Amanderella and the Mystery of the Moor Chap.11

Chapter 11.

 

Afternoon tea and chat.

 

Amanderella reached Lollingfolly House with her cheeks pink from the wind and her notebook full of hurried jottings. Botswana was already at the front door by the time Amanderella reached it, wiping her hands on her apron. “Just look at your poor fingers,” she said, catching Amanderella’s hands in her own and rubbing them briskly. “Cold as fence posts! Come along, the kitchen’s warmer.”

Without waiting for an answer, Botswana guided her through the passage and into the kitchen, where the table was already laid for tea. “Dining room’s too draughty on a day like this,” she said firmly. “You’ll be better in here.”

The moment Amanderella stepped into the warm kitchen, the smell of baking and sharp Cheddar wrapped around her like a blanket.

Botswana had set the table with ham sandwiches (crusts firmly on), a cold veal and ham pie, a small mountain of pickled onions, and a wedge of sharp Cheddar. Warm scones sat under a folded tea towel, and beside them were pots of clotted cream and her own strawberry jam. A Dundee cake, its top studded with blanched almonds, waited on a glass stand.

Amanderella carefully hung her coat on the back of the chair, put her notebook on the table next to her plate, and helped herself to a sandwich.

Botswana poured the tea. “If you don’t mind, I’ll join you,” she said, lowering herself into the chair with a small sigh. “Have to keep my strength up. The Boggits have been out all day. I was getting very worried about you being up there on the Moor on your own.”

Amanderella smiled and reached for another sandwich. Rather than begin to eat she remarked, as casually as she could, “I heard the noises up on the Moor today.”

Botswana gave a shiver that made her apron strings tremble. “Oh, my dear, they have been more than active. Positively rampaging. Well, ” she corrected herself, “—rampaging in a Boggit sort of way. “

Amanderella nodded. “And when did these disturbances begin?”

Botswana opened her mouth, closed it again, and reached for a pickled onion as though it might steady her nerves. “It all started after that Geological Survey group came through,” she said at last. “Nice enough people, I’m sure, but they were forever poking at rocks, tapping things with little hammers, and muttering about strata. They stayed three nights, went up onto the Moor every day, and then—well—after they left, the noises began.”

Amanderella took out her notebook, flipped it open, and made a neat jotting. “How long ago was this?”

“Three weeks on Tuesday,” Botswana said promptly. “I remember because they left behind a pair of socks, two teaspoons, and a map with a very rude word written on it. I assumed it was a geological term.”

Amanderella’s pencil paused. “And the noises began immediately?”

“The very next evening,” Botswana said, lowering her voice. “Just after sunset. A dreadful thumping, like a giant knocking on the underside of the Moor. I thought it was thunder at first, but the sky was clear as anything.”

Amanderella tapped her pencil thoughtfully against the edge of her notebook. “That matches what I observed on my way across the Moor,” she said. “I came across a disused mine entrance, or rather, it ought to have been disused. Someone had pulled aside the wooden barrier and left it standing open.”

Botswana’s teacup rattled in its saucer. “Open? Oh, my dear, no one goes near the old mines. Not unless they’ve taken leave of their senses.”

“It appeared,” Amanderella continued, “that several people had been inside recently. There were fresh boot marks in the mud, and the remains of a small campfire just inside the entrance. Students, I suspect, the sort who believe that a warning sign is merely a suggestion.”

Botswana pressed both hands to her cheeks. “Oh, gracious heavens. Always poking at things. Always tapping rocks. I told them the mines were dangerous, but they only smiled and said something about ‘ventilation shafts’ and ‘historic strata’.”

Amanderella closed her notebook. “Then I believe the Geological Survey group actions may be the key to understanding what is happening.”

Botswana looked both relieved and alarmed. “Oh, my dear, I do hope so. Because if the Boggits get any louder, I shall have to start wearing earplugs, and I can’t abide things in my ears. Makes me feel like a teapot.”

Amanderella folded her hands on the table, her expression thoughtful but entirely steady. “I do not believe anything has been woken,” she said. “What I found on the Moor suggests a far simpler explanation.”

Botswana leaned forward, eyes wide. “Simpler? Oh, my dear, please let it be simpler.”

“It is,” Amanderella replied. “The students opened the entrance to an old mine. The wooden barrier that once kept it sealed had been dragged aside. With the opening exposed, the wind can now rush straight into the tunnels.”

Botswana blinked. “The wind?”

“Yes,” Amanderella said. “The Moor is full of hollows and shafts. When the wind enters a narrow space and forces its way through old timbers and broken passages, it makes noises. Loud ones. Echoing ones. The sort that sound like thumping, groaning, or… well… Boggits.”

Botswana sagged back in her chair, one hand pressed to her chest. “So, it’s only the wind? Not creatures? Not curses? Just weather misbehaving?”

“Precisely,” Amanderella said. “The mine was sealed for a reason. Once it was opened, the air began to move through it again. The noises you hear are nothing more than the Moor breathing in and out.”

Botswana let out a long, shaky sigh. “Oh, my dear, that is a relief. A tremendous relief. Though I must say, the Moor has a very alarming way of breathing.”

Amanderella allowed herself a small smile. “Most large landscapes do.”

Botswana poured herself another cup of tea with hands that still trembled faintly. “Well. If it’s only the wind, then perhaps the Boggits will settle down once the entrance is closed again.”

“The geology students created the conditions for the sounds. Filibert created the stories. And Mr Wibberley created the panic,” said Amanderella.

Botswana stared at her, eyes wide, as though Amanderella had just solved a puzzle she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

Amanderella set down her spoon. “And tomorrow,” she said, “we shall put everything back where it belongs.”

Botswana stood up so abruptly that her chair gave a startled squeak. “Right,” she said, tying her apron strings with the air of a woman preparing for a gale. “If the Boggits are nothing but wind in an open mine, we must close it tomorrow. And I know exactly who should come.”

Amanderella looked up from her neat notes. “Those most affected by the lack of visitors?”

“Exactly,” Botswana said, already bustling towards the door. “Septimus Nonshine first. Poor man’s sermons have been echoing round an empty church for weeks. No hikers, no ramblers, no passing souls to swell the congregation. He’ll come the moment I tell him the cause might be found.”

She snatched up her shawl.

“And Roglan Walloper,” she continued. “The Cudwick Arms has been so quiet you can hear the beer settling in the barrels. He’s furious about it. He’ll come just to shout at the mine.”

Amanderella nodded. “And Mr Pank?”

“He has had no one to tell his awful stories to, or to tell people where to go,” Botswana said firmly. “He’s been pacing about like a cat in a thunderstorm.”

“You intend to gather a party this evening?”

“Of course I do,” Botswana said, already halfway to the door. “If I leave it till morning, Septimus Nonshine will be halfway through his prayers, Roglan Walloper will be halfway through polishing his bar, and Filibert Pank will be halfway under his bed.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “A sensible assessment.”

Botswana tightened her shawl. “I’ll start with the vicar. He’s always awake at this hour, writing sermons about the moral dangers of draughts. Then I’ll stop at The Cudwick Arms. Roglan will come if I tell him students have been meddling with things. He loves a good meddle.”

“And Mr Pank?” Amanderella asked.

Botswana paused, her hand on the latch. “I’ll knock on his door. He’ll squeak something about Boggits. I’ll tell him we’re only closing the mine. He’ll squeak louder. And then I’ll leave him be.”

“That seems fair,” Amanderella said.

Botswana nodded briskly. “We’ll meet on the village green at first light. Don’t you worry, my dear, I’ll have them all lined up like ducks in a row.”

She swept out into the evening, her shawl flapping behind her like a determined flag. Amanderella watched her go, then closed the door gently. The house settled into quiet, the kind of quiet that comes just before a mystery begins to unfold.

Up on the Moor, the wind hummed faintly, as though practising a tune.