Amanderella and the Mystery of the Disappearing Vicar Chapter 5.

Chapter 5.

 

The Church of St. Gilbert the lame.

 

Amanderella woke to the faint clatter of someone downstairs asserting their authority over a frying pan. The air smelled of bacon, toast, and the indefinable something that all old inns seem to exhale at dawn, lame a mixture of warm wood, cooling embers, and the memory of last night’s conversations.

She dressed, washed briskly in water that was warm enough to be polite but not warm enough to be enthusiastic, and made her way downstairs.

Mrs Penberthy was already behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned with the uncompromising precision of a woman who had been awake since before the sun had made up its mind.

“Breakfast,” she said, without preamble.

Amanderella nodded. “Thank you.”

Mrs Penberthy jerked her chin towards a table. “Sit. I’ll bring it.”

Breakfast arrived in the form of two rashers, an egg, a slice of fried bread, and a pot of tea with a brew so strong‑looking it might have mended a fence if asked.”

 Amanderella ate with quiet appreciation. The three men from the night before were gone, replaced by a pair of farmhands discussing sheep with the solemnity usually reserved for international diplomacy.

The knitting woman was still in her corner, though now she was working on something that looked suspiciously like a sock.

When Amanderella finished, Mrs Penberthy appeared at her elbow.

“Church’ll be open,” she said. “Door sticks. Give it a shove.”

Amanderella stepped out into the square. The morning was cool and bright, the kind of light that made even the most weather‑beaten stone look freshly washed. The cat was on the doorstep again, in exactly the same position as the night before, as though it had been carved there.

The square was already stirring. A few villagers glanced her way, not suspiciously, simply with the mild interest reserved for anyone staying at the inn. Visitors were rare, and when they did appear, they were almost always there for the same reason.

The church.

A woman sweeping her doorstep paused just long enough to give Amanderella a polite nod, the kind one gives to a harmless stranger who will be gone by teatime. A man carrying a basket of eggs murmured, “Morning,” in the tone of someone who assumed she was on her way to admire the stained glass.

Across the square, the church door stood open, not because the vicar had unlocked it, but because it had never been locked at all. Churches in places like Lower Wobbleford were left open day and night, partly out of tradition, partly out of trust, and partly because no one could remember where the key had gone.

The vicar was standing just inside the porch, straightening a stack of hymn books with the unhurried fussiness of a man who liked the world to behave itself.

 When he saw Amanderella crossing the cobbles, he brightened in the mild, dutiful way of someone accustomed to greeting the occasional visitor.

He gave her a polite smile, then paused, his expression shifting to mild surprise.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but… Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler, is it not?”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Yes.”

“Ah!” His face lit up with recognition. “I thought so. Mrs Penberthy showed me the register this morning. She likes me to know who’s in the village. And your name caught my eye at once.”

He folded his hands, pleased. “I’m Rev. Crispin Lollop,” he added, with a small, apologetic bow, as though the name were slightly embarrassed to be introduced. “My cousin is the vicar of St Mildred’s in Cudwick‑on‑the‑Moor. Septimus Nonshine. You may have heard of him.”

Amanderella smiled. “I have. He writes very long letters.”

The vicar gave a soft, fond sigh. “Yes. Yes, he does. And he has mentioned you more than once. Very favourably, I might add.”

He perked up again. “Come to see the church, I expect.”

Not a question, simply the obvious conclusion.

“Yes,” Amanderella replied, allowing the assumption to stand.

“Quite right,” he said, pleased. “We don’t get many callers, but those who do usually find something of interest. The font is rather old, and the east window is better than it looks from outside.”

He stepped aside, holding the door open with a small, courteous bow.

“Please,” he said. “Do come in. You’re very welcome.”

Behind her, the village settled into its ordinary rhythm, the sweep of brooms, the clatter of buckets, the murmur of voices carrying across the square. No one paid her any further attention. She was simply another traveller come to look at the only thing Lower Wobbleford had to show.

Only Amanderella knew she was here for something else entirely.

Inside, the cool air of St Gilbert the Lame waited.

Rev. Lollop closed the church door behind them with a gentle click, then clasped his hands in front of him in a way that suggested he was trying very hard not to talk too much.

He failed.

“Of course,” he began, “you’ll be wanting to know about the name. St Gilbert the Lame. Most unusual, isn’t it? Visitors always ask.”

Amanderella had not asked, but she nodded her head politely.

“Well,” Rev. Lollop began, “Gilbert was born with a withered leg, terribly unfortunate in those days, and even with crutches he could only walk very slowly. But he was clever, you see. Very clever. So, he joined the Church, studied hard, and became a priest.”

He warmed to his subject, his voice taking on the gentle enthusiasm of a man who had told this tale many times and never tired of it.

“And then, this is the remarkable part, he decided he ought to go on pilgrimage to Jerusalem. A tremendous undertaking for anyone, let alone a lame man. But off he went, slowly, painfully, faithfully. It took him years. Years.”

He emphasised the word with a small, earnest nod.

“Along the way he performed several miracles, or so the stories say. Healing a child here, calming a storm there, that sort of thing. Enough that, after his death, he was sainted.”

Amanderella listened, her expression mild.

Rev. Lollop lowered his voice, as though approaching the heart of the matter.

“But the saddest part, the part that always moves me, is what happened when he came home.”

He paused, allowing the silence to stretch just long enough for dramatic effect.

“No one recognised him.”

Amanderella raised an eyebrow, just slightly.

“Oh yes,” Rev. Lollop said, nodding vigorously. “The parish had changed. Records were muddled. The new vicar assumed he was a wandering hermit. The villagers thought he was a holy man passing through. And Gilbert, after years of humility and patience, didn’t correct them.”

He gave a small, reverent sigh.

“He simply settled in a hermitage somewhere nearby. Lived quietly. Prayed. Helped where he could. And only after his death did someone find a worn pilgrim badge among his things.”

He looked at her with gentle solemnity.

“And suddenly they realised, the saint had come home, and they hadn’t known him.”

Amanderella let the silence settle.

Rev. Lollop, encouraged, added:

“Some people still think the hermitage is out there somewhere. Hidden. Waiting to be found.

Rev. Lollop gave a small, apologetic cough, the kind that signalled he was about to add “just one more thing” to a story that already had several endings.

“Of course,” he said, brightening again, “I should mention that this church, the one you’re standing in, is not the one that existed in Gilbert’s day. Oh no. Not by many centuries.”

He gestured around at the squat stone walls with the fondness of a man defending an elderly relative.

“This building was put up in the mid‑eighteenth century. Solid, dependable, a little lopsided in places, but very good at keeping the rain out. Mostly.”

As Lollop spoke, Amanderella’s gaze drifted to the pulpit. The panelling behind it was oddly arranged, a narrow vertical line in the wood suggesting that a small door had once been fitted there. It was the sort of feature not meant to be noticed from the nave. She made no remark; Lollop was warming to his account of St Gilbert.

“But the original church,” Rev. Lollop continued, lowering his voice as though discussing a family secret, “the one Gilbert himself would have known… well… no one knows where it was.”

He spread his hands helplessly.

“Not a trace. Not a stone. Not a foundation. Nothing. It’s one of the little mysteries of the parish. People have looked, of course. One of my predecessors, Rev. Trogbotter, was particularly keen. Very keen indeed. Some might say… overly keen.”

Amanderella waited.

Rev. Lollop leaned in slightly, encouraged by her silence.

“Some think it was nearer the marsh. Others say it was up by the old track. A few insist it must have been close to the hermitage, wherever that was. But there’s no agreement. No records. Just stories.”

He gave a small, wistful sigh.

“It would be quite something to find it. The original church. The hermitage. Any of it, really.”

Then, with a hopeful glance:

“And when I saw your name in the register, I wondered whether you might be here to… well… pursue that line of inquiry.”

Amanderella folded her hands.

“I am not here about the original church,” she said gently, “Nor the hermitage.”

Rev. Lollop blinked, disappointed but polite.

“Oh. I see. Quite. Of course.”

Amanderella added, with perfect calm:

“I am here about something else entirely.”