Amanderella and the Mystery of the Disappearing Vicar Chapter 1.

Chapter 1.

 

Lady Maudy Spruckmedder calls.

 

Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler was taking a well-earned break from her lecture tours. She had travelled all over the country giving speeches to all kinds of people. Some of them even understood what she told them. Sadly, though many just went for the tea and biscuits that she provided.

They marvelled at her description of the Whistling Blue monkeys in Brazil. They thrilled at her adventures when finding the Bangolin tree and its fruit. They shuddered at her description of the Haunted Mill in Lower Widdersham and clapped whole heartedly when she described the Ppuckingford treasure.

Now though, she felt that it was time to sit back and engage in the dangerous pursuit of doing absolutely nothing. Her lodgings were at number 9 Wimple Terrace, a quiet street in a quiet part of the capital. The house was owned by Mrs Gaffletter, a very respectable lady. Her boarding house ran on four principles: clean floors, clean consciences, clean lodgers, and no gentlemen callers. Amanderella approved of all four.

Number 9 sat exactly where she had left it, with Mrs Gaffletter’s lace curtains drawn firmly shut against the wickedness of the world.

Amanderella wheeled her motorbike round the side path, the tyres crunching softly on the gravel. The shed at the back of the house remained in its usual state, neat, swept, and smelling faintly of polish. She pushed the bike inside, undid the straps holding her bag, and carefully locked the shed door. This was to keep her machine safe from thieves, weather, and inquisitive passers-by.

She let herself in after carefully inspecting her soles for any signs of mud before stepping on to Mrs Gaffletter’s hall floor, a place where even a single speck of dust was not tolerated.

Amanderella had barely taken three steps down the hallway when a door opened with the soft, well‑oiled decisiveness of a woman who refused to let hinges express themselves.

Mrs Gaffletter emerged from the sitting-room, her apron starched into submission and her hair pinned with the kind of accuracy usually reserved for cartographers. She looked Amanderella up and down, not critically, but in the way a general inspects returning troops for signs of mud.

“You’re back,” she said. It was not a question. Mrs Gaffletter did not waste breath on questions when statements would do.

“Yes,” Amanderella replied.

Mrs Gaffletter’s eyes flicked to the mat. “Boots off. Gravel is an enemy that must be met at the door.”

Amanderella obeyed. One did not argue with Mrs Gaffletter about enemies.

“And your bag,” Mrs Gaffletter added, eyeing it with suspicion. “It isn’t carrying anything that whistles, drips, glows, or tries to escape, I trust.”

“Only lecture notes,” Amanderella said.

She stepped aside to let Amanderella pass, but only after checking, with a swift, practised glance, that the umbrella stand was still aligned with the skirting board and that the hall runner had not developed any rebellious tendencies in her absence.

“Your room is as you left it,” she said. “I dusted twice. Once for cleanliness, once for certainty.”

Amanderella smiled. “Thank you.”

Mrs Gaffletter gave a small, dignified nod. “Tea will be ready in ten minutes. I don’t hold with travellers going unfed. It leads to untidiness.”

And with that, she disappeared back into the sitting room, the door closing behind her with the quiet authority of a woman who had never once allowed a draught to get the better of her.

Amanderella had just reached the foot of the stairs when the front‑door knocker sounded.

Not a timid tap.

Not a hesitant rattle.

But a firm, well‑timed knock that suggested the caller was a person accustomed to being answered promptly.

Mrs Gaffletter re‑emerged at once, as if summoned by the disturbance in the air. She moved to the door with the purposeful stride of a woman prepared to repel invaders, draughts, and anyone who might be wearing unsuitable shoes.

She opened the door a precise three inches, the official Gaffletter Inspection Gap, and directed her gaze downward.

Her eyes narrowed.

The shoes outside were clean. Not only clean, they gleamed. These were not the footwear of someone who spent a great deal of time outside. These were the shoes of someone who was more used to carpets than grass and who probably regarded mud as something that happened to other people.

Mrs Gaffletter approved of the cleanliness, but she did not entirely trust the shine.

Shoes that polished did not necessarily belong to people who behaved.

Only then did she open the door fully. The person who was wearing the gleaming shoes was of the female gender, so not, as often happened, an unwelcome male caller. Despite being frequently and sternly told that Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler had no intention of marrying anyone, her mother still sent prospective bridegrooms at regular intervals, like badly addressed parcels that kept being returned to sender.

Mrs Gaffletter had developed a sixth sense for such men. She could detect a hopeful suitor at twenty paces, and she barred them from her hallway with the same implacable firmness she used against mud.

But this visitor was no suitor.

The woman stood on the step, coat buttoned, a hat so extravagantly feathered and expensive that it seemed to have its own weather system. It was the kind of hat that only stayed on its owner’s head by the careful use of many hat pins. She held a bundle of papers under one arm and the faint air of someone who had walked briskly through the city, but only on pavements.

The visitor gave a small, businesslike nod.

“Lady Maudy Spruckmedder,” she said, announcing herself with the crisp courtesy of someone who believed introductions should be done properly. “Good afternoon. I am here to see Lady Gottsnobbler, if she is at home.”

Mrs Gaffletter approved of the formality.

She stepped back just far enough to allow entry, but only after Lady Spruckmedder wiped her gleaming boots on the mat with the thoroughness expected of anyone approaching Number 9.

“A visitor for you,” Mrs Gaffletter called over her shoulder. She stepped back, not far, just enough to indicate that the visitor had passed inspection.

Amanderella came forward, and Mrs Gaffletter withdrew to the edge of the hallway, hands folded neatly, her expression politely blank. She would not interfere. She would not intrude. She would simply ensure that no mud, dust, or impropriety attempted to take advantage of the open door.

Amanderella descended the last few stairs, smoothing her skirt out of habit rather than vanity. She had not been expecting visitors, certainly not visitors with boots polished to a shine that suggested a maid with strong wrists and stronger opinions.

“Lady Spruckmedder,” she said, inclining her head politely. “I don’t think we have met before.”

Lady Spruckmedder returned the nod with brisk correctness. “No, Lady Gottsnobbler, we have not. Though I have heard a good deal about you.”

Amanderella was used to that. People tended to hear “a good deal” about her, some of it true, some of it wildly inflated, and some of it involving creatures she had never actually met.

“I hope,” she said mildly, “that at least some of it was accurate. The newspaper stories have been rather sensational rubbish.”

Lady Spruckmedder sniffed disdainfully. “One disregards everything one reads in the press,” she said. She patted the bundle of papers, “I have come to see you about a matter which is both complicated and delicate.”

“In that case,” said Amanderella, “perhaps we should continue this discussion in the privacy of my room.”

Lady Spruckmedder gave a small, approving nod. She was not a woman who enjoyed discussing sensitive matters in hallways, however spotless.

Amanderella turned towards the stairs.

Behind them, Mrs Gaffletter closed the sitting‑room door with the soft, deliberate finality of a woman who had decided that whatever this was, it was best handled by those directly involved. She did not hover. She did not intrude. She simply removed herself from the scene with the dignity of someone who trusted her lodger to deal with complications, provided those complications did not involve mud.

Amanderella led the way upstairs, Lady Spruckmedder following with the purposeful tread of a woman who had not climbed many stairs recently but refused to be defeated by them. The papers under her arm rustled faintly, as though impatient to be opened.

At the top of the landing, Amanderella paused and gestured towards her door.

“After you, Lady Spruckmedder.”

Lady Spruckmedder stepped inside, her eyes taking in the neatness of the room with a brief, approving glance. She waited until Amanderella had closed the door before speaking.

“This,” she said, placing the bundle of papers carefully on the small writing table, “is where the trouble begins.”

Amanderella sat, folded her hands in her lap, and prepared herself.

Trouble, in her experience, always arrived tied up with string.