Amanderella and the Mystery of the Moor Chap.1

Chapter 1

A Disturbing Message.

Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler carefully packed her box of magic lantern slides and her lecture notes away and strapped her bag to her motorbike. She wrapped her scarf around her hat, to stop it blowing away.  She waved good bye to her hosts and set off towards her lodgings.

The Lecture she had just given had been well received by her audience. They had enthusiastically clapped when she talked about the capybara swimming across the Amazon in front of the boat on which she was travelling. They had gasped in awe at the lantern slide of the blue whistling monkeys that she had gone to look for in distant Brazil. They had laughed with delight at her description of the SS. Pedal Power captain and crew. They had enjoyed even more the tea and biscuits provided for them by the committee Littledean Natural History Society.

Amanderella felt that it had been a very successful evening. She had been dined and would have been wined, if she had not firmly declined. “Wining and lecturing and motor cycle riding do not go hand in hand,” she said. She had answered all the audience’s questions, signed a few autograph books and now she was ready to leave.

The engine gave a polite cough, then settled into a steady thrum, She eased out of the village hall car park and onto the road, her scarf fluttering behind her like a small, determined flag.

The night was crisp. Streetlamps cast soft pools of yellow light, and the moon hung low, bright enough to show the road ahead clearly.

As she rode, she replayed the evening in her mind. The applause. The questions. The biscuits that had been slightly overbaked but offered with such pride that she had eaten two. It had been, she decided, a very good lecture indeed.

She had accepted her share of the entrance money. Though she did not really need the money, she felt that it was only right and proper that she was paid for her lecturing skills. Little did the committee members realise that she was extremely rich. The Amazonian mud on her expedition boots had contained a large number of diamonds which she had sold for a staggering amount of money.

Her lodgings were at number 9 Wimple Terrace. This was a quiet street in a quiet part of the capital. The lodgings were owned by a  Mrs. Gaffletter, a very respectable lady. Her boarding house ran on four principles, clean floors, clean consciences, and clean lodgers and no gentlemen callers.  Amanderella approved of all four principles.

Number 9 sat exactly where she had left it, with Mrs Gaffletter’s lace curtains drawn firmly shut against the wickedness of the world.

Amanderella wheeled her motorbike round the side path, the tyres crunching softly on the gravel. The shed at the back of the house was exactly as she had left it that morning: neat, swept, and smelling faintly of polish. She pushed the bike inside, undid the straps holding her bag and carefully locked the shed door This was to keep her machine safe from thieves, weather, and inquisitive passers-by.

She walked round to the front of the house. There was a rear door, but that, of course, was out of the question. That door led straight into the private quarters of Mrs Gaffletter’s kingdom, a region of the house as mysterious as the deepest Amazon. Amanderella had never seen inside those rooms. No lodger had. Some whispered that Mrs Gaffletter kept her best cushions in there. Others claimed she stored her collection of polished teaspoons under lock and key. Whatever the truth, Amanderella respected the boundary and never tried the handle.

So, she went to the front door instead. The brass knocker gleamed in the streetlight, polished to a shine that could only have been achieved by someone with strong opinions about cleanliness. The door itself was firmly shut, exactly as it should be.

Amanderella took out her key, slid it into the lock, and turned it. The mechanism clicked open with its usual well‑behaved precision. She pushed the door, and it swung inward without a squeak. Mrs Gaffletter oiled her hinges every Thursday, and they never dared complain.

Amanderella stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The click echoed clearly in the quiet.

Mrs Gaffletter had endured the mess and the dreadful inconvenience of having the new‑fangled electric light installed. She had complained about the drilling, the plaster dust, and the workmen’s boots, but she had allowed it all because she liked the brighter glow from the bulbs. The stronger light revealed every hidden corner where dust might have the impudence to collect, and Mrs Gaffletter believed that dust should never be allowed to get ideas above its station.

The hallway lamp now shone with that very brightness, casting a clear, steady glow across the polished floorboards. Nothing escaped its scrutiny. Not the umbrella stand. Not the straightened mat. Not even the faintest smudge on the skirting board.

Amanderella froze. The bright new electric light, which Mrs Gaffletter had installed to expose every speck of dust, now revealed something far more unusual.

Standing in the middle of the hallway was a small man.

He had a drooping, walrus‑style moustache that looked as though it had given up trying to curl. His head was completely bald and shone faintly in the electric glow. He wore a collarless shirt, held together by a pair of sturdy braces, and a belt that seemed determined to keep his respectable trousers exactly where they belonged.

But the most surprising thing of all was on his feet.

He was wearing carpet slippers.

Not smart shoes. Not boots. Not even the sort of outdoor footwear one might expect from a man who had just entered a respectable boarding house.

Carpet slippers. Soft, worn, and patterned with tiny blue squares.

The man blinked at Amanderella. Amanderella blinked at the man. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Mr Gaffletter cleared his throat with the air of a man attempting to be both respectful and urgent.

“Lady Gottsnobbler,” he said, “we… we have had a letter. Calamitous news. Quite calamitous. Mrs Gaffletter is—” He lowered his voice, as though the hallway itself might be listening. “—prostrate.”

Amanderella blinked. Mrs Gaffletter, who could face down dust, draughts, and delinquent doormats without flinching, lying flat? This was serious.

“She requests,” Mr Gaffletter continued, “that you would be so good as to step into the private parlour. She wishes to… to acquaint you the details. And to ask your advice.”

He gave the message as if he had been very carefully and strictly coached in what to say and how to say it.

Amanderella inclined her head. “Of course. I shall attend her at once. But first I must remove my outdoor clothes and make myself presentable.”

Mr Gaffletter nodded so vigorously that his drooping moustache wobbled. “Yes. Quite. Presentable. Very proper.”

“Wait here,” Amanderella said.

Amanderella went upstairs, hung up her coat, unwrapped her scarf, straightened her hair, and placed her hat carefully on its stand. She checked her boots for stray mud, brushed off a final speck, and smoothed her skirt, washed her face and combed her hair Only when she felt entirely tidy did she return to the hallway.

Mr Gaffletter had not moved a muscle.

He stood in precisely the same spot, hands clasped, carpet slippers planted firmly on the polished floor, as though he had been rooted there like a small, anxious tree. He was clearly a man accustomed to doing exactly as he was told

Amanderella gave him a polite nod. “I am ready.”

Mr Gaffletter exhaled with relief. “This way, Lady Gottsnobbler. If you please.”

Mr Gaffletter turned towards the Private door, the one every lodger had wondered about and none had ever passed through, and, with great ceremony, opened it.

A warm light spilled out, along with the faint smell of lavender polish and something else Amanderella could not quite place.

“Miss Gottsnobbler,” he said, bowing his head in a small, earnest way, “Mrs Gaffletter awaits you.”

Amanderella stepped forward, calm and composed, ready to hear whatever calamitous news had left the formidable Mrs Gaffletter prostrate.

And with that, she crossed the threshold into the private parlour.