Amanderella and the Gooseberry Mystery. Chapter 5.

Chapter Five.

 

The Bishop’s Clue.

 

Miss Harbottle reached into her sensible navy handbag and produced a folded piece of parchment, handling it as though it might emit a sudden puff of smoke.

“The Bishop,” she whispered, “is a very keen scholar of medieval antiquities, but in recent weeks his mind has taken a decidedly… circular turn. Ever since his promotion to Archbishop was announced, he has been sunk in a state of profound melancholy. He hid his portion of the key inside a highly specific object, and then wrote this verse in his private diary. We found the page tucked between two sermons on the moral symbolism of gooseberries. The Bishop himself is in no condition to be questioned, he has taken to lying on his chaise longue and murmuring about ‘the sins of horticulture.’”

Amanderella read out the message.

“Within my chamber of quiet study, where false fruits keep eternal vigil,

Seek ye the Goose that never ripens,

Whose fruit is wax and whose season is eternity.

Beneath its shadow lies my first confession.”

She lowered the parchment, her countenance entirely serene, though her fingers remained lightly poised on the edge of the cream-coloured paper.

“A chamber of quiet study,” Amanderella murmured. “And a goose that never ripens. Mr Shovelock, I presume, took this to mean a poultry yard. Or perhaps a public house near the docks.”

“Worse,” Miss Harbottle sighed, leaning across the table until her sensible hat nearly touched the silver teapot. “He spent the entirety of yesterday morning inspecting the goose‑pens at a model farm in Hertfordshire, convinced the Archbishop had buried the key beneath a particularly venerable gander. He returned covered in mud and utterly defeated.”

Amanderella offered a small, pitying smile. “A detective’s fatal flaw is that he always looks for something alive, or failing that, something buried. He forgets that the clergy live in a world of metaphors and grand, expensive dust. The Archbishop’s ‘chamber of quiet study’ is not a farmyard, Miss Harbottle. It is exactly what it says: his study in the Bishop’s palace. And the ‘Goose that never ripens’…” She paused, a spark of satisfaction in her eye. “As his secretary, you must spend a fair amount of time in that room.”

Miss Harbottle nodded.

“Then,” Amanderella continued, “am I right in assuming he has a fine collection of wax fruits scattered about?”

“He does, and he is very proud of them,” said Miss Harbottle.

“Then we must pay his study a visit,” Amanderella said. She rose half an inch, then paused, eyeing the three‑tiered stand between them.

“After tea,” she said firmly, and sat back down.

Miss Harbottle blinked. “After… tea?”

“My dear Miss Harbottle,” Amanderella said, selecting a miniature éclair with the precision of a jeweller choosing a diamond, “one does not rush out of the Savoy as though fleeing a fire. It causes comment. And worse, it alarms the waiters.”

Miss Harbottle looked around nervously. “But the M.P.—”

“—will still be an imbecile in an hour,” Amanderella said serenely. “And the Bishop’s wax fruit will not ripen in our absence.”

She took a delicate bite of the éclair, then reached for a scone.

Miss Harbottle, torn between panic and propriety, hovered before reluctantly taking a sandwich.

“I suppose,” she murmured, “it would be rude to leave before the final course. And I did pay for all this in advance.”

“Precisely,” said Amanderella, buttering her scone with the calm of a woman who had never once been hurried. “Besides, clarity of mind is essential when dealing with riddles written by melancholy clergymen. And I find jam is excellent for clarity.”

Miss Harbottle nodded, though without conviction.

Amanderella poured herself a final cup of tea, lifted it with elegant precision, and took a slow sip.

“There,” she said at last, setting the cup down. “Now we may proceed to the Bishop’s study.”

Miss Harbottle scrambled to her feet, nearly upsetting the teapot.

Amanderella rose smoothly, adjusted her gloves, and glided toward the exit with the confidence of a woman fortified by afternoon tea and fully prepared to confront wax fruit, church riddles, and the British establishment’s collective idiocy.

The Palace was only a short hansom cab ride away. Amanderella stepped out with her usual calmness; Miss Harbottle followed. Amanderella paid the fare and tipped the driver what she considered reasonable.

Though the hour was edging toward six, the long July evening was still bright, which suited Amanderella perfectly; she disliked mysteries that required lanterns.

They had barely reached the front steps when the door flew open and the Bishop’s housekeeper appeared, wearing the expression of someone who had been warned calamity was coming and had prepared a list of objections.

“No visitors,” she said at once. “Absolutely not. The Bishop is not in any fit state to see anyone, even his secretary.”

Amanderella inclined her head politely. “Good afternoon.”

“It won’t be a good afternoon if you insist on visiting. He’s in a delicate state. Delicate. He’s been lying on his chaise longue all morning muttering about horticultural sins and the decline of gooseberries.”

Miss Harbottle clasped her hands. “We won’t disturb him, Mrs Pottlewick, I promise. We only need to look in his study.”

Mrs Pottlewick shook her head. “His Lordship has been tidying up in there, so there’s no telling what state it’s in. I cannot be blamed if he refuses to let me go in. Why do you need to visit his study?”

Amanderella gave her a calm, almost apologetic smile.

“We believe,” she said, “that the Bishop has concealed something important in that room.”

Miss Harbottle cleared her throat. “A… small object. Hidden in a very particular place.”

Mrs Pottlewick narrowed her eyes. “What sort of place?”

Amanderella folded her hands. “Beneath one of his wax fruits.”

Mrs Pottlewick made a strangled noise. “Not the wax fruit again.”

“I’m afraid so,” Miss Harbottle said. “Now, Mrs Pottlewick, if you would be so kind as to show us in, we shall disturb as little as possible.”

Mrs Pottlewick looked from Amanderella to Miss Harbottle, sighed, and muttered, “Oh, very well. But if anything gets knocked over, I’m blaming all of you.”

She stepped aside.

Amanderella went in.

Miss Harbottle followed briskly, notebook already in hand.

The Bishop’s study awaited them.

Mrs Pottlewick led them down a dim corridor lined with portraits of previous bishops, all of whom appeared to disapprove of the present century. She stopped outside a heavy oak door and planted herself firmly in front of it.

“I’ll warn you again,” she said, “his Lordship’s study is in a delicate condition. He’s been… rearranging things.”

Miss Harbottle winced. “Oh dear.”

Amanderella nodded serenely. “We shall tread lightly.”

Mrs Pottlewick sniffed. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

She pushed open the door.

The Bishop’s study was a jumble of books, papers, and polished wax fruit, the sort of room that suggested its owner had begun tidying and then lost interest halfway through. Books lay in precarious stacks, papers drifted like autumn leaves, and on every surface sat wax fruit: apples, pears, plums, a melon, something that might once have been a quince, and, on a small plinth by the window, the unmistakable wax gooseberry.

Amanderella stepped up to the plinth and examined the gooseberry with quiet interest. “Miss Harbottle,” she said softly, “would you be so kind as to lift the base?”

Together they raised the little wooden plinth.

A folded scrap of parchment lay beneath it.

Amanderella smiled. “The Bishop’s first confession.”

Mrs Pottlewick made a strangled sound. “If he’s been hiding things under the fruit again, I swear—”

She was interrupted by a crash from the corridor, followed by the unmistakable thump of someone colliding with a hatstand.

Amanderella closed her eyes briefly. “That sounds as if you have a visitor.”

A man burst through the doorway, red‑faced and panting.

“There you are!” he cried. “Tell me you’ve found something! The blackmailer has written again, and this time he’s named the newspaper! He says he’ll send everything to The Morning Trumpeter.”

Mrs Pottlewick rounded on him. “You! Out! You’re upsetting the dust!”

“I’m upsetting everything!” the M.P. wailed. “My career! My finances! My digestion!”

Amanderella raised a gloved hand.

“Sir,” she said, “if you wish to be useful, kindly stand still and refrain from touching anything. Especially the fruit.”

The M.P. froze.

Amanderella unfolded the parchment with delicate care.

“Now,” she said, “let us see where the Bishop wishes us to go next.”

She read aloud:

“Where the stone gargoyle blinks at the choir,

Seek out the animal dressed as a friar.

Beneath his left paw, where the dust gathers thick,

Lies the velvet‑lined case with the clockwork pig’s click.”

Amanderella read the verse twice, then lowered the paper with the air of a woman who had just been handed a riddle composed by someone who had never solved one.

“Miss Harbottle,” she said, “your Bishop appears to have mistaken himself for a medieval troubadour.”

“He has always been fond of the romantic poets,” Miss Harbottle said mildly.

“I can tell,” Amanderella murmured. “No one writes about blinking gargoyles and friars in couplets unless they are either in love or in trouble. In the Bishop’s case, I shall assume the latter. Where to?”

Miss Harbottle let out a tiny gurgle of laughter. “It must be the private chapel,” she said at once. “He has a dreadful stone gargoyle positioned above the choir stalls, the one that looks as though it disapproves of everything. And beneath it stands the carved oak screen.”

Mrs Pottlewick groaned. “Not the chapel. I’ve only just finished dusting the pews. And that carved creature in the corner, the badger in the friar’s robe, it collects dust like a magnet. If he’s hidden something under that, I shall have words.”

Amanderella folded the parchment neatly. “Then that is precisely where we must go.”

The M.P. flapped his hands helplessly. “But what does it mean? What does any of it mean?”

“It means,” Amanderella said, “that the Bishop has hidden his second clue beneath the left paw of a carved friar‑animal in his private chapel. Whatever lies there will tell us where to go next.”

“Whatever lies there…?” the M.P. echoed, looking stricken.

“Exactly,” said Amanderella.