Amanderella and the Mystery of the Crystal Aviary. Chapter 3

Chapter 3.

 

A Home Visit.

 

Amanderella let Sir Peristal wait just long enough for him to realise she was doing it on purpose.

At last, she said, “Very well. I will undertake the task. But I will require certain arrangements.”

Sir Peristal brightened like a man who had been holding his breath for several minutes.

“Of course. Anything.”

“Firstly,” Amanderella said, “when—if—I recover the snuffbox, to whom am I to return it?”

Sir Peristal hesitated. “Ideally, directly to me. I will ensure it is restored to its rightful owner without delay, without fuss, and without the faintest whisper reaching the newspapers.”

“And if I am unable to find it?”

Sir Peristal closed his eyes briefly, as though imagining the headlines. “Then,” he said, “I shall have to invent a diplomatic emergency of such magnitude that the visiting dignitary is too distracted to notice the absence of his gift.”

Amanderella nodded. “Very well. I shall do my best to spare you that.”

He bowed, deeply grateful. “You are a credit to your family, Lady Amanderella.”

She gave him a look that suggested he should not bring her family into this.

Mrs Gaffletter was waiting in the hallway when Amanderella returned, arms folded, expression set to “fortress”.

“There was a gentleman here earlier,” she announced, as though reporting a burglary.

“Yes,” Amanderella said mildly. “I met him.”

Mrs Gaffletter sniffed. “I told him you were out. And I told him that if he tried to come in, I would fetch the broom.”

“That was very sensible.”

“I don’t hold with gentleman callers,” Mrs Gaffletter went on. “Not after seven o’clock. Not before breakfast. And not at any time unless they are delivering coal.”

Amanderella smiled. “This one was not a suitor, nor a coalman.”

Mrs Gaffletter gave her a sceptical look. “They always say that.”

Amanderella set her gloves on the hall table and went upstairs to her rooms. She gathered what she needed with quiet precision: her notebook, a small torch, a length of stout string, and a tin of emergency biscuits.

When she was ready, she came back to the hall.

Mrs Gaffletter watched her with narrowed eyes, as though expecting a gentleman to spring from behind the umbrella stand at any moment.

“You’re going out again,” she said accusingly.

“For a short task,” Amanderella replied, slipping the ball of string into her coat pocket.

Mrs Gaffletter sniffed. “Tasks lead to trouble. And trouble leads to late suppers.”

“I shall try to avoid both.”

She fastened her coat, checked her scarf, and lifted her helmet from its hook.

Mrs Gaffletter folded her arms even tighter. “If this task involves climbing, crawling, or any form of dangling, I shall not be responsible.”

“It involves none of those,” Amanderella said, which was technically true, though she suspected the bird might have other ideas.

Mrs Gaffletter sniffed. “If it involves that gentleman from earlier, I shall fetch the broom. I don’t hold with callers who arrive uninvited and speak in whispers.”

“It does not,” Amanderella said calmly. “This is a matter of business. I shall call on my parents on my way to wherever it is I am going, just to remind them once again that suitors are not welcome.”

Mrs Gaffletter gave a final harrumph, the kind that suggested she would be listening for the motorbike’s return with the vigilance of a lighthouse keeper.

Amanderella wheeled her motorcycle out of the shed at the bottom of the garden and rode away.

She swept down the valley road, her scarf snapping behind her like a battle standard. The motorbike purred, then growled, then gave a triumphant little pop as she changed gear.

The villagers reacted exactly as they always did, with a mixture of fascination, horror, and the faint hope that this time she might slow down long enough for them to understand how the machine worked. Her visits were so infrequent that they never had time to get used to her method of arrival.

Old Mr Buntle, trimming his hedge, froze mid‑snip. The shears clicked on empty air as he stared. “By all that’s green,” he muttered, “the pencil’s back.”

Mrs Drabble, carrying a basket of eggs, clutched it to her chest. “Oh mercy,” she breathed. “She’s riding that thunderous machine again.”

The vicar, halfway across the churchyard, dropped his umbrella. “Good gracious,” he whispered, “it’s like watching a sermon delivered by lightning.”

Young Tom Pottle, sweeping the steps of the general store, shaded his eyes. “Look at her go,” he said reverently. “Straight as a ruler and twice as fast.”

Meanwhile, Mrs Thimblewick, who had once fainted at the sight of a bicycle, clung to her gatepost. “It isn’t natural,” she declared to no one in particular. “A lady should not travel at the speed of a startled pheasant.”

The blacksmith leaned out of his forge, sparks drifting around him like fireflies.

“Well,” he said, admiring the gleam of chrome, “there she goes, like a sharpened pencil on a mission.”

Amanderella turned into the lane leading to Gottsnobbler Hall, perfectly balanced, perfectly composed, and entirely unaware of the trail of astonished villagers she left in her wake.

She drove up the long gravel drive, the motorbike humming like a contented wasp. The front windows of Gottsnobbler Hall trembled, not from the engine, but from the collective sigh inside.

She parked neatly, removed her helmet, and stepped into the hallway, where the familiar scent of lavender polish and mild disapproval drifted through the air.

Her mother was exactly where she always was: wrapped in three shawls, sitting in the drawing‑room armchair nearest the fire, and surrounded by lace, tassels, and a book entitled The Art of the Antimacassar: A Study in Domestic Elegance. A small fortress of antimacassars had formed around her, as though she were defending herself from the furniture.

“Amanderella,” she called, without looking up. “Do close the door. There’s a dreadful draught. This house leaks like a colander. And as you know, a lady should never be heard sneezing.”

Amanderella shut the door gently. “Good afternoon, Mother.”

Her mother peered over her spectacles. “You’ve brought in half the outside air. Sit down at once. I must show you the chapter on scalloped antimacassars. The tassel placement is revolutionary.”

“I’m afraid I can’t stay long,” Amanderella said.

Her mother’s eyes narrowed. “Is this about a gentleman. Does he have a manageable gout condition.”

“No, Mother.”

“Oh.” She sank back into her shawls, disappointed. “Well, if you do meet anyone, ask about his joints. A man with reliable ankles is a blessing.”

Amanderella stepped further into the room. Her father was at his usual post by the window, attempting a watercolour of a cow that looked deeply apologetic for existing.

He looked up with a sigh of relief. “My dear girl, tell me you’ve come to your senses and taken up painting as I have. It’s so peaceful. So quiet. So free of… monkeys, or moorland, or haunted mills.”

“I’m afraid not, Father. I’m on my way to the Crystal Aviary.”

Her father froze, brush mid‑air. “Birds,” he whispered, as though naming a curse.

Her mother shuddered. “Aviaries are full of draughts. And feathers. And sneezes.”

Amanderella fastened her gloves. “I’ll be careful.”

Her mother thrust a lace antimacassar at her. “Take this. One never knows when one might need to protect a chair. Or oneself.”

Her father added, “If you see any watercolour opportunities, do consider them.”

Amanderella tucked the antimacassar into her coat pocket with the resigned grace of someone long accustomed to her family’s peculiarities.

“I shall return when I can,” she said.