Amanderella and the Mystery of Wittering Crags. Chapter 7.

Chapter Seven.

 

A Crowded Bar.

 

By the time Amanderella returned to the Stoat & Compass, the wind had picked up, the clouds had thickened, and the whole valley seemed to be waiting for rain.

She stepped inside expecting a quiet lunch.

She did not get one.

The moment she crossed the threshold, the bar erupted into applause.

Actual applause.

Amanderella froze, unsure whether she had walked into a performance by mistake.

Landlord Berrit Barrelshaw hurried forward, red‑faced and flustered.

“Terribly sorry, Lady Amanderella,” he said, wringing his hands. “Word’s got out you’re here to solve the Beast problem. They’ve all come to… er… help.”

Amanderella looked around.

The room was packed. Every table, stool, and patch of wall was taken by villagers clutching mugs, plates, or each other. Several had brought props.

“I tried to stop them,” Berrit whispered. “But you know how folk get when there’s a mystery. Or a visitor.”

Amanderella inclined her head. “I understand.”

She didn’t, but she accepted it.

Berrit cleared a space at a table and brought her a bowl of stew. She had taken exactly one spoonful when the first villager approached.

Merkin Woddle, a shepherd with a beard long enough to tuck into his trousers, thumped a muddy walking stick onto her table.

“Claw marks!” he announced. “Huge ones! On a tree in Tuffort Stones valley. Beast must be twenty feet tall.”

“Twenty?” Amanderella asked.

“Minimum,” Merkin said. “Could be thirty. Hard to tell when you’re running.”

Across the room, Tommy — the landlord’s lanky fourteen‑year‑old son — went bright red and tried to hide behind a barstool. His guilt shone like a lantern.

Milly from the bakery rolled her eyes. “If he’d asked,” she muttered, “I’d have told him to use a chisel.”

Amanderella filed that away.

Next came Mrs Plover, clutching a basket.

“Found these on the Crags!” she declared, thrusting a pile of bedraggled feathers at Amanderella. “Proof the Beast is moulting.”

Amanderella examined them.

“Chicken,” she said gently.

Mrs Plover gasped. “You mean it’s eating chickens?”

“No,” Amanderella said. “I mean these are chickens.”

Mrs Plover sniffed. “Well, they weren’t my chickens.”

Old Dubard Coor, retired poacher and full‑time liar, limped forward.

“Saw its shadow,” he said. “Long as a hay wagon. Moved like a wolf. Or a goose. Or a wolf‑goose.”

“A wolf‑goose,” Amanderella repeated.

Dubard nodded. “Rare creature. Only seen by experts.”

Milly called from behind the bar, “It was the scarecrow, Dubard! The wind blew it sideways again!”

Dubard sniffed. “That’s what it wants you to think.”

The Reverend Thibble Bumper approached next, clutching a notebook titled On the Nature of Beasts, Literal and Metaphorical.

“I heard it roar,” he said gravely. “A terrible sound. Like judgement itself.”

“And what did it sound like?” Amanderella asked.

“Like a lion,” the Reverend said. “A very annoyed lion. Possibly with indigestion.”

One by one, villagers came with their stories. Amanderella listened politely until everyone had sat down again. Then she stood.

The room fell silent.

“Thank you,” she said calmly. “You have all been very helpful. I understand the Beast of Wittering Crags has caused fear, confusion, and laundry trouble.”

Mrs Plover waved proudly.

“I will investigate the Beast,” Amanderella said. “I will find out what it is, where it is, and why it is causing alarm. And I will do so carefully.”

The Reverend clasped his hands. “I knew you would.”

“But for now,” Amanderella added, “I need my lunch and a few minutes of quiet.”

The landlord reacted at once. He clapped his hands — not loudly, but firmly.

“Right then, ladies and gentlemen,” he said warmly. “Lady Amanderella has taken on the matter. But she’ll be needing her dinner in peace.”

He gently steered the nearest villagers toward the door.

“Off you go. Plenty of time later for roaring and feathers. Mind the step, Mrs Plover. Reverend, your notes. Merkin, take your stick before someone loses an eye.”

The villagers obeyed, murmuring apologies as they shuffled out. Even Old Dubard Coor, who normally needed a crowbar to leave a chair, was politely guided into the corridor.

Within moments the room was empty except for Amanderella, the landlord, and the faint smell of damp wool.

The landlord bowed. “There you are, my lady. Peace and quiet.”

“Thank you,” Amanderella said.

Outside, the last villagers drifted down the lane, still whispering about the Beast.

Amanderella finished her lunch and sat with a cup of excellent coffee. Tommy carried bottles from the cellar. Milly wiped down the bar.

Amanderella crooked a finger. “Tommy. Please sit.”

Tommy folded himself into a chair like a collapsing deckchair.

Milly appeared behind him, arms folded.

“He’s got something to tell you,” she said. “And if he doesn’t, I will.”

Tommy groaned into his sleeves.

Amanderella smiled gently. “No need to be nervous. You’re not in trouble.”

Tommy relaxed a little.

“And,” she added, “I’m not here to scold anyone about trees, knives, or artistic choices.”

“You’re not?” Tommy asked.

“No. I just want to understand what happened.”

Milly made a triumphant little sound.

“I think you heard something unusual,” Amanderella said. “Unusual things are less frightening when shared. Tell me from the beginning.”

Tommy took a deep breath.

“Well… it started with the tree. There are no trees up on the Crags, so we went to Tuffort Stones.”

“Tuffort Stones?” Amanderella asked.

Tommy nodded. “It’s a deep valley. Only place with trees. I wanted to carve my name and Milly’s on one.”

Milly sighed softly.

“A romantic gesture,” Amanderella said.

Tommy went scarlet. “My penknife was blunt. Proper blunt. And the bark was tough. So instead of a heart, it came out looking like… well…”

“Claw marks,” Amanderella said.

Tommy winced. “Aye.”

“If he’d asked,” Milly said, “I’d have told him to use a chisel.”

Amanderella hid a smile.

“You’re both safe,” she said. “Tree‑carving is not a crime. And it has caused less trouble than some of the other theories I’ve heard.”

Tommy exhaled shakily.

“But,” Amanderella said, “I suspect the carving isn’t the whole story.”

Tommy swallowed. “No, miss. It’s not. Because after I made the marks, I heard something.”

“What did you hear?” Amanderella asked.

“First a screech,” Tommy said. “Like a door scraping with grit under it. Horrible.”

Milly nodded. “I heard it too. I was picking bilberries.”

“And then,” Tommy said, “there was a roar. Like the lion at the zoo. Only louder.”

Amanderella made a note. “And after that?”

Tommy shivered.

“Someone shouted, ‘Who’s a naughty boy then?’ But it wasn’t close. It echoed all down the valley.”

“He ran all the way home,” Milly said. “Left me with the bilberries.”

Amanderella nodded. “You’ve both been very helpful.”

Tommy blinked. “Helpful?”

“Indeed,” Amanderella said. “Not everyone would admit to creating a Beast by accident.”

Tommy groaned. Milly patted his shoulder.

“How far away were you?” Amanderella asked.

“We were under the trees when it screeched,” Tommy said. “But at the other end of the valley when it spoke.”

“So it followed you?” Amanderella asked.

Milly shook her head. “I don’t think so. Tuffort Stones is odd. If you shout at one end, someone hears it at the other. No one knows why.”

“A natural echo chamber?” Amanderella asked.

“Maybe,” Milly said. “Or hollow. Or haunted.”

“Old Dubard Coor says the stones remember things,” Tommy added.

“Old Dubard Coor also says he wrestled a goose‑wolf,” Milly said.

Amanderella smiled.

“So the voice may not have been close at all — only carried.”

Tommy looked relieved. “Aye. That’s what I hoped.”

“I think,” Amanderella said, standing, “that I should visit Tuffort Stones myself.”

Tommy and Milly exchanged a worried glance.

“If you’re going up there,” Milly said, “go in daylight. And don’t whistle.”

“Whistling is dangerous?” Amanderella asked.

“Mr Lowl says it wakes the stones,” Tommy said.

“Mr Lowl says everything wakes the stones,” Milly muttered.

Amanderella smoothed her coat.

“Thank you both. You’ve been very helpful.”

Tommy brightened. Milly nodded proudly.

Amanderella headed for the door, her mind already arranging clues into neat lines.

Tuffort Stones awaited.

And with it, the next piece of the Beast.