Amanderella and the Mystery of Wittering Crags. Chapter 10.

Chapter Ten.

 

Capturing the Beast.

 

Amanderella woke early, as she always did when there was a puzzle to solve. The air in her room at the Pig and Whistle was cool and faintly scented with peat smoke drifting from the chimneys below. She dressed neatly, pinned her hat, and made a mental list of the day’s tasks.

Breakfast was as perfect as ever. The dining room was quiet. A few early risers murmured over their plates; someone was trying to light the fire with more enthusiasm than success. Amanderella approached the counter, intending only to request hot water for tea.

She did not get that far.

She stopped dead.

Behind the counter, leaning casually against a barrel of pickled onions, was the largest butterfly net she had ever seen.

It was enormous. Positively architectural. A net so large it could catch a butterfly the size of a small cow.

Landlord Berrit Barrelshaw noticed her staring.

“Oh, that,” he said, waving a hand. “Left behind by a chap from down South. Liverpool way. Came up here to hunt butterflies on the Crags.”

Amanderella blinked. “With… that?”

Berrit shrugged. “Aye. Big net for a small butterfly, if you ask me. But he said he were after a rare one. Very rare. Only flies on Tuesdays, apparently.”

“When did he leave it?” she asked.

“A few days ago,” Berrit said. “Came in white as a sheet, babbling like a brook. Couldn’t understand a word. Something about the Crags, and the wind, and… flapping.”

“Flapping?”

“Oh aye. And roaring. And something shouting at him. Poor lad ran off so fast he left his boots behind.”

He pointed to a pair of muddy boots by the hearth.

“Legged it down the valley in his socks,” Berrit added. “Good job he’d paid in advance.”

Amanderella considered the net again.

“Did he say what he heard?”

Berrit frowned. “Well… he said it sounded like someone yelling ‘HELP! HELP! I’M A BEAST!’ but echoey. Like it were bouncing off the Tuffort Stones.”

Amanderella nodded slowly.

A valley where sound travelled strangely.

Where a whisper could become a shout.

Where a parrot — a very loud, very confused parrot — could terrify a butterfly hunter from Liverpool.

After making her notes, Amanderella thanked Berrit and stepped out into the cool morning air. The Crags loomed above the rooftops, quiet for now.

There were three things she needed. And she knew exactly where to find them.

Miss Petronella Shreep answered the museum door wearing gardening gloves and mild suspicion.

“Oh,” she said, brightening. “It’s you. I thought it might be the postman. He likes to chat.”

She shuddered. “Far too much chat.”

Amanderella explained that she wished to borrow the large birdcage she had noticed earlier.

Miss Shreep’s eyes widened.

“Ah! The Unused Aviary Containment Apparatus! Of course. It has been waiting for its moment.”

She led Amanderella to the back room. The cage sat beneath a draped antimacassar, looking faintly embarrassed by its own size.

“It’s never held a bird,” Miss Shreep said proudly. “But it has potential.”

Amanderella examined it. Sturdy. Spacious. Slightly dusty. Perfect.

“I shall return it unharmed,” she promised.

Miss Shreep waved a hand. “Do what you like. If it comes back with a story, even better.”

The bell above Cally Sitt’s shop door clanged as Amanderella stepped inside. Cally was arranging barley sugars like soldiers on parade.

“Oh,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “It’s you. Good. I thought it might be that lad wanting postcards of the Beast. I told him I don’t stock nonsense.”

“I require fig biscuits,” Amanderella said.

Cally froze.

“Fig biscuits,” she repeated, as though Amanderella had asked for bottled moonlight. “You’re the first soul in three years to ask for those.”

Amanderella said nothing. She had been force‑fed fig syrup as a child and still regarded figs with suspicion.

Cally rummaged under the counter and produced a small tin with grim satisfaction.

“Last tin. Been here since the Coronation. They don’t exactly gallop off the shelves.”

“They are for the Beast,” Amanderella said.

Cally’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, that explains it. Only a creature with no taste buds would eat these willingly.”

Amanderella paid.

“If you’re planning to eat them yourself,” Cally added, “I’d recommend a glass of water. Or a priest.”

“They are not for me.”

“Good. I’d hate to fetch the priest.”

Amanderella walked up the gravel drive to Woldscar Hall, the birdcage under one arm and the tin of fig biscuits rattling inside.

Dot Pleaner, the housekeeper, was pegging laundry on a line between two ancient yews. Several items were instantly recognisable as Mrs Plover’s washing.

Dot nodded. “Morning, Lady Gottsnobbler. Hedge was full of laundry again. Beast or no Beast, something’s got a grudge against her washing.”

Amanderella approached the line. Mrs Plover’s nightgown fluttered at the end — large, floral, and dramatic.

“I wonder,” Amanderella said, “if I might borrow that nightgown.”

Dot raised an eyebrow. “Mrs Plover’s best? She’ll have a fit.”

“I will return it unharmed.”

Dot considered, then shrugged. “Well, you’re sensible. And you don’t panic. Better you borrow it than half the village.”

She unpegged the garment and handed it over.

Amanderella tucked it into the birdcage with the fig biscuits.

“You’re not planning to wear it, are you?” Dot asked.

“No.”

“Good. It’s a bit… bold.”

“It is for a practical purpose.”

Dot nodded. “If anyone asks, I’ll say the wind took it again.”

The top end of Tuffort Stones valley was shaded by leaning birches. Amanderella set down the birdcage and the enormous butterfly net, then surveyed the clearing.

“This will do nicely,” she thought.

She opened the tin of fig biscuits. The smell rose like a warning. She placed three biscuits on a flat stone.

She wedged two fallen branches into the ground to form a narrow funnel toward the bait. Then she lifted the butterfly net and examined its long handle.

Perfect.

She propped the net upside‑down between two boulders so the hoop hung over the bait. A length of twine — she always carried twine — was tied to the rim, looped around a birch trunk, and brought back to her hiding place behind a mossy boulder.

A classic deadfall trap. Simple. Effective.

She tugged the twine. The net dropped as planned.

The birdcage sat nearby, draped with Mrs Plover’s nightgown, ready for transport.

A faint rustle came from above. Then a squawk.

Then a louder squawk, followed by a muttered “HELP!” that bounced oddly off the stones.

Another rustle. A scrape of claws.

Then:

“WRAAAAK‑hrrr‑WRAAAAK!”

The roar of a lion with indigestion.

Amanderella did not flinch.

The valley echoed the roar back at itself, turning it into something that would send a nervous villager sprinting for safety.

The parrot shuffled closer, unseen.

Then, brightly:

“WHO’S BEEN A NAUGHTY BOY THEN?”

Amanderella closed her eyes briefly. “Not now.”

The parrot hopped to a lower branch, feathers fluffed.

“I’M A BIT OF A DEVIL!” it announced.

The words bounced around the valley, returning as a ghostly chorus.

The parrot fluttered down, spotted the fig biscuits, and gasped.

It marched toward the bait — sideways, backwards, muttering to itself.

Amanderella waited.

The parrot leaned in—

She pulled the twine.

WHUMP.

The net dropped.

The parrot let out a scandalised honk.

Amanderella lifted the net and guided the flapping creature into the cage. She lowered Mrs Plover’s nightgown over the top.

The parrot muttered, “HELP! I’M— mmph—”

Amanderella closed the latch. “Quite.”

Amanderella carried the covered cage into the Pig and Whistle. The parrot muttered faintly under the nightgown. She set it on a table and asked Berrit to gather the villagers.

He did so with gusto.

Within minutes the bar was full. Mrs Plover arrived last, fanning herself. Miss Shreep hovered near the back. And beside her stood a pale, sweating young man Amanderella had not seen before.

Berrit cleared his throat.

“Right then, folks. Lady Gottsnobbler’s got something to show us.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “Thank you. I believe I have identified the Beast of Wittering Crags.”

A gasp. Mrs Plover clutched her chest.

Amanderella lifted the nightgown.

The parrot burst into view — feathers, indignation, and a glare that suggested it did not approve of being kept in the dark.

It roared:

“WRAAAAK‑hrrr‑WRAAAAK!”

Half the villagers screamed. The other half ducked.

Mrs Plover shrieked, “IT’S GOT MY NIGHTY!”

“Yes,” Amanderella said. “It was necessary.”

The parrot shouted, “WHO’S BEEN A NAUGHTY BOY THEN?”

Mrs Plover shrieked again.

The pale young man flinched so hard he nearly knocked over the coat‑stand.

“I’M A BIT OF A DEVIL!” the parrot added proudly.

Amanderella raised a hand.

“It is not a Beast. It is a parrot. A very loud parrot. A very confused parrot. And the valley echoes its voice.”

The parrot shouted something rude. Reverend Bumper went pale.

The young man put his head in his hands.

Amanderella turned slightly.

“Sir,” she said gently, “I believe you may have something to add.”

The young man squeaked.

“I… I didn’t mean to. I opened the cage for fresh air and he bolted.”

“NAUGHTY BOY!” the parrot shouted.

Mrs Plover gasped. “YOU let the Beast loose?”

“It wasn’t a Beast,” he said miserably. “It was him.”

The parrot preened.

The young man explained:

“He used to live in the Lion House at the travelling menagerie. Learned to roar. Then he lived with the keepers. Learned… everything they said. Then he spent a week in Lost Property. Learned ‘naughty boy’ from a toy and ‘bit of a devil’ from a dummy.”

The parrot nodded proudly.

“And the rude one?” Mrs Plover demanded.

The young man went crimson. “Knife‑thrower. Bad temper.”

Reverend Bumper made the sign of the cross.

Amanderella folded her hands.

“So the parrot is not malicious. Merely… a collector.”

“HELP! I’M A PARROT!” it shouted.

The room slowly calmed.

Mrs Plover clutched her nightgown.

Reverend Bumper dabbed his forehead.

Miss Shreep whispered, “The cage finally has a story.”

The young man wished he could vanish.

Amanderella closed her notebook.

“The Beast,” she said, “is explained.”

A ripple of relief spread through the room.

And then—

A familiar harrumph.

Mr Fennick Lowl rose slowly, ear‑trumpet under his arm.

He surveyed the parrot.

He surveyed the villagers.

He surveyed Amanderella.

Then he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “No, no. That’s not it at all.”

The room froze.

“That,” he said, pointing at the cage, “is a noise. A loud noise. A troublesome noise. But the Beast—”

He paused.

“The Beast is still up there. Gathering strength. You mark my words.”

A collective groan filled the room.

The parrot muttered, “HELP. DEVIL. NAUGHTY BOY.”

Fennick nodded solemnly.

“Exactly.”