Amanderella and the Ppockingstull Treasure Chapter 5

Chapter 5.

 

Reason for the visit.

 

Lord Gottsnobbler edged a little closer to the fireplace, eyeing the wicker basket as though it might sprout legs.

“Amanderella,” he whispered, “is it… alive?”

Before she could answer, Maudline leaned forward, seized the basket by both handles, and heaved it onto her lap with the confidence of a woman accustomed to lifting tree trunks.

“Supplies!” she announced triumphantly.

The lid creaked open. Amanderella’s mother braced herself.

Inside was a tin,, a large, dented, battleship‑grey tin,, which Maudline lifted with both hands and a grunt of effort. It landed on the parlour table with a thud so deep it rattled the teaspoons.

She prised off the lid.

Amanderella’s father blinked. “Is that… coal?”

Maudline beamed. “Fruitcake!”

The contents were indeed fruitcake,, incredibly dense, incredibly dark fruitcake, packed so tightly it could likely have been used as a structural building material. It glistened faintly, as though daring anyone to attempt slicing it.

“Sustenance,” Maudline declared proudly. “One cannot ride a cycle across country on an empty stomach.”

Amanderella’s mother stared at the slab. “My word. It looks… hearty.”

“It is,” Maudline agreed. “Lasts for months. Possibly years. I made it myself.”

Amanderella leaned in. “Is it meant to smell like… old library books?”

Maudline nodded. “That’ll be the nutmeg.”

Behind her, the faux fox slid another inch down the banister, as if trying to escape the aroma.

Amanderella slipped away to the kitchen, returning moments later with a tray of mismatched crockery,, a chipped blue teacup, a floral saucer that didn’t match anything, and a mug bearing the faded slogan “Best Wishes From Bognor Regis”. The teapot itself was sound, though its spout had a worrying lean.

She poured with the steady hand of someone accustomed to compensating for household eccentricities.

“Tea,” she announced, setting the tray on the low table. “And… fruitcake.”

Maudline perked up at once. “Excellent! A proper refreshment.”

Amanderella’s father eyed the dense, dark slab with the wary respect one might give a geological sample. “Do we… slice it?”

Maudline laughed. “Slice it? Good heavens, no. You chip it.”

She produced, from some mysterious pocket in her tweed, a small folding penknife. With a practised flick, she carved off a corner. The knife blade bent slightly.

Amanderella’s mother gasped. “Oh my.”

Maudline handed the fragment to her with cheerful confidence. “Try it, Aunt. Puts hair on your elbows.”

Mrs Gottsnobbler paled. “I… don’t believe I require any.”

Amanderella, ever the diplomat, took the piece instead. She tapped it experimentally against the saucer. It made a sound like a distant church bell.

She took a cautious bite.

Her boots gave a startled squeak.

“Well?” Maudline demanded, beaming.

Amanderella chewed. And chewed. And continued chewing. “It’s… substantial.”

“Exactly!” Maudline declared. “A food and a building material in one. Very efficient.”

Lord Gottsnobbler attempted his own piece. The moment it touched his teeth, he froze, eyes widening. Amanderella discreetly passed him the teapot.

“Swallow with tea, Father.”

He nodded, grateful, and washed it down with a heroic gulp.

Meanwhile, the faux‑fox scarf slid another inch down the banister, as if trying to escape the aroma.

Maudline clapped her hands. “Splendid! Now that we’re all fortified, I can explain why I need Amanderella’s help.

Amanderella’s mother whispered to her husband, “Fortified is certainly the word.”

Maudline leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees with the air of someone about to deliver a history lesson at full marching‑band volume.

“It all began,” she declared, “during the time of Cromwell’s Roundheads.”

Amanderella’s father straightened at once. Mrs Gottsnobbler clutched her teacup. Even the faux fox seemed to pause mid‑slide.

“Sillingwold Lodge,” Maudline continued, “was in grave danger of being attacked. The Roundheads were marching across the county, knocking on doors, confiscating valuables, and generally behaving like a pack of over‑zealous prefects.”

She thumped the table for emphasis. The teaspoons jumped.

“So, Sir Barnabull Ppockingstull, my Cavalier ancestor, took action. He gathered up the family jewels, every last one, including the Ppockingstull Punchbowl.”

Amanderella frowned. “Punchbowl?”

“Solid gold,” Maudline said proudly. “Encrusted with rubies the size of walnuts. According to legend, it could hold three gallons of fortified ale without spilling a drop. A magnificent object. Practically a national treasure. And far too tempting for Cromwell’s lot.”

She paused to take a heroic bite of fruitcake, which made a noise like a mallet striking a fence post.

“So, Sir Barnabull buried the lot somewhere on the estate grounds. Deep. Cleverly. Secretly. Then he rode off to fight for the Cavaliers.”

Amanderella’s mother sighed. “And he never returned.”

“No,” Maudline agreed, though her tone suggested she approved of the dramatic flourish. “He fell in battle. But! He left behind a set of cryptic clues, riddles, sketches, coded notes, all pointing to the treasure’s hiding place.”

She sat back, eyes gleaming.

“He also left behind a wife and an infant son, so the family line continued. But the treasure? Never found. Not once. Not in all these centuries.”

Amanderella exchanged a glance with her parents. “And you think you’ve found something?”

Maudline grinned, broad and unstoppable. “I don’t think. I know.”

She reached into the basket and withdrew a tightly rolled parchment tied with string.

“Behold,” she said, with the solemnity of a general unveiling battle plans, “Sir Barnabull’s map.”

Maudline tapped the rolled parchment with a finger that still bore traces of bicycle grease.

“Now then,” she said, warming to her tale, “despite centuries of searching, and I do mean centuries,  the treasure has never been found. Not by my great‑grandfather, not by my grandfather, not by my father, and certainly not by Cousin Archibald, who once dug up half the rose garden and unearthed nothing but a very cross mole.”

Amanderella’s father nodded sympathetically. “Moles can be quite territorial.”

“Quite,” Maudline agreed. “But the point is, the treasure remains hidden. Sir Barnabull’s clues are devilishly cryptic. Riddles, sketches, coded notes… all very poetic, but not remotely helpful when one is knee‑deep in mud with a spade.”

She leaned back, the chair springs groaning in protest.

“And now,” she continued, her voice dropping to a dramatic hush, “Sillingwold Lodge is in desperate need of renovation. The roof leaks. The west wing lists to the left. The conservatory has developed a worrying tendency to sigh in high winds. And the boiler…” She shuddered. “The boiler makes noises that suggest it is plotting something.”

Amanderella’s mother pressed a hand to her chest. “Oh, my dear.”

“So, you see,” Maudline said, spreading her hands, “the treasure must be found. The Ppockingstull Punchbowl alone would pay for a new roof. The rubies could fund repairs to the stables. And the rest, well! We might even be able to re‑gravel the drive.”

Amanderella exchanged a glance with her parents. “And you think this map will help?”

Maudline’s eyes gleamed. “I don’t think. I know.

The faux fox slid off the banister with a soft plop, as if fainting from suspense.

Maudline unrolled the parchment with a flourish, flattening it against the table with the weight of her fruitcake tin. The map crackled ominously.

“Now,” she said, tapping the faded ink, “here’s the real problem. Sir Barnabull’s clues are perfectly clear, if you happen to be living in the seventeenth century.”

Amanderella leaned in. “Meaning…?”

“Meaning,” Maudline declared, “that nothing on a modern map matches anything on the estate any more. Not a thing. Not a hedge, not a tree, not a wall, not even the blasted duck pond.”

Lord Gottsnobbler frowned. “Surely some features remain?”

Maudline shook her head with the solemnity of a woman delivering bad news about a boiler. “The Roundheads never came, but storms did. And fires. And enthusiastic gardeners. And one particularly destructive flock of sheep in 1842. The entire landscape has shifted. The orchard moved. The ha‑ha was filled in. The east lawn became the west lawn after a cartographical misunderstanding.

Amanderella’s mother gasped. “So, the clues are useless.”

“Not useless,” Maudline corrected, “just… unmoored. They refer to landmarks that no longer exist, or exist in the wrong place, or exist only in family stories told by elderly aunts with unreliable memories.”

She jabbed the parchment.

“Take this clue, for example: ‘Where the king’s shadow fell last.’ That is not a lot of use, as no kings have ever visited Sillingwold Lodge. The weather vane shaped like Charles I, which the clue actually referred to, blew off the stables in 1884 and was sold for scrap. The other clues seem just as meaningless now. And even if one could work out what the clues point to, so what? How do a handful of places show where something is buried?”

Amanderella nodded slowly. “So, the treasure could be anywhere.”

“Exactly!” Maudline boomed. “Anywhere on fifty acres of uneven ground, riddled with rabbit holes, nettles, and the occasional angry pheasant. And Sillingwold Lodge is falling to pieces while the treasure sits underground laughing at us.”

She sat back, folding her arms with grim determination.

“That,” she said, “is why I’ve come. I need fresh eyes. Amanderella’s eyes. And possibly her boots.”

The faux fox, now fully collapsed on the carpet, seemed to agree.