Amanderella and the Gooseberry Mystery. Chapter 8 Part 2

Miss Harbottle eyed the pig. “It looks as though it might bark.”

“Nonsense,” the Peer said. “It weighs. Tail wags if it beats the record.”

But Amanderella was looking at the baize.

Beside the pig’s left trotter lay a folded square of writing paper.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “postpone your horticultural reunion.” She stepped forward, used the ivory tip of her parasol to slide the note clear of the brass pig, and lifted it with her gloved fingers. She unfolded the paper with the same calm precision she applied to everything.

The M.P. leaned forward, white‑faced. Miss Harbottle’s grip tightened on her handbag, the only sign of strain she allowed herself. The noble lord peered over Amanderella’s shoulder with mild curiosity.

Amanderella’s eyes moved across the page. Her expression did not change. She held up the contents.

Two sheets. Cream paper. Highly familiar handwriting.

The M.P. gave a strangled cry. “My IOU! That’s my signature, look, right there, oh good heavens—”

“And the Bishop’s,” Miss Harbottle whispered. “That is unquestionably his hand. I recognise the flourish.”

The Peer shrugged. “Well, of course they’re here. This is where we put them. In the vault. Under the pig. Where no one could possibly see them.”

Amanderella folded the papers neatly. “Precisely.”

The M.P. blinked. “But… if the IOUs are still here… then the blackmailer… he can’t have seen them.”

“No,” Amanderella said. “He cannot.”

Miss Harbottle frowned. “Then how did he know about the wager?”

Amanderella looked up, thoughtful but steady. “Because he was present when it was made.”

The Peer straightened, his face falling. “Present? Only the three of us, the Bishop’s chaplain, and—”

He stopped.

Amanderella met his eyes.

“—and the servants,” the Peer finished slowly. “Carrying the trays of brandy.”

Amanderella slipped the IOUs back into their envelope and placed them on the green baize table. For a moment, no one spoke.

Then the Peer stepped forward. He picked up the papers, holding them between finger and thumb as though they were something faintly distasteful, not because of the debt, but because of the trouble they had caused.

“Well,” he said quietly, “these have done enough mischief.”

He reached into his travelling coat and produced a battered box of matches. The M.P. squeaked; Miss Harbottle’s fingers tightened on her handbag; Amanderella simply watched.

The Peer struck a match. The tiny flame flared, reflected in the pig’s ruby eyes.

“Ten thousand pounds,” he murmured. “A great deal to some. A nuisance to others. But a disaster to a man with a family.”

He touched the flame to the corner of the first IOU.

The paper curled, blackened, and caught. He held it until the fire reached his fingertips, then dropped the scrap into the metal ash tray. The second IOU followed.

When both were reduced to a drift of grey ash, he closed the matchbox with a soft click.

“There,” he said. “That is the end of it.”

The M.P. stared at the ashes. “My lord… you have just destroyed—”

“Nothing of importance,” the Peer said firmly. “A gentleman does not ruin his friends. And no blackmailer can threaten us now.”

Miss Harbottle let out a long, shaky breath, her shoulders dropping. “The Bishop will be so relieved.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “A wise decision, my lord, though a significant sum to forgo.”

The Peer shrugged, faintly embarrassed. “The simplest solution. Complicated ones involve committees. Besides, I spend more than that on my racehorses.”

His gaze fell on the brass pig. It stared back with ruby eyes and a slightly raised tail.

“Well,” he said, “that leaves only one question.”

The M.P. blinked. “Which is?”

“What,” the Peer said gravely, “are we to do with the pig?”

Miss Harbottle took a small step back. “I should prefer it not to return to the Bishop’s residence, my lord. It… unnerves him.”

“It unnerves me,” the M.P. muttered.

Amanderella regarded the mechanical swine. “It cannot remain here. The wager is concluded. The vault will be resealed, but the pig no longer serves a purpose.”

The Peer nodded. “Quite. Magnificent engineering, but it clashes with my wallpaper. And it deserves better than to terrify housemaids.”

“There is one place where it would be appreciated,” Amanderella said.

“Oh?”

“The Museum of Curious Mechanisms.”

Miss Harbottle brightened. “Yes! They have the clockwork lobster and the self‑writing ledger. A gooseberry‑weighing pig would fit perfectly.”

“And no one would connect it with us,” the M.P. added.

The Peer nodded decisively. “Excellent. A dignified retirement. The curator will make a fuss over it.”

He patted the pig’s polished head. “There you are, old girl. Admired by schoolchildren and eccentric aunts. A far better fate.”

Amanderella allowed herself the faintest smile. “I shall arrange the transfer.”

The Peer glanced at the pig, the jars, the ashes. “I suppose I ought to explain the pig. Old school joke. My nickname was ‘Porky’, entirely undeserved, and the Boffin thought it amusing to make the machine porcine. I let him. Inventors need their whims.”

“And you kept it?” Amanderella asked.

“It grew on me. And it annoyed the Bishop.” He straightened. “Now all that remains is to find the poor devil who thought blackmail was his only choice.”

Amanderella’s eyes met his. “I believe Shovelock Ellis may assist.”

“Then let us go. The sooner this is settled, the sooner I can return to my ducks.”

Amanderella looked around the vault. “We may leave the alcohol‑soaked gooseberries to their retirement. They have caused enough excitement.”

Mr Snodgrass stepped forward as they exited. “If you are satisfied, my lady, I shall arrange for the vault to be cleared of… the non‑botanical items.”

“Thank you, Mr Snodgrass. And do ensure the pig is boxed with great care. Its snout is delicate.”

Miss Harbottle let out a relived sigh, “The Bishop will be so pleased.”

They climbed the stairs into the sunlit hall. The M.P. seemed to inflate with every step.

The Peer paused on the top step, shading his eyes. For a moment he looked quietly relieved too.

“Yes,” he said softly. “No man should be ruined for overhearing a foolish wager. We were all young once. And stupid once. Some of us twice.”

The M.P. coloured; Miss Harbottle coughed politely.

Amanderella inclined her head. “Your compassion does you credit, my lord. The IOUs are ash, and the pig is safely disposed of.”

 “Nonsense. It is practical,” the Peer replied, turning toward the waiting motor vehicle. “The evidence is gone, but the blackmailer himself is still at large. A thwarted villain is a dangerous thing, and we must find out who he is before he tries another angle.”

“But how?” the M.P. asked, adjusting his collar anxiously. “We cannot exactly go to Scotland Yard.”

“There is no need, sir,” Miss Harbottle interjected smoothly, smoothing down her navy skirt. I took the liberty of retaining a private investigator on the Bishop’s behalf earlier this week. A Mr Ellis Shovelock.”

The Peer stopped with his hand on the motor vehicle door, blinking through his monocle. “Shovelock? Not the chap in Marylebone? I've never met him, but I hear he is quite good at his job.”

Miss Harbottle replied, her composure intact. “He is excellent at finding people who do not wish to be found. He is currently awaiting our report.”

“Capital,” the Peer declared, stepping into the vehicle. “Then let us not keep the Church or the detective waiting. To Marylebone!”

Amanderella was about to step inside when Miss Harbottle sank onto a stone bench. She yawned, a small, apologetic sound.

Amanderella turned to her. “I think someone needs to go home. The Bishop will want to hear the danger is past. And a loyal young lady deserves a proper meal and a night’s sleep.”

Miss Harbottle’s eyes filled with relief. “Oh, my lady… yes.”

The Peer nodded. “Quite right. Tell the Bishop he may stop muttering about horticultural sins.”

Miss Harbottle smiled faintly. “He will be so glad.”

The M.P. cleared his throat. “Perhaps I… might also withdraw?”

“Not at all,” Amanderella said kindly. “But you, too, have earned your rest.”

“Go home,” the Peer said. “Have luncheon. Avoid the newspapers.”

The M.P. nodded fervently. “Yes. Yes, I shall.”

Miss Harbottle straightened her hat and curtseyed. “Thank you, my lady.”

“Safe journey,” Amanderella replied.

Miss Harbottle and the M.P. stepped into the summer crowd, both looking immeasurably lighter.

The Peer watched them go, then turned to Amanderella. “Well,” he said, opening the motor vehicle door, “that leaves just the two of us.”

Amanderella settled her parasol and stepped inside. “As it should.”

“Marylebone, then,” the Peer murmured. “To see Shovelock Ellis.”

The engine coughed, shuddered, and belched smoke, then lurched into the City traffic.