Amanderella and the Haunted Mill Chapter 1

Chapter1.

 

Solicitors, Sovereigns, and a Steadying Goose

 

The lecture hall still smelled faintly of over-brewed tea, stale biscuits and damp umbrellas. Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler closed her eyes for a moment, letting the last ripple of chatter fade. She had just spent an hour explaining the habits of the elusive Bangolin tree, a plant whose fruit ripened only once every fifty years and grew only in the deepest part of the jungle in Burkoland, and yet the final question of the evening had been: “Do they grow in Manchester?”

She had answered politely, of course, though she suspected the gentleman had not listened to a single word.

Now, with the audience drifting away in clumps of satisfied biscuit-eaters, she began to pack up her things. Her notebook went into its case. The magic-lantern slides, carefully labelled Bangolin Fruit (Unripe), Bangolin Fruit (Attempting to Escape), and Bangolin Tree (Sulking), were wrapped in their cloth and tucked safely away.

She had just rolled up her hand-drawn map (annotated with “Do not prod this bit” and “Birds argumentative”) when she heard the cough.

A small cough. A nervous cough. A cough that had clearly been practising in the corridor.

Amanderella looked up.

A man stood in the doorway, bowler hat clutched to his chest like a shield. His suit was respectable but wilted, and his expression suggested he had been sent on an errand he would rather have posted by telegram.

“Lady Gottsnobbler?” he ventured.

“Yes,” she said, fastening the strap on her lantern case. “Can I help you?”

He stepped forward, nearly tripping over the leg of a folding chair, and extended a small cream-coloured card with both hands, as though presenting a peace offering.

Amanderella took it. The card read, in very ornate lettering:

Scroggins, Shooter, Burnet and Bobble Solicitors and Commissioners for Oaths, Wills and Probate specialists.

Amanderella nodded. “Are you Scroggins?”

“Oh no, madam.”

“Shooter?”

“No, madam.”

“Burnet?”

He shook his head miserably.

“Bobble?”

A faint squeak. “No, madam. I am… Paltry, Trubshaw Paltry.”

She slipped the card into her notebook and looked up at him. “If you’ve come to offer me legal assistance, Mr Paltry, I assure you I don’t require any. I have no intention of changing my will, as far as I know no one is trying to sue me, and I certainly don’t wish to sue anyone else.”

Mr Paltry made a small, strangled noise. “Oh no, madam! Nothing of that sort, I promise you. I am merely the representative of the Lower Widdersham Mill Preservation Society. They, insisted someone sensible must be consulted.”

Amanderella gave him a long, level look. “About what?”

He swallowed. “The mill, madam. There have been… occurrences.”

“Occurrences,” she repeated.

“Yes, madam.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “The villagers believe it is… possessed.”

Amanderella closed her lantern case with a loud click. “Of course they do. And why have you come to me with this?”

Mr Paltry inhaled as though preparing to dive underwater.

“Well, madam, it is the mill. The old watermill. The one at the bottom of the valley. The Society is responsible for its upkeep, or rather, for discussing its upkeep—and they have recently received reports of… of… unusual activity.”

Amanderella waited.

Mr Paltry continued, words gathering speed like a runaway pram. “There have been noises, madam. And lights. And thumpings. And a sort of… whistling. Very persistent whistling. The villagers say the wheel turns backwards at night, which of course is impossible, except that Mrs Pottlewick claims she saw it with her own eyes, though she is known to be somewhat imaginative, especially after dusk.”

He paused only long enough to draw breath.

“And then there are the flour sacks, madam. They have been observed to… to move. Of their own accord. Only slightly, you understand, but enough to cause alarm. Mr Hobbins insists he saw one ‘shuffle’, though he admits he had mislaid his spectacles at the time.”

Amanderella raised an eyebrow. “And the Preservation Society wants me to investigate.”

“Oh yes, madam!” Mr Paltry clutched his hat tighter. “They are quite desperate. They refuse to enter the mill themselves, not after what happened to the Vicar, and they felt that someone sensible, someone practical, someone who has dealt with… with foreign vegetation… might be able to determine whether the building is, in fact, possessed.”

Amanderella blinked. “What happened to the Vicar?”

Mr Paltry shuddered. “He heard the whistling, madam. And then something brushed his ankle. He fled at once. He has not returned.”

Amanderella sighed. “A mouse, Mr Paltry.”

“That is what the Society hopes, madam. Very much. But they fear it may be something… larger.”

“Larger than a mouse?”

“Yes, madam.” He swallowed. “Possibly… ghostly.”

Amanderella closed her eyes briefly. “Of course they would think that. And as I asked, why me?”

“One of our members is in the spectacle-making trade, especially rose-tinted ones. I think you met him, Mr Phinglas Motethrifters?”

Amanderella nodded. “I certainly did, yes go on.”

Mr Paltry twisted his bowler around between his fingers. “He was very impressed with the way you dealt with their problem.” He coughed nervously again. “And Percifor Pottipans used to be a gardener at Sillingwold Lodge. He said that you had helped Maudline Ppockingstull find the family treasure."

“So I did,“ agreed Amanderella.

Mr Paltry drew himself up, or rather, attempted to, for he only managed an extra half-inch, and said, with an unusual show of decisiveness: “They made a decision, madam.”

Amanderella blinked. “Did they really.”

“Yes, madam. A unanimous one.” He looked faintly awed, as though this were a phenomenon rarer than the Bangolin tree itself. “They decided that you were the only person who could possibly help.”

Amanderella folded her arms. “Because I found the fruit so Mr Phinglas Motethrifters could make rose-tinted spectacles and because I helped Maudline Ppockingstull find a very valuable waistcoat, they sent you to me?”

Mr Paltry nodded vigorously. “Exactly so, madam. The committee felt that anyone capable of dealing with… with those situations would be more than equal to a—” he hesitated. “A… a supernatural disturbance.”

Amanderella gave him a long, level look. “Mr Paltry, there is no such thing as a supernatural disturbance. There are only natural disturbances, badly understood.”

Mr Paltry swallowed. “Yes, madam. That is precisely what the Preservation Society hopes you will say. Loudly. And preferably while standing inside the mill.”

Amanderella sighed. “Of course they do.”

He twisted his bowler hat again, the brim now beginning to resemble a corkscrew. “They beg you to come at once, madam. They are quite beside themselves. Mrs Pottlewick has taken to carrying a Bible in each hand, and Mr Hobbins refuses to walk past the mill unless accompanied by a goose.”

“A goose,” Amanderella repeated.

“Yes, madam. He says it has a steadying influence.”

Amanderella closed her eyes briefly. “Very well, Mr Paltry. I will look into your mill.”

Mr Paltry sagged with relief, as though she had just agreed to save him from drowning. “Oh, thank you, madam. The Preservation Society will be most grateful. They said, and I quote, that if anyone could banish a spirit, it would be ‘that sensible lady with the shiny boots’.”

Amanderella picked up her bag. “I am not banishing anything, Mr Paltry. I am going to find your mouse.”

“Yes, madam,” he said, though he did not sound convinced.