Amanderella and the Ppockingstull Treasure Chapter 1

                 Chapter 1.

 

             A Letter from Mother.

 

Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler, the famous explorer, discoverer of the fabled whistling blue monkeys somewhere up the Amazon, collector of the fruit of the Bangolin tree, and solver of the mystery of Cudwick‑under‑the‑Moors, was in between lectures. Her lodgings were at number 9 Wimple Terrace, a quiet street in a quiet part of the capital. The house was owned by Mrs Gaffletter, a very respectable lady whose boarding house ran on four principles: clean floors, clean consciences, clean lodgers, and no gentlemen callers. Amanderella approved of all four.

Mrs Gaffletter had just delivered a letter, remarking that as it was vaguely scented with rose water, it must be from Amanderella’s mother.

Amanderella sighed and accepted the proffered envelope. “Thank you. It certainly smells like my mother’s favourite perfume. I wonder what she wants this time.”

Mrs Gaffletter sniffed. “If it is anything like the last letter you had, then I feel I ought to remind you about the rule concerning gentlemen callers. That Tarpduk Beeschecker she sent to call on you while you were away dealing with the business on the Moors was persistent, to say the least.”

“I am sorry,” said Amanderella. “I do tell her that I am not interested, but my parents still believe I should settle down and get married.”

“Parents can be a problem at times,” agreed Mrs Gaffletter.

“I shall write to my mother again,” promised Amanderella, “but you know what she is like.”

Mrs Gaffletter closed the door, leaving Amanderella alone with her mother’s letter.

My dearest Amanderella,

I trust this letter finds you well, though I fear the weather here has been quite impossible. Yesterday brought a drizzle so persistent that even the ducks looked discouraged, and today the wind has been rattling the shutters in a most alarming fashion.

Mrs Pottle from the village insists it is a sign that the spring will be early, though I cannot agree. She has also taken to wearing that dreadful mauve bonnet again, which I mention only because it caused quite a stir at the market.

The church roof, I regret to say, is still leaking. The vicar assures us that the matter is in hand, but I have my doubts. The buckets placed beneath the rafters are multiplying at an alarming rate, and Mrs Twingles has begun labelling them according to the saints.

All this aside, I must turn to a matter of the heart. You will remember, I am sure, an old connection of ours, someone whose presence once brought such warmth and promise to the household. Recent events have reminded me that there are treasures beyond price in this world, and some of them must be handled with the greatest care before they slip away altogether.

I trust you will consider this with the seriousness it deserves.

Amanderella lowered the pages with a groan. Phrases like “a matter of the heart”, “an old connection”, and “a treasure beyond price” could only mean one thing. Her boots gave an embarrassed squeak every time she reread them, as if they too feared her mother was hinting at a suitor.

She tapped the letter against her chin and tried to remember which gentlemen had been mentioned on her last visit home. Filbert Soule was one. He had only a single asset, his family name. The Soules were well known and highly respected, but unfortunately they possessed no actual assets at all. That hardly recommended him.

Then there was Landling Plumpboy, whom Amanderella remembered from childhood as being too timid to walk down the garden in case spiders dangled from the trees. He would never do.

“An old connection” could perhaps mean Cousin Bartlegent. She shook her head at the very thought of him. No. Absolutely not.

Try as she might, she could not bring to mind any other likely candidates. The more she stared at the looping rose‑scented handwriting, the more certain she became that her mother was up to her old tricks again. Amanderella let out a long, patient sigh. There was only one sensible course of action.

She would have to go home and have a strict talk with her parents. Again.

She packed her overnight bag and told Mrs. Gaffletter of her plans. “I will deal with my Mother firmly,” she said.

She zoomed down the valley, her scarf streaming behind her like a pennant. The villagers stopped in their tracks. Once again her passage caused a great deal of excitement in the village.

“Mercy me,” muttered the village postman, nearly dropping the letters he was carrying, “she’s back on that contraption.”

The chimney sweep paused at the top of his ladder, his soot‑stained face making him look like a startled owl. “Stone me,” he wheezed, almost losing his bundle of brushes. “It’s a motorised chariot of the devil.”

Mr Grimbald, the church warden, was polishing the brass plates on the gate. He buffed a spot so hard he nearly rubbed through the metal. “Disgraceful,” he huffed, though his eyes followed the spinning chrome with traitorous curiosity. “A lady shouldn’t have her ankles so near a combustion engine.”

Miss Thistel‑Thwaite, the schoolteacher, was escorting her brood of children by the well. She instinctively raised her wooden pointer like a sword. “Eyes front, children! Do not look at the mechanical hoyden! It is a triumph of engineering, but a catastrophe of etiquette!”

The blacksmith leaned out of his forge, wiping his hands on his apron. “Whatever it is,” he said, “it’s heading straight for Gottsnobbler Hall, like a runaway knitting needle.”

Amanderella raised a polite hand to each of them as she passed, as if arriving on a motorbike were the most ordinary thing in the world.

By the time she reached Gottsnobbler Hall, the news had outrun her by a full minute.

Her parents were waiting on the front steps, pale with resignation. They had, after all, lived through the Amazon expedition and the Moors incident, but motorcycling still took some getting used to.

Her mother pressed a hand to her forehead. “Amanderella, dear… must you always arrive in such a manner?”

Her father sighed. “The gardener fainted. Again.”

Amanderella removed her goggles. “It was perfectly safe. And considerably faster than the omnibus.”

Her mother wobbled but did not swoon. “Yes, yes, I’m sure. But the village is in a state. Mrs Twingles has already started a petition.”

Her father muttered, “And the vicar has asked whether we should sprinkle the drive with holy water.”

Amanderella stepped past them with the calm dignity of a woman who had expected all this. “I’m here to talk about your letter.”

That stopped them both.

Her mother blinked. “My… letter?”

Amanderella stood in the drawing room, her back as straight as a ruler and her tall hat adding a further six inches of unimpeachable authority. Across from her sat her mother, huddled in three layers of knitted shawls and clutching a damp lace handkerchief.

“You will catch your death, Amanderella,” her mother wheezed, punctuated by a thin, watery sneeze. “I told you before you left,”

Amanderella held up the letter. “This time, Mother, we are going to talk about this.”

Her mother’s eyes widened. Her father coughed. Somewhere in the hallway, a floorboard creaked as if the house itself were bracing for what came