Amanderella and the Mystery of the Moor Chap.13

Chapter  13.

 

Removing the curse.

 

Botswana, energised by the prospect of visitors and picnic baskets, hurried back towards Lollingfolly House, already planning a celebratory stew. Roglan strode off in the opposite direction, muttering about lighting the fire, polishing the counter, and putting on a fresh barrel “in case the hills started singing in a higher key”.

Amanderella found herself walking beside Septimus Nonshine. He folded his hands behind his back in the manner of a man preparing to deliver a lecture of considerable length.

“The church,” he began, “has stood on its present foundations since the late twelfth century, though of course the tower is later. Much later. Some say disappointingly later.”

Amanderella inclined her head politely. “Indeed.”

They reached the lychgate. Septimus paused only long enough to draw breath.

“You asked earlier about the Lollingfolly family,” he said. “There is a crypt. Quite a modest one. Beneath the yew tree. No names or dates, I’m afraid.”

“No names?” Amanderella asked.

“Never had the money for carving,” Septimus replied, with the solemnity of a man reporting a moral failing. “Stonecutters are expensive. And the Lollingfollys were… enthusiastic breeders.”

Amanderella raised an eyebrow. “Church records, then?”

“Oh yes,” he said, brightening faintly. “All copied out by the Reverend Digsby Hustlepan about a century ago. A very thorough man. Terrible handwriting. But thorough.”

They walked on, the church looming ahead, its crooked tower bowing politely to the sky. Septimus continued talking, his voice drifting into a steady drone about buttresses, roof repairs, and a scandal involving a missing collection plate in 1783.

Amanderella listened with the calm patience of a woman who had once endured a three‑hour lecture on the mating habits of Amazonian beetles. She tucked the information away neatly. A crypt. Records. A family with no money for names. All of it might matter.

And the hills hummed faintly behind them, as though reminding her that mysteries rarely ended where one expected.

Septimus paused beside the vestry door, his expression taking on the faint glow of a man about to share something he considered deeply impressive.

“The Hustlepan Transcripts,” he said, with the solemnity of announcing a royal decree. “A complete set of parish births, deaths, and marriages. Copied out by the Reverend Digsby Hustlepan himself. Cramped handwriting, but very precise. He had a fondness for footnotes. Notes about the weather. Notes about the ink. Notes about the quality of the quills. Notes about the notes.”

Amanderella nodded politely. “Thoroughness is admirable.”

“Oh, indeed,” Septimus said. “He also mouse‑proofed the records. Commissioned heavy tin‑lined chests for the vestry. Claimed no ‘wee beastie’, as he put it, would ever nibble a baptismal entry again.”

Amanderella allowed herself a small smile. “A sensible precaution.”

“Quite,” Septimus agreed. “Though the chests are so heavy that three churchwardens must lift them, and one of those must be particularly determined.”

They walked on between the leaning gravestones. The yew tree loomed ahead, its branches drooping like a curtain over the ground.

“The Lollingfolly crypt is just there,” Septimus said, pointing. “As I said, no names, no dates. But the Hustlepan Transcripts will tell you who lies where. Assuming you can decipher the handwriting.”

Amanderella looked at the dark mouth of the crypt, then at the church tower bowing politely above them.

“So, the records of the births, marriages, and deaths of the Lollingfolly family exist?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” Septimus said. “Safe in those tin‑lined chests.”

Amanderella allowed herself a small, satisfied breath. “Excellent. Then if the time comes, Mrs Lollingfolly could consult them herself.”

Septimus looked faintly relieved. “Quite so. They are very thorough. And very heavy. And time‑consuming.”

Amanderella left Septimus at the church porch, still murmuring about medieval roof beams, and walked back across the green. The wind carried a faint thread of the hills’ humming, as though reminding her that mysteries rarely stayed solved unless one tidied them properly.

Lollingfolly House appeared through the lilac bushes, its porch railings chipped, its windows blinking in the afternoon light. Botswana burst out of the front door the moment Amanderella reached the gate.

“My dear! You’re back! I’ve made a stew. And a pudding. And a pot of tea. And a smaller pot of emergency tea in case the first pot wasn’t strong enough.”

Amanderella removed her gloves with calm precision. “Botswana, I have news.”

Botswana froze, apron fluttering. “Good news? Bad news? Medium news? Oh, do tell me it’s not Boggits.”

“It is not Boggits,” Amanderella said. “It is something far more useful.”

Amanderella followed Botswana into the sitting room, where the curtains fluttered gently in the breeze and the kettle muttered to itself on the stove. Botswana hovered anxiously, twisting her apron.

“My dear,” she said, “you looked so certain when you spoke of the curse. Certain in a way that makes my stomach wobble. What have you found?”

Amanderella set her travelling bag on the table and unbuckled the strap. From inside she drew a slim, age‑spotted manuscript tied with faded ribbon.

She placed it gently before Botswana. “You should read it yourself.”

Botswana untied the ribbon with trembling fingers. The pages crackled faintly as she turned them, her eyes darting over the cramped, fussy handwriting. Births. Marriages. Ordinary mishaps. A great‑uncle who fell off a hayrick. One who over‑ate at Christmas. Nothing supernatural. Nothing cursed.

Then she reached the final page.

A small note had been added on the back, in a different hand , bold, self‑important, and slightly crooked.

Botswana read it aloud in a whisper:

“This makes the family sound so utterly boring and commonplace. We are much better than that. The Curse of the Lollingfollys is a good story and I for one will continue to tell everyone that it is true.
Limpopo Lollingfolly.”

She blinked. “Limpopo Lollingfolly… my husband’s great‑grandfather.”

Amanderella nodded. “Indeed.”

Botswana turned the page over again, as though the words might rearrange themselves into something sensible. “But… but why would he write such a thing?”

Amanderella folded her hands. “It seems that Limpopo was a man who enjoyed attention. He invented the curse to make himself feel important. A dramatic flourish. Nothing more.”

Botswana stared at the manuscript, her face shifting from shock to disbelief to something like indignation.

“He invented it?” she said. “He invented the whole thing? And we’ve all been living under it all this time? Oh, the nerve! The absolute nerve!”

Amanderella allowed herself a small, sympathetic smile. “It appears so.”

Botswana pressed both hands to her cheeks. “My dear, I must sit down. I must sit down at once. My family has been cursed by nothing more than Limpopo’s ego.”

She sank into a chair, then suddenly burst into relieved laughter , the kind that comes after years of quiet dread.

“No curse,” she said. “No doom. No dreadful fate. Just Limpopo wanting to feel grand.”

Amanderella nodded. “And now you know the truth. You may show the manuscript to anyone you wish. If you wish to confirm it for yourself, the records are all safe in strong tin boxes in the church and may be easily read.”

Botswana clutched it to her chest. “I shall show it to everyone. Oh, my dear, I shall show it to the vicar, and Roglan, and Filibert Pank, and even the hens if they’ll listen. My son Zaml will be delighted, I am sure.”

She looked up, eyes shining. “Lady Amanderella… you have saved us.”

Amanderella shook her head gently. “I have merely tidied the facts.”

Botswana laughed again, wiping her eyes. “Then bless you for tidying them.” She dabbed her eyes with the corner of her apron. “I shall make a cake. A very large cake. A curse‑disproving cake.”

Amanderella smiled. “That seems entirely appropriate.”