Amanderella and the Mystery of Wittering Crags. Chapter 11.

Chapter Eleven.

 

Tidying up.

 

The room let out a collective sigh, not of fear, but of weary resignation.

Mrs Plover muttered something about “old men and their imaginations.”

Reverend Bumper looked as though he might attempt an exorcism on the ear‑trumpet.

Amanderella simply folded her arms.

“Mr Lowl,” she said, “the Beast was a parrot.”

He sniffed. “A noise, yes. But the Beast…” He tapped the side of his nose. “I’ve lived here eighty‑three years. I know what I know.”

The parrot shouted, “HELP! I’M A BIT OF A DEVIL!”

Mr Lowl nodded as if this proved his point.

Amanderella closed the cage gently. “The Crags are quiet now.”

“Quiet before a storm,” Mr Lowl said, with relish.

The villagers groaned again,but this time with fondness. It was hard to stay annoyed at a man who had been predicting doom since the Coronation and had yet to be right.

Dot Pleaner stepped forward. “Well, Lady Gottsnobbler, whether there’s a Beast or not, you’ve sorted the laundry thief.”

Mrs Plover clutched her nightgown. “And thank heavens for that.”

Miss Shreep beamed at the cage. “And my apparatus has finally fulfilled its destiny.”

The pale young man raised a timid hand. “I… I can take him home now. If that’s all right.”

Amanderella nodded. “He’ll be happier somewhere without echoes.”

The parrot muttered, “NAUGHTY BOY,” but without conviction.

Berrit Barrelshaw clapped his hands. “Right then! Free drinks for anyone who promises not to mention Beasts for at least a week.”

A cheer went up.

Amanderella stepped outside into the cool afternoon air. The Crags loomed above the rooftops, no longer brooding, merely tall, and windy, and full of the usual nonsense that moors collect.

She breathed in the peat‑tinged breeze.

Another puzzle solved.

Another village calmed.

Another Beast revealed to be nothing more than feathers and borrowed phrases.

Behind her, through the open door of the Pig and Whistle, Mr Lowl’s voice drifted out:

“I’m telling you, it’s gathering strength.”

Amanderella smiled.

“Let it,” she said softly, and walked down the lane toward her car.

The wind tugged at her coat.

Somewhere far up on the Crags, a sheep bleated.

And that was quite enough excitement for one week.

The Pig and Whistle finally quietened. The parrot had been reclaimed, the villagers reassured, and Mr Fennick Lowl had delivered his customary warning about “gathering strength,” which everyone politely ignored.

Her Sunbeam open‑top tourer waited by the gate, polished and sensible, looking exactly like the sort of vehicle that would carry her two hundred miles without complaint.

She strapped her small case to the rear rack, checked the fuel, and glanced once toward the Crags. They were peaceful now, only wind, sheep, and the faint echo of a bird with too many borrowed phrases.

She climbed into the driver’s seat, settled her gloves, and set off.

The Sunbeam hummed along the moorland road, steady as a sewing machine. Amanderella passed the last cottages, then the last farm, then the signboard pointing back toward Wittering Crags.

By late afternoon she reached a coaching inn with a sloping roof and a landlord who insisted she admire his collection of ornamental turnips. She listened politely, ate a sensible supper, and slept in a room that smelled faintly of beeswax and old hymn books.

Rain arrived. Amanderella drove through it without fuss. The Sunbeam’s hood kept out all but the most determined raindrops.

She stopped in a market town for tea and a sandwich that claimed to contain ham but seemed mostly theoretical. A retired schoolmistress asked if she was “one of those adventurous ladies,” and Amanderella replied that she was simply heading back to her lodgings.

That evening she stayed at a small inn where the proprietor insisted she take the best room “because you look like you won’t rearrange the furniture.” Amanderella accepted this with grace.

The countryside grew familiar. The hedgerows looked like the ones she had known since childhood. The air carried the faint mineral tang of her own part of the country.

By mid‑afternoon she turned into Wimple Terrace.

The row of houses stood exactly as she remembered: neat gardens, polished knockers, curtains drawn with mathematical precision. Amanderella felt the quiet satisfaction of returning to a place that did not panic, did not gossip, and did not produce imaginary Beasts.

She parked the Sunbeam, unstrapped her case, and let herself in.

Mrs Gaffletter appeared in the hallway, arms folded, eyebrow already halfway to its full height.

“You’re back,” she said, in the tone of someone who had already decided whether this was convenient.

“Yes,” Amanderella replied. “The lecture was… informative.”

Mrs Gaffletter sniffed. “I still say floating rocks are nonsense. If rocks floated, we’d all be in trouble. Roof tiles drifting off, mantelpieces wandering about, that sort of thing.”

Amanderella nodded politely.

Mrs Gaffletter leaned closer. “Did he bring one? A floating one?”

“Actually he brought a shipload, “said Amanderella, “But it turns out that they are rather useful. They strain out mud from water, so Lord Crankleboot’s rocks are valuable after all.”

” Not a wasted trip then”

“No,” said Amanderella. “And I will tell you all about it., the lack of whippets and flat hats, after Dinner.”

Amanderella carried her case upstairs, placed her hat neatly on its stand, and washed the dust of three days’ driving from her hands. The familiar quiet of Wimple Terrace settled around her like a well‑fitted coat. Outside, the evening light softened the rooftops; inside, Mrs Gaffletter clattered pans with the purposeful efficiency of someone preparing a meal that would be plain, filling, and entirely unremarkable.

Amanderella sat at her small desk, opened her notebook, and wrote a single line:

Wittering Crags — concluded.

She underlined it once, firmly.