Amanderella and the Mystery of the Disappearing Vicar Chapter 4.

Chapter 4.

 

In the Inn.

 

Amanderella decided that it was too late to go on to Spruckmedder House, so she crossed the cobbles, the cat on the doorstep shifting just enough to show that she was allowed to enter, but not enough to really disturb its rest. The door of The Smuggler’s Arms opened with the creak of a hinge that had been oiled many times but refused, on principle, to be silent.

It was warm inside, the kind of warmth that made one feel instantly welcome. It brought with it a scent of frying onions, damp coats, cider and tobacco. All familiar odours from old Inns.

The inn was not busy, but it was occupied in the way small village inns often are: by people who had been sitting in the same seats for so many years that the chairs had begun to mould themselves to their shapes. Three men occupied a table near the fire place, each pretending not to look at her while looking at her very hard indeed. A woman in a shawl sat by the window, knitting with the determined click of someone who had no intention of missing a single stitch or a single word.

Behind the bar stood the landlady.  She was built on generous, practical lines, with shoulders that suggested she could carry two sacks of potatoes and a reluctant pig without breaking stride. Her sleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms that would not have looked out of place in a prize ring.

Her expression, however, was perfectly polite.

“Evening,” she said, in a voice that rumbled like distant weather. “I’m Mrs Penberthy. I run the Smuggler’s Arms.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Good evening.”

Mrs Penberthy gave her a brief, assessing look, the sort of look that weighed a person, measured their intentions, and decided whether they were likely to set fire to anything.

“Room?” he said.

“Yes, please,” Amanderella replied.

She nodded again, as though relieved she had not asked for anything involving foreign liqueurs or unusual dietary requirements.

“Single?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Two nights?”

“Possibly longer.”

This earned her a brief, thoughtful look. People who stayed “possibly longer” were either walkers, tax inspectors, or trouble. She did not look like the first two. Mrs Penberthy reached beneath the bar and brought out a large, leather‑bound register. She opened it to a fresh page and slid it across, along with a pen that looked as though it had survived several governments.

“Name,” she said.

Amanderella signed. Mrs Penberthy drew the book back, added the date and Room 3 in a firm, uncompromising hand, and closed it with a thump.

She reached back under the bar and produced a large, brass key attached to a wooden fob shaped like a barrel. It was the sort of key that looked as though it could anchor a small boat in a gale.

“Room three,” she said. “Up the stairs, first on the left. Breakfast at eight. Hot water if the boiler feels cooperative.”

Amanderella accepted the key with a small nod. “Thank you.”

She turned to go, but the landlady spoke again, not loudly, but in the tone of a woman who had decided to offer information without admitting she was doing so.

“Evening meal?” she said.

Amanderella paused. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

Mrs Penberthy gave a short, approving grunt. “Nothing fancy. We don’t hold with frills. But it’s hot, and it fills the corners. And maybe you’ll want a drink”.  It wasn’t a question. It was the statement of a woman who had never in her life met a traveller who didn’t.

Amanderella glanced at the bar. The pumps were so clean they reflected the bar back at themselves, each one bearing a small wooden label written in the same uncompromising hand as the chalkboard.

Mrs Penberthy followed her gaze.

“Cider’s ours,” she said. “Brewed out back. Strong enough to make a grown man reconsider his life choices, but sensible folk manage it fine.”

One of the men by the fire gave a small cough that might have been agreement or might have been memory.

“Or ale,” Mrs Penberthy continued. “Mild or bitter. Mild’s for those who want to keep their wits. Bitter’s for those who think they already have.”

Amanderella smiled. “The cider, please.”

Mrs Penberthy approved of this choice. It showed in the faintest narrowing of her eyes, the landlady’s equivalent of a warm embrace.

She drew the cider with the steady, practised pull of someone who had been doing it since before the current government, and possibly the one before that. The liquid was a deep, honest gold, with a faint haze that suggested apples had been involved in its making, not chemistry.

She set the tankard on the bar with a thud that made the knitting woman look up for the first time.

Amanderella took the drink. It was cool, sharp, and carried the faintest hint of something floral, the kind of cider made by people who trusted the weather more than they trusted accountants.

“Stew’s on,” she said. “Beef, potatoes, carrots. Bit of barley. Proper food. Comes with bread if the loaf behaves itself.”

“That sounds perfect,” Amanderella said.

Mrs Penberthy gave her another of those brief, measuring looks, the kind that decided whether a person was sensible enough to appreciate a decent stew.

“It’ll be ready in ten minutes,” she said. “Sit where you like. Except Tom’s chair.” She nodded towards one of the men by the fire. “He’s sat there since ’89 and it’s not worth the fuss.”

Tom, without looking up, gave a small, dignified nod of confirmation.

Amanderella chose a table near the wall, where she could see both the bar and the door. The knitting woman clicked her needles with renewed purpose, as though the arrival of stew had added urgency to her work.

Mrs Penberthy disappeared through a door behind the bar, the floorboards creaking in a manner that suggested they were grateful for the temporary relief.

The three men by the fire resumed their quiet, sideways glances. One of them cleared his throat in the manner of someone preparing to say something but deciding against it at the last moment.

Amanderella folded her gloves neatly on the table.

The warmth of the fire, the low murmur of voices, the smell of onions and barley, it all settled around her like a blanket. A place that had seen many travellers, and judged them all with the same steady, practical eye.

A door banged in the kitchen. A ladle clattered. Mrs Penberthy’s voice rumbled something that sounded like a warning to the stew itself.

Amanderella allowed herself a small smile.

Whatever secrets Lower Wobbleford held, she suspected they would reveal themselves in their own time, preferably after supper.

Mrs. Penberthy came out of the kitchen and leant on the bar. “You’re not from round here,” she said

It was not a question.

“No,” Amanderella said mildly.

She polished a glass that did not need polishing.

“People round here mind their own business,” she said.

“I approve of that,” Amanderella replied.

She paused, then added, “But they notice things.”

Amanderella waited.

The landlady lowered her voice by a fraction, not enough to be secretive, but enough to suggest that the knitting woman by the window would hear every word.

“If you’re asking questions,” she said, “ask them quiet.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “I usually do.”

She gave a grunt of approval.

Then, as if the matter were closed, she turned to rearrange a row of tankards that were already perfectly aligned.

Amanderella sat at her chosen table, aware of the three men by the fire watching her with the polite, sideways curiosity of people who had already formed an opinion and were waiting to see if it needed adjusting.

“You’re here about something,” Mrs Penberthy said. Again, not a question.

Amanderella waited.

She lowered her voice by a fraction. “Folks’ll talk to you. Eventually. But they won’t say everything. Not at first.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “I understand.”

“Good. Because there’s things round here that don’t get said unless the saying’s needed. And things that get seen that no one admits to seeing.”

She stepped back, her boots making the floorboards sigh with relief. “If you want sense, ask me. If you want nonsense, ask anyone else.”

With that, she turned and went back into the kitchen. Mrs Penberthy returned a few minutes later carrying a deep bowl of stew and a plate with a thick slice of bread. She set them down with the careful precision of someone who believed meals should be placed firmly enough to stay put but not so firmly as to alarm the customer.

“Mind it’s hot,” she said. “It’s been simmering since lunchtime. That’s how you get flavour.”

Amanderella thanked her and began to eat. The stew was exactly as promised: simple, hearty, and made by a woman who did not tolerate nonsense from vegetables. The bread was dense and honest, the sort that required a decisive hand and rewarded it.

The three men by the fire returned to their murmured conversation. The knitting woman clicked steadily on, her needles keeping time with the crackle of the hearth. Mrs Penberthy vanished back into the kitchen, where something metallic clattered and was immediately scolded into silence.

Nothing happened.

Nothing at all, which was, Amanderella thought, rather pleasant.

When she had finished, she carried her empty bowl to the bar. Mrs Penberthy emerged just long enough to give a single approving nod.

“Breakfast at eight,” she said.

Amanderella inclined her head. “Good night.”

“Night,” Mrs Penberthy said, already turning back to the kitchen.

Amanderella climbed the stairs, the floorboards creaking in a companionable, well‑worn way. Room Three was small, neat, and faintly scented with lavender. She set her gloves on the bedside table, hung her coat on the hook, and washed the dust of the road from her face.

Outside, the square had settled into its own quiet rhythm. A cart rattled somewhere far off. The inn’s sign creaked once in the breeze. The cat on the doorstep gave a single, unimpressed yowl at something only cats could see.

Amanderella slipped beneath the heavy quilt.

Tomorrow she would visit the church.

And perhaps the first thread of the mystery would begin to show itself.

She closed her eyes.

The Smuggler’s Arms sighed into silence.

Sleep came easily. The mystery could wait until daylight.