Amanderella and the Mystery of the Moor Chap.9

Chapter 9

Another ramble on the Moor.

Dinner was warm and plentiful, and afterwards Botswana insisted on washing up alone, waving Amanderella away with a tea towel and a firm, “You’re a guest, Lady Gottsnobbler. Go and sit somewhere comfortable.”

Not wishing to argue, Amanderella wandered down the short passage and pushed open the door to the best room.

The air inside felt cooler, as though the room had been holding its breath for years. A heavy mahogany mantelpiece dominated the far wall, crowded with porcelain shepherds, a ticking carriage clock, and a jumble of knick‑knacks that had gathered there over generations. Overstuffed armchairs and a velvet settee stood in a polite row, their backs very straight, as though expecting a vicar or a paying guest at any moment.

An Axminster rug covered most of the floor, its busy floral pattern chosen—Botswana had said proudly—to hide the wear and tear of many different pairs of boots. The room smelled faintly of beeswax polish, dried lavender, and the lingering hint of coal smoke that no amount of scrubbing had ever quite removed.

Amanderella sat in one of the armchairs. It sighed under her weight, grateful to be used again. The carriage clock ticked steadily on the mantelpiece, marking the quiet minutes. Outside, the wind brushed softly against the window, no more than a sigh across the Moor.

She took out her notebook and wrote a few neat lines:
– the Reverend’s calm explanations
– Roglan Walloper’s practical common sense
– Filibert Panks’s enthusiasm for nonsense
– and the curious fact that none of their stories agreed with one another.

She added a final note: “Rumours built on wind, marsh gas, and Filibert’s imagination.” Then she closed the notebook with a thoughtful tap of her pencil.

Botswana appeared at the door with a steaming mug of something warm and comforting. “Best have this before bed,” she said, setting it on the side table. “Helps you sleep.”

Amanderella thanked her. Botswana gave the room a satisfied nod, as if the day could now be safely put away, and padded back towards the kitchen, humming under her breath.

Amanderella took this as her cue to retire. She finished the drink, and put the mug carefully on a handy coaster. She went over to the book case to see if there was anything worth her while to read. She pulled out a couple of dusty books, a gardening manual with half its pages stuck together, and a guide to the railways of 1894, and returned them to their places. As she slid the second book back, something shifted behind it with a soft papery sigh.

Curious, Amanderella reached in and drew out a slim, dust‑coated folder that had been wedged behind the row of books. It looked as though

been pushed there in haste and forgotten. The string around it was brittle with age. It did not look like something meant for casual browsing in the best room.

She glanced toward the kitchen, no sound but Botswana humming faintly as she tidied away the last of the dishes. Amanderella tucked the folder under her arm, turned down the lamp, and made her way quietly upstairs.

Her bedroom was warm from the afternoon sun, the quilt neatly turned down. She sat on the edge of the bed, untied the brittle string, and opened the top notebook.

The handwriting was large, loopy, and full of flourishes. Across the first page was written:

“The Lollingfolly Curse: A True and Terrible Account by Bartholomew Lollingfolly (Esq.)”

The supposed curse of the Lollingfollys says that the eldest son dies immediately or  at worst soon after the birth of his son. After much research I can positively state that this has only happened three times in the last  two hundred and fifty years.

The family has lived in Cudwick-under-the-moor since Gallywag Lollingfolly’s father bought the land and built the house. Many of the records may still be seen in St. Mildred’s Church.

Apart from Gallywag himself, Jeremiah Lollingfolly  died of a surfeit of goose.  Wilfred succumbed to a chill after sleeping in a haystack. Both events occurred within a year of a child being born somewhere in the family.

Amanderella stared at the page.

“Jeremiah died because he ate three Christmas dinners,” she said quietly. “And Wilfred fell asleep in a haystack because he was avoiding work. Neither event required supernatural intervention.”

She turned the next page.

“These deaths, though tragic, were entirely caused by the men themselves, not some curse. Every other member of the family seems to have lived a long and reasonably healthy life, eventually dying of natural causes.”

“Well, “ thought Amanderella. “That as definite a statement as there may be.”

She read on. The remaining entries were a long, rather plodding chronicle of Lollingfolly men who farmed, married, raised children, quarrelled about fences, paid their taxes, and died peacefully in their beds. Not a single curse, omen, or mysterious demise among them. The only remarkable thing about the family, it seemed, was Bartholomew’s determination to make them sound more interesting.

Amanderella closed the notebook with a small, satisfied nod.

As she turned it over to retie the string, she noticed faint writing on the back cover, cramped, slanted, and quite unlike Bartholomew’s flamboyant loops. The ink was faded, the strokes uneven, as though written in haste or by someone unused to writing much at all.

She held it closer to the lamplight.

This makes the family sound so utterly boring and common place. 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.

Amanderella sat very still.

So, it had been Limpopo, the great‑grandfather, realised later how dull the truth was, and decided to keep the story of the curse alive anyway. And then, perhaps embarrassed or simply tired of the whole business, he had tucked the notebook behind the bookcase where no one ever looked.

She retied the string, slid the folder beneath her pillow, and extinguished the lamp. The house settled around her with its usual creaks and sighs.

The curse was nonsense. Entirely invented.
And Limpopo Lollingfolly had known it.

She retied the string, slid the folder beneath her pillow for safekeeping, and extinguished the lamp. The house settled around her with its usual creaks and sighs. Outside, the wind brushed gently across the Moor, but it sounded no more ominous than before.

Amanderella lay back against the pillows, her mind already turning over the implications.

There was no curse. There never had been.
Which meant the noises on the Moor must have another explanation entirely.