Amanderella and the Mystery of the Disappearing Vicar Chapter 12,

Chapter 12.

 

Finding the answer.

 

Rev. Lollop was still standing by the porch when Amanderella returned to him. He looked mildly anxious, as though he suspected she had discovered something he ought to have noticed years ago.

“Reverend,” she said gently, “may I show you something?”

He blinked. “Oh, yes, of course. If you think I should see it.”

She led him along the line of the newer wall, stopping at the faint line of the old path. She explained quietly, without drama, simply laying out the facts:

- the gravel beneath the turf

- the gap wide enough for a cart

- the path leading not to the church doors but to the north‑east corner

- the unnaturally flat turf beside the wall

- the slabs beneath it

Rev. Lollop listened, his expression shifting from polite interest to dawning alarm.

“Oh dear,” he murmured. “Oh, dear me. Under the churchyard? Under the wall? I had no idea…”

He pressed a hand to his forehead, flustered but earnest. “If there is something under there — if something has been covered up — we cannot simply leave it.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “I thought you might feel that.”

Rev. Lollop swallowed, squared his shoulders, and called across the churchyard.

“Mr Thatcham! Could you come here a moment, if you please?”

The churchwarden straightened from his work, brushed moss from his hands, and ambled over with the steady tread of a man who had tended the same ground for decades.

“Yes, Reverend?”

Rev. Lollop gestured helplessly at the turf. “I believe… I believe we may need to lift these slabs.”

The churchwarden’s eyebrows rose. “Slabs, sir?”

“Yes,” Rev. Lollop said, trying for authority and managing only earnestness. “Miss Amanderella has shown me something rather… concerning.”

Mr Thatcham crouched, pressed the turf, felt the stone beneath, and gave a low whistle.

“Well now,” he said. “That’s not where a slab ought to be.”

He stood, wiped his hands on his trousers, and nodded once. “Right then. I’ll fetch the bar.”

He returned with a pry bar and a short spade. Amanderella stepped back, hands folded neatly, watching without interfering. Rev. Lollop waited, anxiously wringing his duster.

The churchwarden cut the turf carefully, rolling it back like a blanket. Beneath it lay a single, broad slab, weathered, lichen‑flecked, and no thicker than the doorstep of a cottage.

“Not a big one,” Mr Thatcham murmured. “Old stone, mind you, but not heavy as some.”

Amanderella’s eyes rested on it.

Yes.

A man like Garman Trogbotter, tallish, thinnish, wiry from walking the marsh paths, could have lifted that.

Not easily.

Not quickly.

But he could have done it.

By now, the sound of stone shifting and the sight of the churchwarden with tools had drawn attention. A pair of boys paused at the gate. Mrs Penberthy appeared at the corner of the lane, wiping her hands on her apron. Old Mr Crampton ambled over, pipe in hand, peering with unabashed curiosity.

“What’s all this then?”

“Something under the ground?”

“Always said there were tunnels…”

“Didn’t I tell you, Mavis?”

Not a crowd, just the natural, inevitable gathering of a village that sensed something was happening and drifted toward it like birds to a seed tray.

Rev. Lollop looked faintly overwhelmed.

Amanderella remained still, calm, and quietly observant.

The secrets of the marsh were finally to be pulled into the light.

 Rev. Lollop dithered nervously. “Is it safe?”

“As safe as anything in this churchyard,” the churchwarden said, and slid the pry bar beneath the edge.

The slab shifted with a reluctant scrape, then lifted, not dramatically, but with the steady, practical movement of something designed to be moved by one person who knew how.

A breath of cold, stale air rose from the darkness beneath.

Mrs Penberthy, who had drifted over with the others, sniffed sharply. “Smells old.”

Amanderella said nothing.

She was thinking of Trogbotter, lifting this very slab, stepping down into the dark, meaning only to check, or tidy, or seal something up.

And never coming out again.

The churchwarden leaned over the opening, squinting into the dimness below.

“It goes down a bit,” he said. “Can’t see how far.”

Rev. Lollop swallowed. “We… we ought to have a proper look.”

Mr Thatcham straightened. “Aye. I’ll fetch a lantern.”

He strode off toward the vestry, boots leaving dark prints in the damp grass. The villagers who had drifted over watched him go with the quiet expectancy of people who sensed something unusual but were too polite to say so aloud.

Amanderella remained still, hands folded neatly, her gaze resting on the opening. She could feel the old air rising, cold, stale, touched with the faint mineral scent of long‑undisturbed stone.

The churchwarden returned with a lantern: brass, hooded, practical. He lit it with a practiced flick of his match, shielding the flame with his hand until it steadied.

Rev. Lollop warned. “Do be careful, Mr Thatcham.”

“I always am, Reverend.”

He lowered the lantern first, letting it hang by its handle to test the air. The flame guttered once, then steadied.

“Breathable enough,” he said. “Right. I’ll go down a step or two.”

Amanderella stepped back to give him room. She did not touch the edge of the opening. She simply watched, her expression mild, though her eyes were very sharp.

The churchwarden swung his legs over the side and found the first step, a rough stone one, worn smooth by long‑ago feet. He descended slowly, lantern held low.

A murmur rippled through the small knot of villagers.

“Mind yourself, Thatcham.”

“Always said there were tunnels.”

“Not tunnels, Mavis, look at the size of it.”

“Smells like old cellars.”

Amanderella listened without appearing to.

Mr Thatcham reached the bottom, only three steps down, and held the lantern out before him.

“Well now,” he called up, voice echoing faintly. “There’s a space down here. Not big. Not small neither. Walls look old. And there’s… something else.”

Rev. Lollop leaned forward, alarmed. “Something else?”

The churchwarden lifted the lantern higher.

Amanderella saw the light catch on stone — not rough stone, but worked stone.

A low arch.

A blocked arch.

Bricked up long ago.

Her breath caught, though her expression did not change.

There it was.

The entrance Trogbotter had used.

The place he had meant to seal.

The place he had never left.

Mr Thatcham turned, lantern held high. “Reverend… you’d best come see this.”

Rev. Lollop hesitated, then looked at Amanderella.

“Miss… would you—?”

“I shall remain here,” she said gently. “You go.”

He nodded, grateful, and began his careful descent.

Amanderella stood at the edge, watching the lantern‑light flicker against the bricked‑up arch.

The truth, long buried, was beginning to show its shape.

Rev. Lollop reached the bottom of the steps, one hand on the wall for balance, the other clutching his duster as though it might offer moral support. The lantern‑light wavered across the small chamber, catching the rough stone, the low ceiling, and the bricked‑up arch.

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then he drew in a slow, trembling breath.

“Oh,” he whispered. “Oh dear. Oh, dear me.”

The churchwarden glanced at him. “You all right, Reverend?”

Rev. Lollop nodded, though his face had gone pale. He stepped closer to the bricked‑up arch, peering at the mortar, the unevenness of the work, the way the lower courses bulged slightly inward.

“It was done in haste,” he murmured. “Very old… very old indeed.”

Amanderella, standing above, heard the change in his voice, the soft, stunned note of someone recognising something they had hoped never to find.

Rev. Lollop swallowed hard.

“Mr Thatcham,” he said quietly, “I believe… I believe we have found Reverend Garman Trogbotter.”

A hush fell over the villagers above. Even the boys at the gate stopped whispering.

The churchwarden removed his cap, holding it respectfully against his chest. “God rest him,” he said simply.

Rev. Lollop bowed his head. “He must have come down here alone. To check… or to mend… or to seal…” His voice faltered. “And the wall came down behind him.”

Amanderella’s expression remained mild, but her eyes softened. She had suspected as much, but hearing it spoken aloud gave the truth its full, quiet weight.

The lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the chamber.

Above, the villagers stood in a ring of respectful silence, as though the churchyard itself had paused to listen.

Rev. Lollop touched the bricked‑up arch with trembling fingers.

“After all these years,” he said softly, “we have found him.”

By late afternoon the churchyard had settled into a respectful hush.

The churchwarden had covered the opening.

Rev. Lollop had gone inside to make the necessary telephone calls, pale but steady.

The villagers had drifted away in small, thoughtful groups, speaking in low voices.

Amanderella stood for a moment beside her motorbike, the cool breeze lifting the edge of her scarf. She looked once more toward the north‑east corner of the church, where the slabs lay neatly replaced beneath their blanket of turf.

There was nothing more she could do here.

The truth had been found.

The rest would be handled by those whose duty it was.

She fastened her goggles, swung her leg over the saddle, and started the engine. The motorbike gave its familiar, businesslike growl.

Spruckmedder House lay a few miles up the lane, its chimneys just visible above the hedgerows. Lady Maudy would be waiting. not anxiously, but with that quiet, practical resolve of hers.

Amanderella set off, the wind tugging gently at her coat.

There had been no foul play.

No scandal.

No dark family secret.

Only a dutiful man, doing a dutiful task, caught by mischance and forgotten by time.

Lady Maudy deserved to know that.

The road curved upward toward the Spruckmedder estate, and Amanderella followed it, calm and certain, carrying the truth with her like a small, steady flame.