Amanderella and the Mystery of Wittering Crags.Chapter 2.

Chapter Two.

 

Up North.

 

The morning settled into its usual rhythm at No. 9 Wimple Terrace: the clink of cups, the rumble of milk carts outside, and Mrs Gaffletter muttering in the scullery about journalists who ought to be sent off to sweep chimneys instead.

Amanderella finished her breakfast as calmly as someone who had lived through much worse than marmalade trouble. She stood up and reached for the newspaper again, unfolding it with care.

Mrs Gaffletter came in to collect the dishes. She watched Amanderella like a hawk keeping an eye on something very important.

“Well?” she demanded. “If you’re going to that lecture, you’d better find out where the man is speaking next. Heaven help us if he’s anywhere near London again.”

Amanderella checked the bottom of the article.

There, squeezed between an advert for fancy corsets and a notice about a missing budgie, was the information she needed.

“Ah,” she murmured.

Mrs Gaffletter stiffened. “What does ‘ah’ mean?”

“It means,” said Amanderella, tapping the line, “that Lord Crankleboot’s next lecture is in Cragglethwaite.”

“Where on earth is that?” asked Mrs Gaffletter.

“We need a road atlas,” said Amanderella. “I have one in my car.”

Mrs Gaffletter sniffed, as though she’d just smelled something suspicious.

“That thing,” she said, “is not a car, Lady Gottsnobbler. It’s a noisy show‑off machine. I’m amazed the neighbours haven’t complained about it lowering the tone of the street.”

“It is a perfectly respectable Sunbeam,” Amanderella said.

“Respectable?” Mrs Gaffletter barked. “It has no roof! A lady should not be seen in an open car like that. People can look straight in. From all directions. It’s practically showing yourself off to the whole street.”

Amanderella opened her mouth to reply, but Mrs Gaffletter was only getting started.

“And those leather straps across the bonnet! Anything with straps belongs in a stable, not outside my house. The milkman nearly dropped his bottles the first time he saw it.”

Amanderella sighed. “Shall I fetch the atlas?”

“You may,” Mrs Gaffletter said, looking as though she was allowing something she didn’t quite approve of. “But do try not to startle the street. Or the chimney pots. Or the vicar.”

Amanderella soon returned with the atlas. She flipped to the index.

“Let’s see… Cramlington… Crumblethorpe… Crinklebottom… Ah. Crag—no, that’s Cragwash. Cragwash‑on‑the‑Mire. Not the same. Here it is. Page 147.”

She turned the pages and scanned the map. “There,” she said, pointing. Squeezed between a reservoir shaped like a teapot and a wiggly contour line that looked like someone drew it during an earthquake was a tiny dot labelled: Cragglethwaite.

Mrs Gaffletter peered at it. “That looks a long way from anywhere,” she said.

Amanderella had also brought out a thick, leather‑bound book stamped:

THE AUTOMOBILE ASSOCIATION ROAD BOOK

1911 EDITION

Mrs Gaffletter eyed it. “What’s that?”

“A manual for motorists,” Amanderella said. “It lists towns, road conditions, and facilities.”

“Facilities? In the north?” Mrs Gaffletter sniffed. “That’ll be something to see.”

Amanderella opened the book to the G section.

“Cragglethwaite,” she read aloud.

“‘Market town on the Wittering Crags. Noted for steep roads, fresh air, and weekly livestock market. Motorists advised to approach from the south; northern road too steep for heavy vehicles. Town Hall available for meetings. Refreshments obtainable.’”

Mrs Gaffletter blinked.

“Refreshments obtainable? That’s more than I expected.”

Amanderella continued.

“‘People there work hard. Brass band active. Weather variable.’”

Mrs Gaffletter nodded firmly.

“I knew there’d be a brass band. And the weather. They always say ‘variable’ when they mean ‘hostile’.”

Amanderella closed the book.

“Well, at least we know it’s a proper town. With a Town Hall. And refreshments.”

Mrs Gaffletter folded her arms.

“Good. You’ll need refreshments. And a stout coat. And possibly a rope, if the roads are steep.”

Amanderella smiled.

“I’ll pack accordingly.”

She tapped the AA Road Book thoughtfully.

“Well, now we know what Cragglethwaite is like. A market town. A Town Hall. A brass band. And steep roads.”

Mrs Gaffletter sniffed.

“Steep roads? That means twisted ankles and runaway prams. And probably goats.”

Amanderella smiled faintly.

“It also means I must decide whether to go by train… or by motor.”

Mrs Gaffletter stiffened.

“Motor? You can’t possibly drive that open‑topped contraption all the way to Wittering Crags. You’ll be seen. By people. In daylight.”

Amanderella ignored this.

“It seems odd that Lord Crankleboot would give a lecture on Floating Rocks in such a far‑off place. I would have thought he’d choose a big city.”

She set the book down and thought for a moment.

“The train,” she said, “would require three changes. One at Manchester. One at Lower Grimp. And one at a place simply called ‘Request Stop No. 3’.”

Mrs Gaffletter shuddered.

“Nothing good ever happens at a place with a number instead of a name. That’s where people vanish. Or where sandwiches go stale.”

Amanderella continued calmly.

“Or I could take the Sunbeam. The southern road is recommended for motorists. And it would let me stop at Gottsnobbler Hall on the way.”

Mrs Gaffletter froze.

“Gottsnobbler Hall? Your family’s estate?”

Amanderella nodded.

“It’s on the route north.”

Mrs Gaffletter’s expression flickered through suspicion, pride, alarm, and something like excitement before settling on stern practicality.

“Well,” she said, “if you’re stopping at the Hall, you’ll need to look respectable. You can’t go roaring up the drive in that convertible menace with your hair flying about like a dandelion in a gale.”

“I always look respectable,” Amanderella said.

“Not in that car you don’t. It makes everyone look like they’re fleeing a scandal.”

Amanderella folded her hands.

“I think I shall drive.”

Mrs Gaffletter threw her arms up.

“Of course you shall. Why take the safe, sensible train when you can strap yourself into a leather‑bound wind tunnel and zoom across the countryside?”

Amanderella opened the AA Road Book again.

“It says here,” she read, “‘Motorists should be careful on the final hill. Sheep may wander. Weather may change suddenly. Horn suggested.’”

Mrs Gaffletter narrowed her eyes.

“Horn suggested? That means the sheep attack.”

“They do not attack.”

“They do,” Mrs Gaffletter insisted. “I’ve seen northern sheep. They look at you like they’re thinking up a plan.”

Amanderella closed the book with a snap.

“Then it’s settled. I shall take the Sunbeam.”

Mrs Gaffletter stared at her.

“You’re determined to give me palpitations.”

“I shall drive carefully,” Amanderella said.

“You always say that,” Mrs Gaffletter muttered, “and then you come home with insects in your hat.”

She leaned closer, lowering her voice.

“And so far up north… it’s almost in Scotland.”

“Scotland is very pleasant,” Amanderella said.

“I’ve nothing against Scotland,” Mrs Gaffletter sniffed. “Fine place. Excellent shortbread. But once you get near the border, the weather starts making decisions of its own. And the hills act like they have ideas. And the roads—” she shuddered “—the roads start going up.”

She let out a long, gloomy breath.

“Well then,” she said, “you’d best prepare yourself. They’re different up there.”

Amanderella raised an eyebrow.

“Different how?”

Mrs Gaffletter lowered her voice.

“Flat caps,” she said gravely. “Everywhere. You see flat caps everywhere. And whippets. Whole groups of them, running about like sheep without any wool.”

Amanderella tried not to smile.

“I’m sure it’s not quite—”

“And pies,” Mrs Gaffletter went on. “They eat pies for breakfast. Breakfast, Lady Gottsnobbler. And they call everyone ‘love’. And the weather comes at you sideways.”

Amanderella nodded politely, though she suspected Mrs Gaffletter’s knowledge of the north came mostly from railway gossip and one holiday in Scarborough.

“And brass bands!” Mrs Gaffletter added. “They just appear. Out of nowhere.” She mimed a trombone. “Oompah oompah oompah.”

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” Amanderella said.

“Well, you’re braver than I am,” Mrs Gaffletter huffed. “If I had to go that far north, I’d take a lantern, a stout stick, and a translator.”

“A translator?”

“For the dialect,” Mrs Gaffletter said darkly. “They drop half their vowels up there. Sometimes whole sentences go missing.”

Amanderella smiled.

“I’ll listen carefully.”

Mrs Gaffletter folded her arms, looking like someone who had warned a traveller about dragons.

“Well then,” she said briskly, “you’d better pack something warm. And sensible shoes. And perhaps something small and sturdy.”

“A sturdy thing?”

“You never know with floating rocks,” Mrs Gaffletter said. “Or with northerners.”

“I shall leave after luncheon,” Amanderella said. “If the roads are clear, I can reach Gottsnobbler Hall before dusk.”

Mrs Gaffletter’s eyes widened.

“Today? You’re going today?”

“It is the sensible thing to do. The lecture is on Saturday afternoon, and today is Tuesday. That gives me time to look around.”

Mrs Gaffletter made a noise like a kettle about to boil.

“Sensible? Driving fifty miles in that open‑topped contraption? Through the countryside? With the wind? And the insects? And the public?”

Amanderella rose, smoothing her skirt.

“It is only fifty miles.”

“Only fifty miles,” Mrs Gaffletter repeated, in the tone of someone quoting a doomed explorer’s last words. “Fifty miles is practically a big adventure. You’ll need sandwiches. And a flask. And a blanket. And your tool kit.”

“I always take my tool kit,” Amanderella said gently.