Amanderella and the Ppockingstull Treasure Chapter 12

Chapter  12.

 

The Twist in the tail.

 

Amanderella didn't move immediately; she stood in the centre of their discovered points, her mind stitching the geography together.

Maudline looked dizzy, her head swivelling from the stables to the distant woods. "It’s a very big square, Amanderella. My legs feel as though they’ve walked a pentagon, at the very least. What do we do now? Do we dig? Do we poke something? Do we wait for another shadow?”

Amanderella shook her head, already reaching into her satchel. She pulled out the vellum and unrolled it across her knee.

“Look,” she said, tapping the tiny diagram at the top. “Sir Barnabull drew a square. Each clue marks a corner. North. West. South. And this blank side—”

“—is the one we finish!” Maudline cried, delighted. “We join the corners!”

“Exactly,” Amanderella said. “We draw the lines between the points we’ve found. Where they cross in the centre… that’s where the treasure lies.”

Maudline’s eyes widened. “Oh! That’s wonderfully mathematical.”

Amanderella smiled. “Sir Barnabull was many things. Untidy, eccentric, fond of riddles… but above all, precise.”

She knelt one last time, smoothing her map over a relatively flat mounting block. With a steady hand, she took her pencil and drew four crisp lines, connecting the tiny symbols she had marked throughout the afternoon. The lead scratched purposefully against the paper.

"If the geometry holds," Amanderella murmured, "the lines should intersect exactly... here."

She pressed the pencil point down firmly. The mark landed in a blank space on the map—a patch of land that appeared to be nothing more than a dense, overgrown thicket situated right in the heart of the estate's wilderness.

"The Wilderness Garden," Maudline whispered, recognizing the spot. “No one’s been in there for years. Father says it’s where plants go when they want to be left alone.”

Amanderella folded the map with a snap. “Then it’s the perfect place to hide something.”

Maudline shivered, though the air was still warm. “Do we have time? The light’s going.”

Amanderella glanced at the sky. The sun was low, but not lost. The shadows were long, but not yet merging. “Enough,” she said. “If we hurry.”

They set off at once, slipping back into the hollow way, the earth cool beneath their boots. The Wilderness Garden loomed ahead, a tangle of hawthorn, bramble, and ancient yews that knitted the air into green dusk even at midday.

By the time they reached the thicket, the sun was brushing the tops of the trees with its last gold.

Amanderella pushed aside a curtain of ivy. “Here,” she said. “The centre of the square should be just beyond this.”

Maudline peered nervously into the gloom. “It looks… very wild.”

“Good,” Amanderella murmured. “Wild places keep secrets.”

They stepped through.

The ground dipped slightly, forming a natural bowl. In the centre, half‑buried beneath leaf mould and nettles, was a patch of earth that looked just a little too smooth, a little too settled.

Amanderella knelt. “This is it.”

Maudline hovered anxiously. “Do we dig?”

Amanderella’s trowel was already in her hand.

The soil gave easily, as though someone had disturbed it long ago. Within minutes, metal scraped against wood.

“A chest!” Maudline squeaked.

Together they cleared the earth away. The small oak chest emerged, its iron bands rusted but intact. Amanderella eased the clasp open.

The lid creaked.

Inside lay nothing but a single folded piece of parchment.

Maudline’s face fell. “Oh… that’s disappointing.”

Amanderella lifted the note. The handwriting was unmistakable.

“My apologies.
The treasure is gone.
I gave it to the King’s army when the realm was in peril.
Forgive me.
— Sir Barnabull Ppockingstull.”

Maudline sagged. “After all that…”

Amanderella folded the note carefully. “He left us the story,” she said. “And the puzzle. And the adventure.”

Maudline sniffed. “I suppose that’s something.”

Amanderella stood, brushing soil from her knees. “Come on. We should head back before the light goes.”

Amanderella folded the note and slipped it into her satchel. The chest lay open at their feet, hollow as a sigh. Maudline stared at it for a long moment, her shoulders drooping like a wilted foxglove.

“Well,” she said at last, her voice wobbling, “that’s that, then.”

Amanderella looked up. “Maudline,”

“No, it’s all right,” Maudline said quickly, though her hat had slumped sideways in a way that suggested it was not all right. “I suppose I should have expected it. Nothing ever quite works out at Sillingwold Lodge.”

She took a shaky breath.

“And now… well… I suppose I shall have to accept Lord Mangerasand Ashbottle’s proposal after all.”

Amanderella blinked. “Proposal?”

Maudline nodded miserably. “It is the only way to save the Lodge from total ruin. Lord Ashbottle has money. And opinions. Mostly about himself. But he’s very keen on the idea of marrying into a ‘historic estate’, even if the estate is falling down faster than the stables.”

Amanderella’s expression sharpened. “Do you want to marry him?”

“Good heavens, no,” Maudline said, horrified. “He smells of pomade and boiled eggs. And even worse I would have to give up teaching. Married women are not allowed to teach, you know. But if there’s no treasure… if there’s nothing left… then what choice do I have?”

Amanderella opened her mouth, then closed it again. She looked down at the empty chest, then at the fading light, then at Maudline’s small, crumpled face.

“Back to the house,” she said. “We will think of something.

The trek back was achieved in silence. Even the birds seemed to have decided it was best not to intrude. Maudline led the way along the dusty old corridors to the kitchen, her boots scuffing the flagstones in a defeated sort of rhythm.

“At least I can offer you something to eat,” she said, trying for brightness and missing by a mile.

Amanderella nodded. “That would be nice. And perhaps a cup of tea?”

Maudline managed a small smile. “We can always manage tea. Even if the roof falls in.”

She set about filling the kettle, her movements automatic, the way people move when they’re trying not to think too hard.

Amanderella slipped into a chair at the scrubbed table, watching her friend with quiet concern.

Maudline reached for the teapot, and paused, her hand hovering. “You know,” she said softly, “I always thought Sir Barnabull would leave something. Something real. Something that would save us.”

Amanderella didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The disappointment hung in the air like steam that refused to rise.

Maudline set the kettle on the hob with a clatter that suggested it had personally offended her. Then, with a flash of her old spark, the one that usually appeared when someone suggested she couldn’t do something, she straightened her hat and declared: “I fancy a great big piece of my fruit cake.”

Amanderella blinked. “Fruit cake?”

“Yes,” Maudline said firmly. “When the world is falling apart, fruit cake is the only sensible response.”

She marched out of the kitchen and into the still room, muttering something about currants, destiny, and the utter uselessness of men who smelled of boiled eggs.

A moment later, her voice floated back: “Oh! I’d forgotten I left this in here.”

She reappeared, not with the fruit cake, but with the garment from the hidden room draped over her arm, the embroidered waistcoat in which the map had been wrapped.

“At least the old—” she paused, searching for a ladylike insult, “—the old nuisance left me something. Even if it is only an old fancy waistcoat.”

Maudline tossed the waistcoat onto the kitchen table with a mixture of disdain and resignation and went back into the still room, where she could be heard hacking away at the fruit cake and muttering to herself about currants, calamity, and the utter unfairness of life.

The waistcoat landed with a soft thud.

Amanderella’s head lifted.

Waistcoats were not supposed to thud.

She reached across the table and picked it up. It was far heavier than it ought to be, far heavier than anything made of cloth and thread had any right to be. She turned it over in her hands, studying the line of large buttons down the front. There were similar but smaller ones on the pockets, of which there were four: one on either side at the waist, and one on either side of the chest.

She unfastened one of the pockets and felt inside. It was empty. The other three were also empty.

As she closed the last pocket, her thumb brushed the button. A smear of dust came away, revealing a bright, unmistakable golden sheen beneath.

Amanderella froze.

She rubbed the button again, harder this time. The gold shone through, warm and rich, catching the lamplight like a trapped sunbeam.

She drew in a slow breath.

Amanderella rubbed the button again, even harder this time. The golden sheen brightened, but she still wasn’t satisfied. She slipped a fingernail beneath the edge and scraped gently. A tiny curl of dust and tarnish flaked away, revealing a clean, rich glow beneath.

She frowned thoughtfully.

That wasn’t enough.

She crossed to the sink, turned the tap to a thin trickle, and held the waistcoat under it. The water washed away another layer of grime. The button gleamed back at her, warm and unmistakably yellow.

Still not enough.

Amanderella reached for the small paring knife that lived beside the breadboard. She tapped the blade lightly against the button. The sound was soft, dense, and heavy, not the thin clink of brass, but the muted tunk of something far more valuable.

She nodded once.

That was conclusive.

She lifted the waistcoat again, weighing it in her hands. The heft made perfect sense now. She turned it over, examining the smaller buttons on the pockets. Each one showed the same dull coating of age… and the same promise beneath.

Amanderella took a clean corner of the tea towel and polished one of the pocket buttons. The gold shone through instantly, bright as a sunrise.

She drew in a slow, steady breath.

Then she looked at the embroidery, the tiny beads stitched in swirling patterns. She touched one with the tip of her finger. Smooth. Cool. Perfectly round.

She pressed it lightly against her teeth, the way jewellers did.

Hard. Gritty. Real.

Pearls.

Dozens of them.

She set the waistcoat down very carefully on the table, as though it were a sleeping animal that might wake if jostled.

Only then did she call, in a voice that was calm but carrying a new, unmistakable brightness:

“Maudline… you may want to come and see this.”

From the still room came the sound of a knife clattering onto a plate. “What now?” Maudline called back, her tone thick with fruit cake and despair.

Maudline reappeared in the doorway, a substantial wedge of dark, crumbly cake in one hand and a look of profound scepticism on her face. A stray currant was perched precariously on her lower lip.

"If it's a spider, I'm not in the mood," she warned, taking a defiant bite. "And if it's another note from Sir Barnabull apologizing for being a spendthrift—"

She stopped. Her gaze fell upon the waistcoat.

In the warm, low light of the kitchen, the garment no longer looked like a discarded relic. Where Amanderella had scoured the buttons, several miniature suns seemed to have ignited against the dark fabric. The damp patch from the tap had deepened the velvet’s hue, making the crust of embroidery, the hundreds of tiny, gritty spheres, glow with a soft, milky luminescence.

"Amanderella," Maudline said, her voice dropping the fruit cake's defensive crust. "Why is the waistcoat  shining at me?"

Amanderella picked up the paring knife and, with the steady hand of a surgeon, gave the largest button a firm, ringing tap. Tunk.

"Sir Barnabull didn't give all the treasure to the King, Maudline," Amanderella said, her eyes bright with a rare, mischievous spark. "He was the treasure. Or rather, he wore it."

Maudline stepped closer, the cake forgotten in her hand. "He... he walked around in it? Like a human piggy bank?"

"It’s the most brilliant hiding place in the world," Amanderella whispered, lifting the heavy cloth so Maudline could feel the weight. "Who looks twice at an old man's fancy dress? Especially when it's been 'tarnished' to look like cheap brass and glass. These aren't buttons, Maudline. They’re solid gold sovereigns cast into shapes. And these 'beads'..." She ran a finger over the swirling patterns. "These are seed pearls. Hundreds of them."

Maudline reached out, her trembling fingers touching a golden button. She rubbed it, and the last of the grime vanished, revealing the unmistakable, heavy richness of high-carat gold.

"The Lodge," Maudline breathed, the word coming out as a tiny puff of air. "The roof... the school... the stables..."

"And no Lord Ashbottle," Amanderella added firmly. "Unless, of course, you’ve developed a sudden, inexplicable fondness for the smell of boiled eggs."

Maudline let out a sound that was half-laugh and half-sob. She looked at the waistcoat, then at the half-eaten fruit cake, and finally at Amanderella. With a sudden, impulsive movement, she threw her arms around her friend, nearly squashing the cake against Amanderella’s sensible woollen shoulder.

"Oh, Amanderella! You’ve found the treasure, not the Ppockingstull, but the one that lets us stay!"

Amanderella patted Maudline’s back, her boots giving a muffled, satisfied squeak against the kitchen flags.

"I believe," Amanderella said, gently disengaging herself and eyeing the cake, "that this calls for a fresh pot of tea. And perhaps a very large slice of that destiny-changing fruit cake."