Amanderellaand the Punctual Ghost Chapter 12.

Chapter 12.

 

The cable arrives.

 

The rain had cleared overnight, leaving the garden smelling of damp stone and Honoria’s dahlias looking faintly affronted. Breakfast was taken in the usual order: Osric with his maps, Cassiana with her lists, Avarine with her mending, Lucian with his nerves, and Amanderella with a quiet sense that the day intended to be useful.

At half‑past nine, a brisk knock sounded at the back door.

Honoria looked up. “That will be Joe Pye. He knocks like a man who expects the door to open.”

It did. Cassiana let him in.

Joe stood on the mat, cap in hand, boots respectfully wiped. “Morning, Mrs Wocal‑Eardew. Lady Amanderella. Got your cable.”

Amanderella brightened. “Excellent.”

Joe handed over a small, grease‑proof parcel. “Came on the early post. He had barely finished handing over the parcel when Amanderella was already untying the string.

“I’ll fit it now,” she said.

Joe blinked. “Yourself?”

“Yes.”

He hesitated, then remembered the way she had spoken about the snapped cable the day before, accurate, and without the slightest hint of guesswork. “Right you are, then. I’ll walk down with you. Dog’ll want his dinner soon anyway.”

Honoria approved. “Take a macintosh. The grass is still wet.”

Amanderella collected her gloves, thanked Honoria, and set off with Joe down the lane. The morning had settled into that clear, washed light that follows a night of rain. The hedges dripped quietly. A blackbird scolded them for existing.

Joe unlocked the workshop and stood aside. “She’s where you left her.”

Amanderella removed her gloves and rolled up her sleeves with the calm assurance of someone who had mended far worse in far stranger places. She laid out the tools she needed, screwdriver, pliers, a small tin of oil, and set to work.

Joe watched for a minute, then decided he was only in the way. “I’ll put kettle on.”

By the time he returned with two mugs of tea, the old cable lay neatly coiled on the bench and the new one was already threaded through the housing.

“You’ve done that before,” he said.

“Several times,” Amanderella replied, tightening the final screw. “This model has strong opinions about cables.”

She tested the throttle. Smooth. Clean. No hesitation.

Joe gave a low whistle. “Runs better than when it came in.”

Amanderella wiped her hands. “Machines respond to being understood.”

Joe nodded. “Same as people.”

As she put her tools away, Joe remembered the rest of his errand.

“Oh, and Aggie says to tell you about von Vroom.”

Amanderella paused. “Yes?”

Joe leaned against the doorframe. “Took that beer bottle to the county museum. Told ’em it were Roman. Mr Hargreaves, that’s the curator, told him it were a beer bottle, the field were a sheep field, and the stones were the shepherd’s hut. Said if he’d looked at a map he’d have known.”

Amanderella allowed herself a small, tidy smile. “Mr Hargreaves sounds refreshingly direct.”

“Aye. Doesn’t call a spade a spade. Calls it a shovel. Von Vroom left in high dudgeon. Nearly ran over Aggie’s bicycle.”

Amanderella set the spanner back in its place. “Unfortunate.”

Joe hesitated. “But there’s more.”

“There usually is,” said Amanderella.

“It seems, Tom Bracknell’s boys were watching von Vroom digging, like lads do,” said Joe. “Well, anyway, once von Vroom left with the beer bottle, they nipped over the wall and had a look in the hole. Elder lad is a smart kid and he saw a stone which didn’t look right, so he showed it to our Aggie. She thought it looked unusual, so she took it into work with her. Old Mr Hargreaves nearly swallowed his pencil, she said. You’ll never guess what it is.”

“Probably not,” said Amanderella, “Do tell.”

“It was a flint axe head,” said Joe in triumph. “Very old. Pre‑Roman. Means the field’ll have to be looked at proper.”

“So, the shepherd’s hut was built on older ground,” said Amanderella.

Joe nodded. “Aye. Mr Hargreaves says the hut’s nowt special, but what’s under it might be. Says he’ll send someone up next week.”

As they stood by the single petrol pump, von Vroom’s machine shot past them in a cloud of dust and indignation, goggles askew, coat flapping like a wounded banner.

“He looks,” Amanderella said mildly, “as though the county has failed to appreciate him.”

Joe sniffed. “The county is not alone.”

The motor‑car vanished over the rise with a final, aggrieved bark.

Amanderella thanked Joe, started the engine, and turned the machine toward the hill.

The morning felt steadier now: the cable fitted, the mystery of the field shifting into competent hands, and von Vroom safely out of earshot.

She rode back up the lane to The Boddals to collect her valise. Honoria insisted on sending her off with a parcel of sandwiches “in case the inns have ideas above themselves,” and Cassiana pressed a small jar of jam into her hand with the air of someone who believed jam to be a universal safeguard.

By late morning she was on the road south.

The first day passed much as the outward journey had, though the weather was cooler and the hedgerows still heavy with rain. She kept a steady pace, stopping only when the motor‑bicycle suggested it would appreciate a rest. By late afternoon she reached the same modest inn where she had stayed before. The wallpaper was still floral, the washstand still wobbled, and the landlady still believed in the restorative powers of a hot supper.

Amanderella slept soundly.

The next morning dawned clear. She set off early, the roads drying in the sun, and the miles slipped by in that quiet, orderly way they sometimes did when one had already made peace with the distance. By mid‑afternoon the outskirts of the capital appeared, familiar and faintly dusty after the clean air of the moors.

She turned into Wimple Terrace just as the church clock struck four.

Mrs Gaffletter opened the door before Amanderella reached it, as though she had been listening for the sound of the engine.

“You’re back,” she said, in the tone of a woman who approved of punctuality but not of unnecessary travel.

“I am,” said Amanderella.

Mrs Gaffletter stepped aside. “Your room is as you left it. Supper at seven.”

Amanderella carried her valise upstairs, the house settling around her with its usual, well‑scrubbed calm. After two days on the road, the quiet felt almost luxurious.

She unpacked her gloves, set her map case on the table, and allowed herself a small, satisfied breath.

The motor‑bicycle, restored to dignity, waited in the yard.

And the capital, for the moment at least, behaved itself.