Amanderella and the Mystery of the Disappearing Vicar Chapter 10.

Chapter 10.

 

An evening in the Inn.

 

Amanderella had climbed halfway back up the terraces when she felt the first pinprick of moisture on her cheek. She paused, held out a hand, and watched a second drop land neatly on her glove.

“Ah,” she murmured.

The sky, which had been a pale, well‑behaved blue an hour earlier, was now a soft, unconvincing grey. A fine mist drifted in from the sea, the sort that pretends it isn’t rain until one’s coat is already damp.

By the time she reached the top terrace, the mist had become a steady drizzle. The kind of rain that didn’t fall so much as settle on a person with quiet determination.

Amanderella tightened her scarf. “That’s quite enough of that.”

She took one last look down the slope, at the terraces, the odd curves in the paths, the bulging wall, and then turned toward the village. The cobbles were already shining with wetness by the time she reached the church.

The rain thickened as she crossed the square. It was not unpleasant, merely persistent, the sort of weather that encouraged sensible people to seek shelter and a pot of tea.

Amanderella stepped into The Smuggler’s Arms just after half‑past three, brushing a few droplets from her coat. The warmth of the inn wrapped around her at once.

She went straight to her room, untied Lady Maudy’s bundle of papers, and began to read them again, this time with the shape of the hillside still fresh in her mind.

Halfway down the last page she stopped.

There, in his tidy, economical handwriting, was the date of the final smuggling run, late September, just before the equinox gales.

Amanderella frowned. She thought back to the conversation she had with the Rev. Lollop. She would have to check with him, but she was sure that he had said that the Rev Trogbotter had disappeared in Spring.

She sat back, the paper resting lightly in her hands.

Autumn.

Spring.

Two events separated by half a year.

Yet in the village, they had become one story.

She tapped a finger against her chin, a thoughtful frown settling as the pieces fell into place.

Outside, the rain pattered softly against the window, as though agreeing.

The rain had thinned to a light mist by the time Amanderella folded Lord Spruckmedder’s papers and set them neatly aside. The difference in the dates sat in her mind like a pebble in a shoe, small, but impossible to ignore.

If the vicar had vanished in spring, and the smuggling ended in autumn, then the two events could not have been connected. Not in fact. Only in memory.

She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. A little after four. Too early for supper, too late to go wandering again in the wet. But not too late to speak to Rev. Lollop.

She put on her coat and stepped back into the soft, silver rain. The village square was quiet; only the faint clatter of a milk churn being moved somewhere behind the inn broke the stillness. The vicarage, with its uneven roofline and determinedly cheerful curtains, stood a short walk away.

Rev. Lollop answered her knock almost at once, as though he had been hovering nearby with a teapot in hand.

“Lady Gottsnobbler,” he said, blinking at the dampness on her coat. “Do come in. Beastly weather.”

“Only a little persistent,” Amanderella replied, stepping inside. “I wondered if I might trouble you for a moment. It concerns the date of Rev. Trogbotter’s disappearance.”

Rev. Lollop’s eyebrows rose. “Ah. Yes. A sad business.”

“You said earlier that it was in the spring,” Amanderella said. “Lambing season.”

He nodded. “Quite right. Early April, according to the parish magazines of the time. People remembered because everyone was exhausted. No one noticed he hadn’t been seen for several days.”

Amanderella considered this. “And do you know anything more about him? His habits? His interests?”

Rev. Lollop brightened slightly, the relief of a man who preferred parish history to parish mysteries.

“Oh yes. As I told your earlier, he was a quiet fellow. Walked the marsh paths at all hours. Knew every hollow and shortcut. He was very taken with the old stories, the hermitage, the first church, that sort of thing. My predecessor said he kept notes. Sketches, too. Always poking about in odd corners.”

Amanderella’s gaze sharpened. “Sketches.”

“Yes,” Rev. Lollop said. “He was fascinated by the past. Spent half his free time looking for traces of it. Completely harmless, of course. Just… thorough.”

Rev. Lollop gave the soft, helpless sigh of a man who disliked unsolved things. “I do wish we knew what became of him.”

Amanderella gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Thank you. That is most helpful. One more thing, if I may. What was his full name?”

Rev. Lollop blinked. “Oh, Garman. Garman Trogbotter. Unusual name. Old family from the marsh edge. There are still Trogbotters in the parish, though they spell it differently now. I doubt many people ever knew his first name. Folk tend to call us by our title, not by our Christian name.”

He gave a small, self‑deprecating laugh. “I doubt half the village could tell you mine.”

Amanderella’s eyes narrowed a fraction, though her expression stayed mild. “Garman,” she repeated.

“Yes,” Rev. Lollop said. “Garman with a G. Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason,” Amanderella said, which was not entirely true.

But in her mind, the neat, brisk entries in Lord Spruckmedder’s papers rearranged themselves with quiet inevitability.

‘G’. to see to the wagons.

‘G’. says the excise men are restless.

‘G’. will handle the inland route.

Not an initial for a mysterious figure.

Not a code.

Not a title.

Just a man’s first name.

Garman.

The rain had settled into a steady, whispering fall by the time Amanderella returned to The Smuggler’s Arms. Lamps glowed behind the windows, turning the wet cobbles outside into soft, golden reflections. Inside, the inn was warm, fragrant with the promise of supper, and threaded through with the low murmur of familiar voices.

Mrs Penberthy looked up from polishing cutlery.

“You’re back in good time. Supper’s at half‑past six. You’ve time for a game of Dominoes, if you fancy.”

Amanderella smiled. “I think I might.”

The three old men were already in their usual places near the hearth, the dominoes laid out in a neat, hopeful line. They looked up as she approached, each with the same expression: polite interest tinged with the faintest hint of competitive caution.

“Evenin’, miss,” said the one with the cap pulled low over his brow. “We kept a seat for you.”

“Very kind,” Amanderella said, taking it.

The dominoes clicked and clacked with the satisfying certainty of objects that had been handled by the same hands for decades. The men played with the solemnity of monks illuminating manuscripts, though every so often one of them would mutter, “Hah!” or “Thought so,” with quiet triumph.

Amanderella played steadily, politely, and with just enough skill to keep them on their toes. She listened more than she spoke, letting their gentle, looping conversation wash over her:

- the weather (always worse last year)

- the price of feed

- Mrs Penberthy’s stew (excellent, as always)

- and a brief, cryptic reference to “the old days,” which she tucked away for later

Someone brought over a pot of tea. Someone else stoked the fire. The rain pattered softly against the windowpanes, a steady, companionable sound.

By the time Mrs Penberthy called them through for supper, Amanderella felt the pleasant, grounded calm that comes from being among people who have known one another so long they barely need words.

She excused herself with a small nod, and the men nodded back, as though she had passed some unspoken test.

After supper, a simple, excellent meal, she went up to her room. She laid out Lord Spruckmedder’s papers once more, the inked dates now carrying a different weight. The spring disappearance. The autumn smuggling. Garman Trogbotter. The gap in the graves.

The pattern was forming.

She undressed, folded her clothes neatly, and slipped into bed. The rain continued its soft tapping on the window, steady as breathing.

Amanderella closed her eyes.

Tomorrow, she would look at the churchyard again.