Amanderella and the Ppockingstull Treasure Chapter 8

Chapter 8.

 

Sillingwold Lodge.

 

The ride to Sillingwold Lodge took them through twisting lanes, past hedgerows that leaned in as though trying to overhear their plans. Amanderella’s motorbike hummed steadily at the front, her scarf streaming behind her like a small, determined flag. Maudline followed on her bicycle, pedalling with the unstoppable force of a cheerful battering ram.

By the time they reached the long, tree‑lined drive, the faux fox scarf had slid halfway down Maudline’s back and was clinging on with quiet desperation.

Amanderella slowed her motorbike. “Is this it?”

“Nearly,” Maudline puffed. “The gate’s just ahead.”

They rounded a gentle curve, and there it was.

A massive wrought‑iron gate stretched across the drive, its bars twisted into elaborate curls and flourishes that might once have been fashionable but now resembled a nest of startled serpents. On either side stood two enormous stone pillars, each topped with a weather‑worn lump that might have been a lion, or a griffin, or possibly a teapot. It was impossible to tell. Time had rubbed away every feature except a vague sense of disappointment.

Amanderella’s boots gave a cautious squeak. “What… were those supposed to be?”

“No one knows,” Maudline said proudly. “Family legend says they were animals. Or vegetables. Or possibly clouds. Great‑Grandfather Ppockingstull insisted they were elephants, but he was very short‑sighted.”

Amanderella leaned closer. “They look like melted puddings.”

“Exactly!” Maudline beamed. “Authentic seventeenth‑century craftsmanship.”

Just beyond the gate, half‑hidden by brambles, stood a small stone hut. Or what remained of one. Its roof had vanished entirely, replaced by the vast trunk of an oak tree that had grown straight up through the middle like a triumphant green fountain. Branches spread out above it in a great leafy umbrella, as though the tree had decided to take over gatekeeping duties itself.

Amanderella stared. “Was that… a building?”

“Still is,” Maudline said. “Technically. That was the gatekeeper’s hut. We haven’t had a gatekeeper since 1842, when the last one ran off to join the travelling circus. The oak moved in shortly afterwards.”

Amanderella eyed the tree’s enormous roots, which had split the stone floor into neat, geological slices. “It seems very settled.”

“Oh yes,” Maudline said. “It’s been promoted several times. It’s now Head of Gate Security.”

The gate itself was ajar, not because it had been opened, but because it had sagged so dramatically on its hinges that it no longer met in the middle.

Amanderella nudged it gently with her boot. It swung inward with a long, theatrical groan.

“Does it always do that?” she asked.

“Only when it’s feeling dramatic,” Maudline said. “Which is most of the time.”

They passed through the gate, gravel crunching beneath their wheels.

“Now,” Maudline said, “the Lodge is just around the bend.”

They rounded the final corner, and the house appeared.

Tall. Narrow. Slightly lopsided.
A house that looked as though it had been built by someone with enthusiasm, a ladder, and no sense of symmetry.

Ivy clung to the walls like a determined octopus. Several windows were shuttered. One was missing entirely. Another had a curtain flapping out of it like a surrender flag.

Amanderella’s boots gave a thoughtful squeak.

“It’s… atmospheric,” she said politely.

“Drafty,” Maudline corrected. “But full of character. And bats.”

Amanderella parked her motorbike beside a stone urn leaning at a suspicious angle. Maudline braked her bicycle with a heroic skid that sent gravel skittering across the path.

The faux fox slid off the handlebars and landed with a soft flump.

Amanderella removed her goggles. “Has the roof always been that shape?”

“No,” Maudline said proudly. “That’s new. Happened during the Great Chimney Incident. Another long story.”

Amanderella decided not to ask.

They approached the front door, a large, oak slab bearing the scars of centuries of enthusiastic knocking. A brass lion‑shaped knocker hung crookedly, as though the lion had given up halfway through roaring.

Maudline rapped on the door with the confidence of someone who had once broken through a wall with a sledgehammer.

The door swung open immediately.

A small cloud of dust drifted out.

Amanderella coughed. “Does it always do that?”

“Only when it’s been shut,” Maudline said. “Which it hasn’t been for a while. The latch sticks.”

She pushed the door wider. It groaned like an elderly walrus.

Inside, the hallway stretched ahead, dim, cluttered, and smelling faintly of lavender, old books, and something pickled.

Amanderella stepped inside. Her boots squeaked nervously.

Maudline beamed. “Welcome to Sillingwold Lodge! Mind the umbrella stand. It bites.”

Amanderella froze. “It what?”

“Only if you kick it,” Maudline said. “Or look at it too suddenly. Or breathe near it. But don’t worry, I’ll go first.”

She strode confidently past the umbrella stand. It wobbled, considered an attack, then thought better of it.

Amanderella followed, ducking beneath a low beam.

“So,” she said, “where shall we examine the map?”

Maudline pointed dramatically toward a door at the end of the hall.

“The library,” she declared. “It has the biggest table. And the fewest holes.”

Amanderella nodded. “Perfect.”

The faux fox, draped over Maudline’s arm, quivered with anticipation.

Together, they headed for the library, and the secrets waiting inside the vellum map.

The library door didn’t just open; it gave a long, slow creeeak like a ghost with a sore throat.

Inside, the room looked like a giant had tried to tidy up by throwing everything into a blender. It was a forest of books. They weren't just on the shelves; they were piled in towers that wobbled when you breathed. Some were as small as a matchbox, while others were so big you’d need a wheelbarrow to move them.

The ceiling was so high up you could barely see the corners. A dusty chandelier hung down like a giant, frozen spider.

One window was made of coloured glass that turned the sunlight purple. Another was cracked and patched with a piece of old newspaper from fifty years ago.

In the middle of the room sat a massive table made from a slab of dark wood with legs carved to look like lion’s paws.

Because the floor was slightly uphill, the table didn't sit flat. One of the lion paws was balanced on a very thick book titled How to Talk to Fish.

"Don't put your elbows on the left side," Maudline warned. "If you do, the whole thing tips like a seesaw and sends your pens flying."

The room smelled like a mix of old paper, vanilla, and very dry biscuits. It was the kind of room where you felt like the books were whispering to each other the moment you turned your back.

"Right then," Maudline said, sweeping a pile of silver keys and a stray sock off the table. "Let’s get this map open before the shadows get too long."

The faux fur fox settled onto a velvet cushion that let out a loud pouf of dust, its glass eyes wide with wonder.

Maudline set the vellum gently on the uneven table. The lion‑paw leg wobbled in warning, but held.

She rubbed her hands together with the air of someone about to open a portal to adventure. “Right then. Once this is flat, the clues will make perfect sense.”

Amanderella nodded, though her eyes were fixed on the curling edges of the map as if it might spring to life at any moment.

A draught stirred the coloured‑glass window, sending a ripple of purple light across the room.

The book towers shivered. The chandelier creaked. Even the sock on the table seemed to lean closer.

The faux fox blinked its glass eyes, as though bracing itself.

Amanderella drew a steady breath. This afternoon,” she said quietly, “we begin with clue number one. Where shadows fall at end of day, Seek out the stone that points the way. Beneath its nose the earth is thin, And secrets wait for those who dig in.

“The statue of the boar,” said Maudline, “After lunch.”

Outside, the wind rustled through the ivy on the lopsided walls, whispering secrets the house had been holding for centuries.

And the library, full of shadows and stories, settled into a patient hush as the chapter came to a close.