Amanderella and the Haunted Mill Chapter 3

Chapter 3.

 

A Room for the Night.

 

Amanderella arrived in Lower Widdersham just as the sun began to dip behind the hills, casting long, suspicious shadows across the cobblestones. The village was the sort of place that seemed to have been designed specifically to provide the scenery for a ghost story. Even the ducks on the pond looked as though they were waiting for something dreadful to happen.

She slowed her motorcycle to a polite purr as she passed the green. Curtains twitched. A dog whimpered. A small boy dropped his toffee and did not attempt to retrieve it. Amanderella lifted a hand in greeting. No one waved back.

At the far end of the green stood the Lower Widdersham General Store, its windows plastered with notices such as NO LOITERING, NO WHISTLING, and ABSOLUTELY NO DISCUSSING THE MILL. The last one had been underlined three times.

Amanderella parked beside the horse trough and removed her goggles. The air smelled faintly of damp stone, woodsmoke, and collective anxiety. Mr Paltry emerged from behind a lamppost, where he had clearly been hiding for some time. His bowler hat was now so misshapen it resembled a collapsed pudding.

“Oh, madam,” he breathed, “thank goodness you’ve arrived. The villagers are in a state of utter agitation.”

“So I see,” Amanderella said.

A door creaked open. Mrs Pottlewick peered out, clutching a Bible in each hand. Upon spotting Amanderella, she gasped, crossed herself twice, and shut the door again with a bang. Mr Paltry winced. “They are very… on edge.”

Amanderella looked around the silent green. “Mr Paltry, the only thing haunting this village is its imagination.”

“Yes, madam,” he said, though he did not sound convinced. “But the mill is worse.”

“Well, before I deal with whatever is disturbing the Mill, I need a room for the night, a hot bath and a decent meal. So, take me to your local hostelry,” Amanderella ordered.

Mr Paltry led her along the only road in the village, past the Church and the Old Smithy, where the blacksmith was currently busy shoeing a pony while wearing a crown of garlic, strictly for the "aroma," he claimed, though he wouldn't look toward the valley. Every house they passed had a lantern lit in the porch, despite it being barely dusk. Curiously, each lantern was draped with a small piece of red ribbon, a local "remedy," explained Mr Paltry, that Amanderella noted with a subtle, sceptical twitch of her eyebrow.

He pointed out the Church of St Swithin-the-Startled. The graveyard walls were topped with a row of empty glass bottles. “The villagers claim they trap the whistling," said Mr Paltry. “I think they mostly just catch the wind and make a low, mournful thrumming sound."

Next to the church was the Vicarage. Its windows were tightly shuttered, and a large, defensive-looking umbrella was propped prominently against the front door. At the far end of the square stood an inn that appeared to be held upright mainly by several thick coats of ivy and the sheer stubbornness of its foundations. A faded sign swung above the door:

THE CROOKED LANTERN Rooms, Refreshments, and No Refunds for Noises After Dark

Amanderella dismounted, adjusted her hat, and checked her boots. They were, as Mr Wibberley had noted, still remarkably shiny, though a thin coating of valley dust was already threatening to offend Mrs Gaffletter’s sensibilities by proxy.

She pushed open the heavy oak door. The interior of the inn smelled of woodsmoke, hops, and the distinct, heavy silence of a room where every conversation had just stopped simultaneously. A row of men in flat caps sat at the bar. In the corner, an elderly man in a thick woollen waistcoat sat with a very large, very white goose settled calmly at his feet. The goose gave Amanderella a look of profound judgement.

“Good evening,” Amanderella said, her voice crisp and echoing in the sudden quiet.

The landlord, a man whose face resembled a baked apple that had seen better days, leaned over the counter. “Evenin’, miss. Or is it… Lady?”

“Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler. I believe Mr Paltry may have mentioned my arrival. I require a room for the night. A clean one, preferably away from the radiator if it has a tendency to hum.”

The landlord exchanged a glance with the man with the goose. “Trubshaw Paltry said you might come. But he didn’t say you’d be… on a mechanical contraption.”

“It is a motorcycle,” Amanderella explained, as if describing a type of spoon. “And I assure you it is perfectly docile. Now, about that room?”

The landlord wiped a glass with a cloth that had clearly seen more history than service. “We’ve the Oak Room, madam. It’s got a bed and a washstand. Though mind the floorboards; they’ve a habit of groaning when the wind’s from the east.”

“I am quite capable of handling groaning floorboards,” Amanderella said, placing her travelling bag on the counter. “Is there somewhere safe I can park my vehicle? I should hate for a passing cow to take an interest in the leatherwork.”

The man with the goose cleared his throat. “You the one come to see about the Mill, then? The one what’s going to… deal with it?”

Amanderella turned to him. “If by ‘deal with it’ you mean investigate the source of the whistling and the shuffling sacks, then yes, Mr…?”

“Hobbins,” the man said, nodding toward the bird at his feet. “And this here’s Matilda. She’s a steadying influence, she is. Won’t go near the Mill, though. Not since the Vicar came out of there looking like he’d seen a lemon for the first time.”

“I’m sure Matilda has excellent instincts,” Amanderella replied politely, “but I suspect the Vicar’s alarm was more a matter of startled nerves than spectral interference. Now, if I could see my room, I should like to drop my bag before the light fails completely.”

The landlord nodded stiffly, as though showing rooms to sensible women with shiny boots was a dangerous precedent. “Right then, madam. Oak Room’s at the top. Mind the second stair. It sulks.”

“Stairs are entitled to their feelings,” Amanderella inclined her head. “Lead on.”

Mr Paltry hurried ahead, eager to be useful. The landlord followed, carrying a key the size of a small trout. Behind them, the bar resumed its low murmur. At the foot of the stairs, Mr Hobbins called after her, “If you hear any whistling in the night, don’t open the window. That’s how it gets in.”

Amanderella paused. “What gets in?”

He paled. “Whatever’s doing the whistling.”

Matilda the goose honked ominously.

“Thank you,” Amanderella said, “but I assure you I do not intend to invite anything in, whistling or otherwise.”

She climbed the stairs. The second step groaned theatrically, as promised. The third sighed. The fourth muttered something that sounded like “bother”. At the top, the landlord unlocked the Oak Room. It was small but tidy, with a jug of hot water and a window overlooking the square.

“Your supper’ll be ready in half an hour,” the landlord said. “Stew. It’s always stew.”

“Excellent,” Amanderella replied. “And a bath?”

“We’ll heat the copper. Takes a bit. The fire’s been nervous lately.”

Amanderella chose not to ask how a fire could be nervous. Once the landlord had retreated, she inspected the room. Nothing suspicious. A soft knock sounded at the door.

Mr Paltry peeked in. “Madam, the Preservation Society would like to speak with you. They’re downstairs. They insisted on waiting.”

Amanderella smoothed her skirt. “Very well. Let us reassure them before they frighten themselves into a collective faint.”

She followed him back down to the taproom, where a set of anxious faces turned to her at once. The taproom had grown noticeably fuller. A long table had been pushed against the wall, around which the committee members now sat in a state of organised panic. At the head of the table, perched on a high-backed chair like a crow on a lectern, sat a very small, very determined woman in black silk.

Mr Paltry whispered, “The Dowager Viscountess, madam. Lady Honoria Pimm-Ducket. Chair of the Preservation Society. Permanently. And Majesty the dog.”

Lady Honoria raised her lorgnette. “So,” she declared, “this is the young woman who intends to meddle with the mill.”

“I intend to investigate it, Lady Pimm-Ducket.”

“Hmph,” said the Dowager. “Investigation is merely meddling with paperwork.” Majesty the dog growled in agreement.

Lady Honoria tapped the table. “We have held seventeen meetings on the matter. Eighteen, if one includes the emergency lantern subcommittee. We have reached no conclusions whatsoever. This is, naturally, a sign of thoroughness.”

“Committees often excel at thoroughness,” Amanderella smiled.

Mr Paltry cleared his throat and gestured with a trembling hand toward the table. “Lady Gottsnobbler,” he began, “it is my distinct honour to present to you the executive spine of the Lower Widdersham Mill Preservation Society.”

He moved to the first gentleman, who was currently trying to untangle his beard from his waistcoat buttons. “Mr Phinglas Motethrifters, who I think you have already met. Master of the Worshipful Company of Spectacle Makers (Retired), and our primary Consultant on Optical Illusions and Fog-Related Apparitions. He is responsible for the 'Is It a Ghost or Just a Heavy Mist?' subcommittee.”

Mr Motethrifters adjusted spectacles that made his eyes look the size of soft-boiled eggs. “It’s usually mist,” he whispered hoarsely, “until it isn't.”

Paltry moved a step to the left. “Mr Percifor Pottipans. Former Head Under-Gardener to the Sillingwold Lodge Estate. Our Specialist in Terrestrial Disturbance and Subterranean Shuffling. If something moves under the earth, Mr Pottipans has likely already tried to weed it.”

Mr Pottipans nodded morosely. “The flour sacks don’t shuffle like moles, madam. Moles have a rhythm. These sacks... they have intent.”

Paltry skipped a chair to reach the far end of the table. “Captain Blarneyby Bluster-Gore. Formerly of the Royal Navy’s Hydrographic Department. Our Expert in Rhythmical Whistling and Aquatic Echoes. He assures us the Mill is currently ‘singing in a key unknown to the Admiralty’.”

The Captain, who possessed a moustache like a startled walrus, barked, “It’s a B-flat, madam! But a B-flat with a grudge!”

Finally, Paltry returned to the spindly young man with the high collar. “And lastly, The Honourable Alimans Tringle-Slike. Our Liaison to the Invisible Realm and Keeper of the Society’s Ectoplasmic Ledger. He is... sensitive. Very sensitive.”

Alimans stood up, his collar clicking like a telegraph key. “I’ve felt the vibrations, Lady Gottsnobbler. The Mill isn't just a building; it’s a... a spiritual resonator. I believe the river is trying to tell us something. Possibly about the Corn Laws, but the message is muffled by the wheel.”

Amanderella looked down the line of men. Between the Spectacle Maker, the Gardener, the Walrus, and the Sensitive, she felt she had enough imaginative fuel to power the village for a century.

“Gentlemen,” she said, “I have my spanner, I have my lantern, and I have a very low tolerance for B-flats with grudges. Tomorrow I shall examine the Mill thoroughly, but for tonight I shall bathe, eat and sleep.”

Lady Honoria surveyed Amanderella from boots to hat. “So,” she said at last, “you intend to interfere with the Mill.”

“Investigate,” Amanderella corrected gently.

“Hmph. Reassurance is all very well, but I trust you will not disturb the structural integrity of the building. It is a heritage site. Or it will be, once I have completed the paperwork.”

Majesty the dog growled from beneath her skirts.

“I shall be careful,” Amanderella inclined her head.

“See that you are,” Lady Honoria said. “The last person who meddled with the Mill was the Vicar, and he has not been the same since. He now refuses to preach without an umbrella.”

“That,” Amanderella said kindly, “sounds very trying for him.”

“It is trying for everyone,” Lady Honoria replied. “Umbrellas drip.” She drew herself up. “The Society will reconvene at eight o’clock sharp tomorrow morning. We expect a full report.”

“Half past eight,” Amanderella said, with polite firmness. “I do not rush my dinner.”

Lady Honoria paused, considered this, and gave a curt nod. “Very well. A woman who rushes her food cannot be trusted.”