Amanderella and the Mystery of the Disappearing Vicar Chapter 8.

Chapter 8.

 

Lunch.

 

Amanderella walked slowly along the churchyard path, the air cool against her face. A woman sat on the low stone wall by the yew tree, knitting with the steady, unhurried rhythm of someone who had been doing it for seventy years and saw no reason to stop now.

The woman glanced up.

“You’re the lady asking about the old stories,” she said, not unkindly.

Amanderella paused. “I’ve been listening, yes.”

The needles clicked softly.

“When I was little, the older folk used to talk about the man they called ‘G’. Walked the marshes at night. Always carried a horn lantern.”

Amanderella felt the smallest shift inside her.

“A horn lantern?”

“Oh aye.” The woman nodded. “Said you could tell it was him by the glow. Not like glass. Softer. Yellowish. Folk said it was the only light that didn’t blow out in the wind.”

She returned to her knitting.

“Grandmother said you could see it bobbing along the causeway on stormy nights. That’s how they knew he was out. That’s how they knew it was safe.”

Amanderella stood very still.

The woman added, almost absently:

“Funny thing is, when he vanished, no one ever found that lantern. Not a scrap of it.”

She looked up then, a keen, measuring glance.

“Seems to me, if you find the lantern, you’ll find him.” She gave a small, unexpected giggle. “Or the other way round.”

Then she bent back over her knitting, as though she had said nothing unusual at all.

The Smuggler’s Arms was warmer than the churchyard, full of the comforting smells of midday cooking: onions softening in a pan, bread warming by the range, something savoury bubbling in a pot.

Mrs Penberthy looked up as Amanderella entered.

“Lunch?” she asked, already reaching for a plate.

“Yes, please,” Amanderella said.

She took a seat by the window. The knitting woman’s words were still turning quietly in her mind.

A few minutes later, as the landlady set down a bowl of stew and a thick slice of bread, she gave Amanderella a sideways look, the kind that suggested she had been thinking about something and had decided to speak.

“You’ve not been talking to old Mrs Craddock out by the yew tree, have you?”

Amanderella looked up. “I met her, yes.”

The landlady made a small, dismissive puff of breath.

“She’s harmless enough, but she’s given to fancies. Always has been. Stories from her grandmother’s grandmother, and half of them nonsense. Folk humour her.”

Amanderella stirred her stew, not committing herself.

The landlady went on, lowering her voice just a touch:

“She’ll tell you all sorts. Lights on the marsh. Men who walked at night. Tunnels up to the church. Lanterns that glowed yellow. It’s all tales. Best not put too much stock in them.”

Amanderella nodded politely.

But she did not stop thinking.

Because the knitting woman had not spoken like someone telling tales.

She had spoken like someone remembering.

Amanderella finished her lunch with a cup of very good coffee which was something of a surprise. Country inns did not usually run to such luxuries.

“That was very nice,” she said to Mrs Penberthy who had bustled over when she put down her cup.

The landlady beamed. “Glad you enjoyed it. My son sends it down from the city.” She wiped her hands on her apron in the brisk, competent way of hers. “You’ve a good afternoon for walking,” she says, giving the window a quick glance. “Not too much wind. Bit of sun. Gardens’ll be looking lovely.”

Amanderella looks up. “The Spruckmedder gardens?”

“Aye.” Mrs Penberthy nodded, stacking the plates. “They run right down to the sea. Terraces and steps and what‑have‑you. Old Lord Spruckmedder spent a fortune on them. Folk say he was trying to make the place look like one of those Italian villas. Didn’t quite manage it, but they’re pleasant enough.”

She hesitated, just a fraction, then added “Better than listening to old Mrs Craddock and the Vicar with their tales, anyway. She’s harmless, and he does run on. Gardens’ll clear your head.”

Amanderella smiles politely. “I think a walk would do me good.”

Mrs Penberthy gave a firm, approving nod, as though she has arranged something sensible.

“You’ll find the gate at the bottom of the lane. It’s obvious once you’re there.”

Amanderella stepped out of The Smuggler’s Arms and into the sunshine. The door clicked shut behind her, and for a moment she simply stood there, letting the warm, stew‑scented air drift away. The village lane stretched ahead, quiet and bright, with little yellow flowers shining in the grass.

She set off at an easy pace. A blackbird hopped along the path in front of her, pretending not to notice her at all, until it suddenly decided it did notice her and flew into the hedge with a loud flutter.

The further she walked, the more she could smell the sea, salty and fresh, with a hint of seaweed. She could hear it too, a soft rushing sound far away, like someone shaking out a big sheet.

The lane curved gently, and then she saw them: the tall iron gates Mrs Penberthy had mentioned. They were a bit rusty, but very grand all the same, with curly patterns that looked like waves.

Beyond the gates lay the Spruckmedder gardens.

Amanderella paused. The gardens were bigger than she had expected. Stone steps led down in neat terraces, and beyond them she could see a long green slope running all the way to the glittering sea.

She pushed the gate. It creaked in a friendly sort of way.

A path led between two borders full of rosemary and lavender. When she brushed past, they gave off a lovely smell. A wood pigeon cooed somewhere below, sounding very pleased with itself.

Amanderella smiled.

A walk through the gardens was exactly what she needed.

She started down the first steps, the sea shining at the far end like a promise.