Amanderella and the Gooseberry Mystery. Chapter 3.

Chapter Three.

 

The Warehouse.

 

 The warehouse stood over the towpath, its brickwork darkened by years of canal weather. Amanderella pushed the side door open with a gloved hand. It creaked in protest, and the familiar scent of stored tea drifted out to meet her.

Inside, the light was dim, falling in narrow strips through the high, dusty windows. Tea chests were stacked in uneven rows, their stencilled labels, Ceylon, Assam, Darjeeling, faded but legible. The air was still, carrying only the dry, faintly tannic smell of old leaves.

Somewhere deeper in the building, a thin thread of pipe smoke curled upward.

Amanderella stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind her.

Her boots made no sound on the dust‑sheeted floorboards. She moved with deliberate care, her gaze following the thin blue spiral of smoke as it drifted toward the rafters. It was the same exclusive blend as before, refined, distinctive, and entirely out of place among the dry, earthy scent of stored tea.

The warehouse formed a maze of narrow corridors between the stacked wooden chests. As she rounded the corner of a tower marked Assam, 1909, a flash of bright colour caught her eye.

Perched on an empty tea chest was the yellow‑and‑green striped boating hat he had stolen from Madame Clara’s. Beside it lay another silver shilling, gleaming in a stray beam of afternoon light.

The man himself was nowhere in sight, but the pipe smoke hung thicker here.

“You are making this remarkably easy,” Amanderella said, her voice carrying through the stillness. “Though I suppose a bright yellow hat is difficult to hide in a tea store.”

A low, amused chuckle drifted from behind a row of cedarwood crates.

“Easy for a quick mind, perhaps,” a voice replied. Pleasant, educated, and entirely too pleased with itself. “But then, I didn’t send the note to the original occupant of that chair, did I?”

A figure stepped into the half‑light, though he kept to the edge of the shadows. The wide‑brimmed hat was gone; the collar of a tweed travelling coat obscured part of his face. But his boots were unmistakable, polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the dim warehouse windows in miniature.

He held a long‑stemmed pipe in one hand, its embers glowing faintly.

“Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler, I presume,” he said, bowing with an eccentric flourish. “I must commend your speed. I thought the fruit stall might have delayed you rather more than it did.”

Amanderella brushed a thin layer of dust from the nearest tea chest with the back of her glove. The gesture was unhurried, almost absent‑minded, as though she were tidying a drawing‑room cushion rather than standing in a dim warehouse with a stranger who had led her halfway across town.

She perched on the edge of the crate with composed ease, crossing one ankle over the other. The tea chest creaked faintly beneath her, but she appeared not to notice.

“If your intention was to unsettle me,” she said, smoothing her skirt, “I fear you may be disappointed.”

The man’s pipe paused halfway to his lips.

Just for a moment, a flicker, she had surprised him.

Amanderella continued, her tone courteous but edged with steel.

“Now then. Perhaps you might explain why this elaborate performance was necessary.”

He regarded her for a moment, pipe held loosely between two fingers, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Necessary because ordinary methods would not have brought a woman of your abilities to my door,” he said softly. He smiled faintly. “You are not easily discomposed. Good. That will matter.” He tapped the pipe against the crate, sending a small drift of ash to the floor, then inclined his head in a gesture that was half‑bow, half‑apology.

“Forgive me. I suppose I should introduce myself properly. My name is Ellis Shovelock. A private detective,”

Amanderella lifted an eyebrow. “At last.”

Ellis gave a rueful little shrug. “I was instructed not to offer it until you had proved yourself. You have.”

Amanderella met his gaze for a moment, then gave the smallest inclination of her head, not a bow, not a curtsey, simply a quiet acknowledgement that she had heard him and found his judgement acceptable.

It was the sort of gesture that could have meant anything to a casual observer.

But Ellis Shovelock was not a casual observer. His pipe paused mid‑lift. Just a fraction. Just enough to show he had noticed.

Amanderella smoothed an invisible crease from her glove and settled a little more comfortably on the tea chest, as though the entire afternoon’s pursuit had been nothing more than a mildly diverting stroll.

“You want to know why,” he said. “Fair enough.”

Amanderella inclined her head, waiting.

Ellis rested the pipe across his knee. “I was engaged to determine whether you were the sort of person who could be approached… discreetly.”

“Approached about what?”

“That,” he said, “is not mine to tell.”

Amanderella’s expression did not change, but her eyes sharpened.

Ellis continued, his tone shifting from playful to businesslike. “My instructions were simple. Observe you. Test your composure. Test your speed. Test your ability to follow a trail without involving half of London. And above all,” he tapped the pipe stem lightly against the crate, “ensure you could keep your head when presented with something unusual.”

Amanderella folded her hands in her lap. “And have I passed?”

Ellis gave a small, genuine smile. “With more style than was expected.”

He stood, brushing dust from his coat. “My task ends here. Yours, I’m afraid, is only beginning.”

Amanderella’s voice was calm. “And who, precisely, believes they require my discretion?”

Ellis shook his head. “You’ll hear it from my employer. They insisted on that point. I’m merely the… preliminary examination.”

“Why can you not investigate this yourself?”

Ellis replied, “Because the matter concerns an object, not a person. I follow people, Lady Amanderella, their habits, their lies, their footsteps. This requires a different sort of mind.”

“And how did this mysterious employer of yours hear about me?” Amanderella asked, still feeling suspicious.

“I may have… sung your praises rather too enthusiastically. I told them about the finding of treasure and dealing with haunted buildings, even how you managed to find a Royal snuff box but they were not convinced. My employer insisted on proof. Hence all this.”

Amanderella took in a sharp breath. “How do you   know about the snuff box?” That was supposed to be a very deeply hidden secret.”

He smiled, not smugly, but with the quiet assurance of a man who has spent years uncovering things other people preferred to keep buried.

“Finding out secrets is rather my stock‑in‑trade,” he said. “But I would not last very long in this occupation if I went about repeating every secret I discovered.”

He tapped his pipe lightly against the crate, sending a small drift of ash to the floor.

“You may trust me on that point, Lady Amanderella. I know far more than I ever say.”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a sealed envelope, its wax unbroken.

“This,” he said, offering it to her, “is your invitation.”

“And if I refuse this invitation?”

“If you refuse,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, “then I am instructed to take this packet back, burn it, and return to my employer with the news that Amanderella Gottsnobbler prefers  not to help.

“One final question, then ,” asked Amanderella. “How did you know I was going to be at the Hairdressers. Have you been following me?”

“That was pure luck. I was on my way to the Royal Society rooms. I intended to leave the note in your lantern‑slide box. Then I saw you.  And,  well, the opportunity was too good to waste. I followed you in and… improvised.”

Amanderella will absolutely raise an eyebrow at “improvised.”

Ellis gave a half‑apologetic, half‑pleased smile.

He extended the envelope a fraction further.

“They required someone with an impeccable social standing, an eye for the absurd, and a mind that can untangle a knot before the afternoon tea gets cold. If you decline, they will simply have to find someone else. Though frankly, I don’t think anyone else in London could have decoded the business with the apples quite so quickly.”

Amanderella looked from the sealed envelope to the gleam of Ellis Shovelock’s mirror-shiny boots. The warehouse was growing colder as the afternoon light began to fail, casting long, geometric shadows across the stencilled tea chests.

The six words from the hairdresser's chair had led her through a labyrinth of shillings, hats, and crockery. It would be sensible to simply get up, return to her carriage, and show off her new hairstyle to her landlady who had sent her to the hairdresser’s salon.

She stood up, smoothing her skirts with an elegant, unhurried motion, and stepped out of the shadows.

“Mr Shovelock,” she said, extending her gloved hand toward the packet. “It would be a pity to waste a whole shilling's worth of absolute silence.”

She took the envelope. The wax was stamped with a peculiar crest a pair of deeply carved acorns.

“Carved acorns ,” she murmured. “That is… unusual.”

Ellis gave a soft, conspiratorial cough. “My employer has a sense of humour. Or possibly none at all. It is difficult to tell.”

He inclined his head, relief flickering across his features before he smoothed it away. “Then my task is complete.”

Amanderella stepped back from the tea chest, brushing a faint trace of dust from her glove. “And mine begins, I suppose.”

“Indeed. You will find the instructions inside. My employer were very particular about that.”

She gave him a cool, assessing look. “I imagine your employer was particular about many things.”

“Oh, endlessly,” Ellis said, with a rueful smile. “But you will manage them. You have the advantage of being sensible.”

Amanderella lifted her chin a fraction. “And you, Mr Shovelock, have the advantage of being unexpectedly resourceful.”

He bowed, not extravagantly, but with a certain flourish that suggested he enjoyed being appreciated.

“Until our paths cross again,  Miss Gottsnobbler.”

She turned toward the door, her boots silent on the dusty boards. Behind her, Ellis’s polished footwear gleamed faintly in the dimming light, like two small, watchful moons.

As she reached the threshold, she paused.

“Mr Shovelock,” she said without turning, “next time you choose to improvise, do try not to involve fruit.”

Ellis’s laugh followed her out into the cold afternoon air,  warm, surprised, and entirely delighted.