Amanderella and the Mystery of the Moor Chap.2

Chapter 2.

 

A mystery unfolds.

 

The parlour was spotless. Not merely tidy, but arranged with the precision of a woman who believed that furniture had correct positions and that those positions should never be altered. The cushions were perfectly square. The doilies on the table  were centred with mathematical accuracy. The mantelpiece gleamed. Even the fire irons looked as though they had been polished that very afternoon.

Mr Gaffletter, having completed his task, vanished with the quiet efficiency of a man who had spent a lifetime slipping in and out of rooms without disturbing the dust.

On the sofa lay Mrs Gaffletter. She was stretched out stiffly, like a queen in a historical painting, one hand clutching a lavender‑scented cloth to her forehead. In the other she held a letter at arm’s length, as though it were a venomous snake poised to strike.

Her eyes fluttered open at the sound of Amanderella’s footsteps. “Lady Gottsnobbler,” she whispered, in a voice that suggested she had suffered greatly and wished to be admired for it. “You have come.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Mr Gaffletter informed me that you had received calamitous news.”

Mrs Gaffletter shuddered delicately. “Calamitous does not begin to describe it.”

She extended the letter a fraction closer, still holding it between finger and thumb as if it might bite.

“I cannot bring myself to read it again,” she said. “You must do it for me.”

Amanderella unfolded the thick paper and began to read.

My dear Angola,

It is I, your sister, Botswana Lollingfolly…

Amanderella paused. Botswana Lollingfolly. The name sat on the page like a peacock among pigeons. It explained a great many things about Mrs Gaffletter’s temperament, and perhaps even her fondness for lavender polish.

Mrs Gaffletter let out a faint moan. “I cannot bear to hear her name spoken aloud,” she whispered. “It brings back memories of… of… well, of things best left unmentioned.”

Amanderella continued reading, the letter crackling faintly between her fingers.

I write to you in a state of the deepest distress. As you know, my guest house for persons who enjoy trekking across the Moors has always been a modest but respectable establishment. Alas, I fear its days may be numbered.

Visitors have grown scarce. There are strange goings‑on upon the Moors. I shall not describe them here, for the very thought makes my hand tremble. As if matters were not dire enough, I fear the old Lollingfolly family curse may be stirring again, though I dare not set it down on paper. Without guests, my income dwindles like a candle in a draught. I am forced to consider the unthinkable: selling up and moving somewhere less prone to odd happenings. Perhaps to Birmingham, or even and I can scarcely bring myself to write the words, coming to live with you, dearest sister.

Your loving, despairing, and increasingly penniless sibling,
Botswana Lollingfolly.

Amanderella lowered the letter.

Mrs Gaffletter gave a small, strangled gasp. “Live… here?” she whispered, pressing the lavender cloth more firmly to her brow. “In my house? Under my roof?”

She shuddered.

“Botswana,” she said, with the air of someone naming a contagious disease, “allows her guests to walk about with dirty boots. Dirty boots, Lady Gottsnobbler. Indoors. On carpets. Without so much as a mat.”

Amanderella nodded gravely. She understood now why Mrs Gaffletter had been rendered prostrate. This was, in her world, a calamity of the highest order.

Amanderella folded the letter and looked at Mrs Gaffletter.

“What is the Lollingfolly family curse?” she asked, in her usual steady voice.

Mrs Gaffletter gave a tiny shriek, the sort she might make upon discovering a muddy footprint on a freshly polished floor.

“Lady Gottsnobbler! We do not speak of it!” She pressed the lavender cloth harder to her forehead. “Botswana should never have mentioned it. Never. It is a subject fit only for hushed tones and firmly closed curtains.”

Amanderella waited politely.

Mrs Gaffletter fluttered a hand. “I cannot possibly recount it now. Not while I am in this weakened state. And certainly not while that letter is still in the room.”

She pointed at the envelope as though it were leaking poison.

“You must go to my sister,” she said faintly. “She will have to tell you herself. Preferably outdoors. Far from my carpets.”

Amanderella nodded. “The lecture season has come to its natural close. Once the evenings grow warm and light, people prefer strolling in parks, sitting in gardens, or dozing in deckchairs to being shut up in a stuffy hall listening to talks about Amazonian beetles. I do not blame them. I enjoy giving the lectures, but I enjoy fresh air too.”

She paused, then added, “With no engagements for several weeks, I find myself with time on my hands, time I am not entirely sure I want.”

Mrs Gaffletter raised her head a fraction, interest flickering beneath the lavender‑scented cloth. “Because of the letters from your dear mama?”

Amanderella nodded again. Every month, without fail, her mother sent a long, long letter. It always began with the weather, moved briskly through the neighbours, lingered on the state of the church roof, and ended, recently, with a subject Amanderella found deeply troubling.

A suitor.

Tarpduk Beeschecker.

Even the name made her feel faintly unwell. Her mother described him as “steady”, “reliable”, and “a man of prospects”, which Amanderella suspected meant he owned a shop that sold something sensible like umbrellas. She had no wish to meet him. She had even less wish to be introduced to him with the words, This is my daughter, who is not getting any younger.

“My ‘dear mama’, as you put it, seems to be under the impression that I am looking for a husband, so a journey to the Moors begins to look extremely attractive. And, more importantly, it is somewhere far, far away from Tarpduk Beeschecker, whoever he might be.”

She looked down at Mrs Gaffletter. “I am sure you are well capable of dealing with him if he has the temerity to come calling.”

“With pleasure, Lady Gottsnobbler. He will receive no welcome in this house.”

“Excellent. Then if you could furnish me with directions to your sister’s boarding house, and write to her to inform her of my imminent arrival, I will endeavour to discover the reason for her lack of visitors.”

Mrs Gaffletter gave a faint but decisive nod, the nod of a woman who had just been rescued from both a family curse and the threat of Botswana Lollingfolly moving in with muddy‑booted guests.

Mrs Gaffletter, still pale but no longer entirely prostrate, spoke, “I shall write to Botswana at once. She must be warned to expect you, and to tidy whatever she can before you arrive. Though with her standards…” She shuddered faintly. “One must hope for the best.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Thank you. As for directions, I shall require only the name of the nearest village and her Boarding House. My motorbike will take me the rest of the way.”

Mrs Gaffletter blinked. “You intend to go on that machine?”

“It has carried me faithfully to every lecture I have ever given. It will manage the Moors perfectly well.”

Mrs Gaffletter did not look convinced, but she was too grateful, and too alarmed by the prospect of Botswana Lollingfolly moving in, to argue.

Amanderella continued, “I shall leave in the morning. That will give me time to pack what I need and ensure the motorbike is in good order.”

Mrs Gaffletter pressed the lavender cloth to her forehead once more. “Bless you, Lady Gottsnobbler. You are a light in my hour of darkness.”

Amanderella smiled politely. “And you, Mrs Gaffletter, are a woman of admirable fortitude. I shall do what I can.”

She rose, folded the letter neatly, and slipped it into her pocket. The decision was made. The Moors awaited.

Amanderella went upstairs to her room, closed the door behind her, and took a steadying breath. The house was quiet now; even Mrs Gaffletter’s faint moans had subsided. It was the perfect moment to prepare.

She opened her wardrobe and began to lay out what she would need.

Her stoutest boots, well‑polished and reliable, with soles that had never once betrayed her on a muddy path.

Her warmest coat, for the Moors were notorious for sudden chills, even in summer.

A sensible skirt and two blouses, folded with neat precision.

A small toolkit for the motorbike — a spanner, a coil of wire, a tiny oil can, and a cloth for wiping her hands.

A notebook and pencil, for observations, sketches, and any peculiarities she might encounter.

A tin of emergency biscuits, because one never knew when one might be delayed by weather, sheep, or unexpected mysteries.

Her hatpin collection, polished and tucked into its case. It had proved useful in more than one situation.

A map, though she suspected Botswana Lollingfolly’s directions would be vague at best.

She placed everything into her travelling bag with the tidy efficiency of someone who had done this many times before.

Down in the small shed behind the house, her motorbike waited patiently. It was a sturdy, sensible machine, painted a deep green that had faded slightly from years of honest service. It had carried her faithfully to every lecture hall, museum, and society meeting she had ever attended.

Amanderella checked:

the tyres

the chain

the oil

the petrol

the headlamp

the little leather satchel strapped to the back

Everything was in order. She gave the handlebars a gentle pat.

“There is nothing on the Moors you and I cannot manage,” she murmured.

Back in her room, she set her bag by the door and placed her gloves on top. The letter from Botswana Lollingfolly lay on her bedside table, its pink wax seal cracked and its contents still faintly alarming.

Amanderella extinguished the lamp and settled into bed, her mind already turning towards the Moors, the empty guest house, the strange goings‑on, the whispered family curse, and the possibility of muddy‑booted guests.

It would be good to be busy again. A mystery or perhaps two to solve was just what she needed.