rafters to the drains. Even the vanilla essence wasn't safe.”

“Then what,” Amanderella asked, “is Mr Terkins after?”

“The emergency bottle,” Tom whispered, his eyes wide. “The one Mr Sugger was told to hide behind the cracked steam pipe. Terkins knows it's there. And it seems even being dead won't stop a man from findin' his favourite gin.”

Amanderella held up the Trumpeter.

“Did Mr Wibberley speak to any of you?”

Four heads shook vigorously.

“No, miss,” Nellie said. “He just come runnin’ down the lane after it were all over, sniffin’ the air like a bloodhound what’s lost its bone.”

“Wrote down a load of nonsense,” Tom added.

“Said I told ’im it were ‘the innards of a fallen angel,’” Dick muttered. “I never said no such thing. I said it looked like someone dropped a blancmange.”

Amanderella sighed. “That is considerably less poetic, but far more plausible.”

Amanderella regarded them calmly.

“You are telling me,” she said, “that Mr Pravis Terkins, recently declared deceased, has been wandering his own factory, moaning, dripping marmalade, and crying for alcohol?”

The four nodded in miserable unison.

Amanderella drew a slow breath.

“Then,” she said, “we had better go inside.”

The workers recoiled as one.

“Oh no, miss,” Tom whispered. “We ain’t goin’ back in there. Not while the ghost of Mr Terkins is roamin,”

A low, mournful groan drifted from somewhere deep within the factory.

Nellie shrieked.

Harry crossed himself.

Dick attempted to hide behind Tom, who attempted to hide behind Nellie, who was having none of it.

Amanderella straightened her hat.

“Gentlemen. Nellie, Mr Terkins is not a ghost. He is alive, confused, and extremely sticky. And if he has found the hidden Gin, he is also likely to be drunk.”

She stepped toward the gate.

“Which,” she added, “makes him more dangerous to himself than to any of you.”

The workers stared at her, wide‑eyed.

Amanderella lifted the latch.

“Come along,” she said. “We have a marmalade magnate to retrieve before he causes any more trouble.”