Amanderella and the Mystery of Wittering Crags. Chapter 9.

Chapter Nine.

 

The Lecture.

 

Amanderella took a seat along the side wall. The hall wasn’t crowded, but it wasn’t empty either. About a dozen people had come — enough to make the place feel used rather than lonely.

Tommy Barrelshaw stood at the front, clutching a stack of printed programmes like a shield. His stiff white collar bothered him, and he kept shifting from foot to foot. Every time he caught Amanderella’s eye, he went pink and stared at his boots.

He handed a programme to Mrs Plover, who accepted it with a solemn nod. Old Dubard Coor blinked awake long enough to take one too. Even the teenagers at the back accepted theirs, though they immediately folded them into paper darts.

Tommy looked relieved.

On the stage, Lord Crankleboot adjusted the lantern apparatus with great care. He looked steadier than he had at Woldscar Hall — almost cheerful — as though even a small audience had given him courage. The caretaker stood by the light switches, ready to dim the lamps.

Amanderella folded her hands in her lap. The room felt quiet and expectant. Not excited, exactly, but ready to listen.

It was enough.

A moment later Crispinshaw Woldscar came in, closing the door carefully behind him. He paused, surveyed the room with hopeful eyes, then took a seat in the second row. He sat straight-backed, coat folded neatly over his knees, determined to be supportive no matter how few people had come.

Lord Crankleboot began in a steady voice. He spoke about his expedition — the weeks of searching, the moment he almost gave up. The audience listened politely.

He described the strange week of heavy rain, the flooded paths, the camp cut off by muddy water.

Amanderella watched him closely. He wasn’t boasting. He was simply telling the story as he remembered it.

“When it finally stopped,” he said, “the whole area was under water. My usual route was impassable. Then I remembered advice from a very clever member of our group. She said that when a search finds nothing, the fault is often in the method, not the landscape.”

He didn’t look directly at Amanderella, but his gaze passed near her seat. Crispinshaw certainly knew whom he meant.

A few people glanced her way.

Amanderella kept her expression neutral.

Lord Crankleboot continued, sounding more confident now.

“So I changed the way I looked,” he said. “I followed a new path and found myself wading through clear water until I reached a place where the stream was blocked by a wall of stones. A natural dam — or so I thought.”

He pointed to the lantern slide: a blurred stretch of water and a line of rocks.

“I saw the stones resting on the surface of the floodwater, bobbing like apples in a barrel. A remarkable sight.”

Amanderella watched him. He was proud — and rightly so — but he had not yet reached the important part.

“I broke open the dam,” he said, “and let the water escape. I collected the floating stones and packed them carefully.”

He drew a slow breath.

“Once I had the stones, there was nothing to do but wait for the boatman. The river was still swollen, and he couldn’t reach us for several days. We lived on what little food remained and kept the specimens dry.”

He gave a small smile.

“It wasn’t the triumphant end to an expedition one imagines in youth. But when the boatman finally arrived, he looked at the stones, nodded once, and said, ‘Worth the trouble, then.’ I took that as encouragement.”

A few people smiled. Even the teenagers stopped fidgeting.

Lord Crankleboot continued, voice steadier.

“The journey back to England was long, but I guarded the specimens carefully. I believed — and still believe — that they are unusual. Something not yet understood. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am here tonight.”

He stepped back from the lantern, hands clasped behind him. Not pompous — just hopeful.

The room gave warm applause. Crispinshaw clapped so hard his chair creaked.

The applause faded into the rustle of coats and murmurs. People drifted toward the doors in small groups, discussing the lecture in tones ranging from impressed to politely puzzled.

Mrs Plover announced she had “seen stranger things in her pantry,” which was not comforting.

Old Dubard Coor insisted the stones were “probably foreign,” which satisfied him if no one else.

Mr Jollop Crin lingered near the aisle, clutching his clipboard like a life jacket, wearing the expression of a man who had just realised he might need to rethink everything he knew about water.

Crispinshaw hovered protectively near his uncle, trying to look official while gathering lantern slides without dropping any.

Lord Crankleboot stood stiffly beside the projector table, moustache bristling with pride, nerves, and the faint hope that someone might congratulate him on something specific.

Amanderella waited until the last villagers had left and the caretaker had begun stacking chairs.

Then she approached.

Lord Crankleboot straightened at once, trying not to look too eager. His hands fluttered toward his notes, then away again.

“Lady Gottsnobbler,” he said, attempting dignity. “I trust the lecture was… tolerable?”

“It was very informative,” Amanderella said calmly.

He blinked, encouraged.

She continued, gently:

“Your stones didn’t just float, Lord Crankleboot. They filtered the water. The clear side of the dam wasn’t an accident.”

He stared at her.

For a moment he looked like a man who had been handed a puzzle, a birthday present, and a reprieve all at once.

“They… filtered it?” he repeated. “Filtered? But I— I never considered—”

“No,” Amanderella said. “You didn’t see it. But it was there.”

Crispinshaw froze mid‑slide‑stack.

Mr Jollop Crin made a small squeak.

Amanderella turned slightly toward him.

“There is a man at the reservoir,” she said, “who needs exactly that property.”

Mr Crin’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“You mean… me?”

Amanderella nodded. “Yes. You.”

Lord Crankleboot looked from her to Mr Crin, then back again, as though the world had suddenly made sense.

“You mean,” he said slowly, “my discovery… could be useful?”

“Very useful,” Amanderella said. “If you are willing to help.”

Lord Crankleboot straightened. His shoulders lifted. His moustache perked up. He looked suddenly like a man with purpose.

“I am willing,” he said firmly.

Mr Crin clutched his clipboard. “Oh, thank heavens. Someone who understands rocks. Proper rocks. Useful rocks. Not the sort that fall into the reservoir and cause trouble.”

Amanderella allowed herself a faint smile.

“Then I shall leave you to discuss it.”

Lord Crankleboot nodded, almost bowing.

Crispinshaw beamed.

Mr Crin looked close to tears of relief.

Amanderella closed her notebook and headed for the door.

She stepped out into the cool Cragglethwaite evening. Inside, Lord Crankleboot stood taller, Crispinshaw gathered slides with new energy, and Mr Crin clutched his clipboard as though salvation had arrived in the shape of a floating stone.

Inside the inn, the bar was empty except for Berrit Barrelshaw polishing glasses with great seriousness. He nodded to her. “I have a question, “she  said.

“Ask away,” said Mr Barrelshaw.

“I was told to expect to find lots of people with whippets, but so far I have not seen one.”

He shook his head. “And that you won’t. Not a lot of use up here. Sheep’d eat ‘em. Only dogs up here are black and white sheep dogs, collies.”

“That make sense,” said Amanderella.

Mr Barrelshaw nodded.

She nodded back and climbed the stairs to her room.

She lit the lamp, set her hat on the dresser, and opened her notebook.

For a moment she simply sat, pencil poised, gathering the threads of the day.

Then she wrote:

Lord Crankleboot’s lecture: disorganised but sincere. Stones floated and filtered water.

Mr Jollop Crin: anxious but hopeful. Reservoir problems may be solvable.

Villagers: alarmed but easily influenced.

Beast rumours: persistent, inconsistent, increasingly dramatic.

Parrot theory: strengthened.

She paused, tapping her pencil.

Mrs Gaffletter would want the whole story. Every detail. Every absurd moment. Amanderella could already hear her voice:

“Floating rocks! Humming stones! And now a Beast with opinions! And no place for whippets.”

Amanderella smiled.

She turned to a fresh page and wrote at the top:

Notes for Mrs Gaffletter — to be delivered upon return.

She wrote until the lamp burned low.

When she finally closed the notebook, the Crags were silent outside her window.