Amanderella and the Mystery of Wittering Crags. Chapter 4.

Chapter Four.

 

Cragglethwaite.

 

Cragglethwaite announced itself not with a signpost, but with a sudden narrowing of the road and a sheep that refused to move.

Amanderella slowed the Sunbeam.

The sheep stared at her with the calm confidence of something that believed the road belonged to it.

“Good afternoon,” Amanderella said politely.

The sheep blinked.

Amanderella waited.

The sheep blinked again.

At last, with the air of granting a favour, it stepped three slow paces to the side and began chewing something that might once have been grass.

Amanderella drove on.

Cragglethwaite appeared around the next bend: a tight cluster of stone buildings huddled together as though keeping warm. The Town Hall stood squarely in the middle, its clock showing a time that might have been correct long ago.

Amanderella guided the Sunbeam into the market square. A few locals turned to look at her with mild curiosity and mild suspicion.

She parked beside a horse trough and checked the AA Road Book.

“Refreshments obtainable,” she murmured. “Accommodation… not mentioned.”

She looked around.

There were three shops (one open, two pretending not to be), a post office, a butcher’s displaying something mysterious but proud, and a sign swinging gently in the breeze:

THE PIG AND WHISTLE

Fine Ales, Good Beds, Hot Meals

Amanderella smiled. “That seems promising.”

She took her small travelling case, straightened her hat, and crossed the square.

The Pig and Whistle was a sturdy building with a roof that sagged slightly, as though tired of holding itself up. The door creaked in a way that suggested it had been creaking for centuries.

Inside, the air was warm and smelled faintly of pipe smoke and polish.

Amanderella approached the bar.

A woman wearing a thick apron looked up from polishing a tankard.

“Aye?” she said.

“Good afternoon,” Amanderella replied. “Do you have a room for two nights?”

The barmaid looked her up and down with quick, sharp eyes.

“You’re not from round here.”

“No,” Amanderella agreed.

“Thought not. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The look of someone who’s about to ask about the floating rocks.”

Amanderella blinked. “Floating rocks?”

The barmaid leaned in. “We’ve had three journalists, two students, and a man from Leeds who said he could talk to stones. All here for Lord Crankleboot’s lecture.”

“I am here for the lecture,” Amanderella said.

The barmaid nodded. “Right. You’re normal, then. Room’s yours.”

She handed over a brass key attached to a wooden pig.

“Room Three. Bed’s firm, window sticks, hot water works if you give it time. Breakfast’s at eight.”

“That sounds very acceptable,” Amanderella said.

“You’re calm,” the barmaid noted.

“I try to be.”

“Good. Calm folk last longer in Cragglethwaite.”

Amanderella decided not to ask what that meant.

She climbed the stairs, each one creaking in a different note, and found Room Three. It was small but clean, with a sturdy bed and a view of the market square. The sheep from earlier was now staring up at her window.

Amanderella unpacked, smoothed her skirt, and sat on the bed.

She had a whole day ahead of her tomorrow. For now, she could rest and see what the Pig and Whistle served for supper.

At seven o’clock, she came down to the dining room, having been told that “half‑past is too late and quarter‑to is too early unless you want Cook in a mood.”

The dining room was surprisingly elegant. Dark wood panels shone. White tablecloths were starched stiff. The silverware gleamed. A faint scent of lavender hung in the air.

Amanderella took her seat.

A thin, solemn waiter approached with a menu written in neat handwriting.

“Will madam be dining?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He nodded once and recited the dishes.

First Course 

Potted Shrimps — spiced and served with warm brown bread.

Clear Oxtail Broth — rich and dark, with tiny dumplings.

Amanderella nodded politely.

Fish 

Cold Salmon — poached that morning, with herb mayonnaise and thin cucumber slices.

She smiled. “Very tempting.”

Main Course 

Roast Beef — cooked over wood, with tall Yorkshire puddings, strong horseradish, and deep gravy.

“And the sides?” she asked.

“Buttered sea‑kale. Creamy mashed potatoes baked till crisp. And carrots, if Cook’s in the mood.”

“Is she in the mood?”

He considered. “Hard to say. She’s been listening to the wireless again.”

Amanderella decided not to ask further.

Dessert 

Damsons in Aspic with clotted cream.

Cragglethwaite Curd Tart — a local favourite.

“And to finish,” he added, “toasted Lancashire cheese on mustard bread.”

Amanderella closed the menu.

“I shall have the shrimps, the salmon, and the roast beef.”

The waiter looked relieved. “Very good, madam.”

The shrimps arrived first, golden and fragrant. They were excellent.

The salmon was cool and tender.

The roast beef was magnificent. The Yorkshire pudding towered. The horseradish cleared her head. The gravy was rich and smoky.

Amanderella ate happily.

Outside, evening settled over Cragglethwaite. Lamps flickered on. The hills darkened. The sheep wandered off. Still no whippets. No flat caps.

Just a quiet northern town waiting for a lecture that might, if Lord Crankleboot was right, change everything.

Amanderella ordered a slice of the curd tart. It melted at the touch of her fork.

Tomorrow, she would begin her enquiries.

Tonight, she would enjoy her tart and her tea.

After dinner, she wandered into the bar, drawn by the warm glow and low chatter.

The bar was long and cosy, with beams across the ceiling and photographs of prize sheep and stern brass bands on the walls. A fire crackled in the grate.

Amanderella sat at a small round table.

The landlord approached: a tall man with a very impressive moustache.

“What’ll it be?” he asked.

“A small ale, please.”

He nodded. “Good choice.”

He returned with a heavy tankard. The ale was excellent.

The bar filled slowly: farmers, shopkeepers, a schoolmaster with ink on his cuffs, and a woman knitting something that might become a scarf or possibly a weapon.

A wiry man at the next table leaned over.

“You’re not from round here,” he said.

“No,” Amanderella replied.

“Thought not. You’re sitting too straight. Folk from Cragglethwaite lean.”

He leaned sideways to demonstrate.

“I shall remember that,” Amanderella said.

A woman carrying a basket of eggs sat down opposite her.

“You here for the lecture?”

“Yes.”

“Thought so. You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The look of someone about to hear something daft.”

Amanderella smiled. “Is Lord Crankleboot well‑known here?”

The woman shook her head. “He’s staying with Mr Crispinshaw at Woldscar Hall. Housekeeper says he’s a nuisance. Never one to mince her words.”

She gathered her eggs and left.

A shy young man approached.

“Excuse me, miss… are you the lady with the open‑top motor?”

“I am.”

He breathed out in awe. “Does it go fast?”

“It goes well enough.”

“I’m saving up for a bicycle.”

“I wish you luck.”

He beamed and retreated.

The bar grew warmer. People told stories about cows in the Town Hall and giant turnips. Amanderella listened, amused. It was friendly and peaceful.

No whippets. No flat caps.

Mrs Gaffletter would be astonished.

As Amanderella rose to leave, the landlord nodded.

“Breakfast at eight,” he said. “Cook makes porridge thick enough to stand a spoon in. And bacon you could use as tiles.”

“That sounds excellent.”

“And if you hear humming in the night, don’t worry. It’s just the wind in the gutters.”

“Does it hum often?”

“Only when it’s blowing. And it blows most of the time up on the Crags.”

Amanderella thanked him and headed upstairs.

Behind her, the bar settled back into its warm, steady chatter — the sound of a town ready for whatever tomorrow might bring.