Amanderellaand the Punctual Ghost Chapter 3,

Chapter 3.

 

Nether Bramblewick.

 

She had not gone more than a hundred yards when the peaceful lane was disturbed by a deep, throaty rumble behind her, the unmistakable sound of a motor‑car whose owner believed noise to be a sign of quality. Amanderella stepped neatly to the verge, the motor‑bicycle beside her, just as a vast, gleaming machine rounded the bend like a steamship taking a corner.

It slowed abruptly.

A man in a heavy driving coat and goggles leaned out.

“Hoy! You there! Young lady! Are you in distress?”

Amanderella, who was merely inconvenienced, replied, “Not especially.”

The gentleman, or at least the man, climbed down with the air of someone who had rescued dozens of maidens from mechanical peril, though none recently. He inspected her motor‑bicycle with a confidence entirely unsupported by knowledge.

“Looks serious,” he announced, tapping the snapped accelerator cable as though it might confess something. “You’ll never get far with that.”

“I had reached a similar conclusion,” Amanderella said.

He straightened, puffing slightly. “Lucky for you I came along. Hop in, I’ll take you wherever you’re going.”

“I’m only going as far as Nether Bramblewick,” she replied.

He blinked. “Never heard of it.”

“It’s three‑quarters of a mile ahead.”

He looked faintly disappointed that the rescue would not involve a dramatic dash across counties. “Well, I can still take you.”

“Thank you,” Amanderella said politely, “but I believe I can manage the remaining distance on foot.”

He hesitated, then reached into an inside pocket and produced a stiff, cream‑coloured business card with a flourish. “If you should require assistance, mechanical, social, or otherwise, you may send word to me.” He pressed the card into her gloved hand with the solemnity of a man bestowing a medal.

The name printed on it was impressively long and unnecessarily ornate.

“St. John von Vroom,” he announced.

Amanderella glanced at the card. “Saint John?”

He drew himself up. “Sinjin, if you please.”

“Of course,” she said, as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

The motor‑car gave a sharp, impatient bark of exhaust, as if echoing his sense of self‑importance. Von Vroom tucked his gloves under one arm and added, “If you should require assistance, mechanical, social, or otherwise, you may send word to me. I am often in the area.”

Amanderella doubted this very much, but she inclined her head politely. “How very kind.”

He tipped his hat, returned to his machine, and roared away in a cloud of dust that suggested the car, at least, had no doubts about its own importance.

Amanderella waited for the air to clear, slipped the card into her map case, and resumed pushing the motor‑bicycle with quiet dignity.

The lane dipped gently and then rose again, and as Amanderella pushed her motor‑bicycle over the crest she saw the village spread out below her, a modest cluster of stone cottages, a church tower that looked permanently surprised, and a single shop whose signboard hung by a single, exhausted rusty nail.

A hand‑painted board at the roadside announced:

WELCOME TO NETHER BRAMBLEWICK

(Please drive carefully. Livestock unpredictable.)

Amanderella, who was not driving at all, took this as a personal reassurance.

The first building she reached was a low, whitewashed structure with a corrugated‑iron roof and a petrol pump standing outside like a lonely sentry. A faded sign above the door read:

J. PYE.  MOTOR REPAIRS & SUNDRIES

A dog, best described as a mixture of every kind of canine, lay across the threshold, snoring with the commitment of a creature who had never once been asked to move for a customer.

Amanderella paused, adjusted her gloves, and cleared her throat politely.

The dog opened one eye, decided she was not a threat, and closed it again.

The man who emerged from the workshop was thin, oil‑stained, and possessed of the kind of ginger hair that refused to be subdued by cap, comb, or circumstance. It sprang out in determined tufts, catching the light like a warning flare.

He wiped his hands on a rag that had long since given up the struggle.

“Morning,” he said. “Or afternoon. Hard to tell in here.”

Amanderella glanced past him. A calendar hung on the wall, depicting a cheerful haystack and confidently declaring the year to be 1909.

“It’s 1912,” she said gently.

“Aye,” the man replied. “But I like to know where I stand.”

He nodded at her motor‑bicycle. “What’s she done, then?”

“Snapped accelerator cable,” Amanderella said.

He gave a low whistle of respect. “Nasty little beggar, that. I’ll have to send away for one.”

“Of course,” she said. “How long will it take?”

He considered this with the seriousness of a man calculating the tides. “Depends on the post. Could be tomorrow. Could be Thursday. Could be when it gets here.”

The dog snored louder, as if in agreement.

Amanderella accepted this with her usual calm. “In that case, I shall need somewhere to stay.”

Joe Pye pointed up the lane with a vague sweep of his rag.

“Bramblewick Arms is just along there. They’ll put you up. Or they won’t. Depends who’s on.”

Amanderella thanked him, left the motor‑bicycle in his care, and set off. The dog raised its head, considered accompanying her, and decided against it.

The village street was quiet in that way small places are when everyone is indoors but listening. A curtain shifted. A door clicked shut. A cat regarded her with the mild suspicion reserved for strangers and postmen.

The Bramblewick Arms stood halfway along the street, its signboard hanging at a slight angle, depicting what might once have been a bramble bush but now resembled a greenish explosion. The door stuck slightly when she pushed it, then gave way with a sigh.

Inside, the bar was dim and comfortably worn. A man with a face like a squashed turnip, polishing glasses looked up, nodded once, and returned to his work.

“Room?” he said, as though offering a weather report.

“If you have one,” Amanderella replied.

“We’ve two. One’s got a view. One hasn’t.”

“Which is available?”

He considered this. “Both.”

Amanderella chose the one with the view, though the landlord warned her it was mostly of the roof of the butcher’s shop.

The landlord produced a large, leather‑bound register from beneath the counter and opened it to a fresh page. The pen he offered looked as though it had been sharpened with a penknife and a certain amount of hope.

“Name?” he said.

Amanderella signed with her usual neat hand.

The landlord squinted at the entry, lips moving slightly as he deciphered it. “Lady Amanderella Gottsnobbler,” he read aloud, in the tone of a man encountering a name for the first time and deciding not to argue with it.

From the corner of the room came a small, triumphant exclamation.

“Ah! We meet again!”

St. John von Vroom rose from his chair, goggles perched on his forehead like a misplaced crown. “Miss Gottsnobbler, or should I say Lady Gottsnobbler, what a remarkable coincidence.”

The landlord, still holding the register, said without looking up, “She’s having the room with the view. You’re in the one with the draught.”

Von Vroom looked faintly wounded. “I requested the best room.”

“You did,” the landlord replied. “And you’ve got it. Best for draughts.”

Amanderella inclined her head politely to von Vroom. “Good afternoon, Mr von Vroom.”

“Sinjin,” he corrected, with the weary dignity of a man who has corrected the world many times.

“Of course.”

The dog under the table thumped its tail once, as if marking the end of the exchange.

“Lady Amanderella,” he said, looming in just a fraction too close, “how fortunate that we should find ourselves under the same roof.”

She retreated by a strictly measured inch, polite, but decisive. “Indeed.”

He smiled in a way that suggested he was about to offer advice, assistance, or a lecture on carburettors. “I have already taken the liberty of ordering tea. They do an excellent tea here. Not quite London standards, of course, but one must make allowances.”

The landlord, polishing a glass, muttered, “Tea’s the same as it’s always been.”

Von Vroom ignored this. “You must join me. We can discuss your unfortunate mechanical mishap. I have several theories.”

Amanderella, who had no desire to hear even one of them, said, “That is very kind, but I have arrangements to make.”

He leaned in again, lowering his voice to what he imagined was a confidential murmur. “Nonsense. A lady in your position should not be left to fend for herself. Allow me to take charge.”

Amanderella’s expression did not change, but something in her posture did, a subtle tightening, the social equivalent of closing a door gently but firmly.

She adjusted her hat with a small, precise movement.

Not threatening.

Not dramatic.

Just enough to reveal the long, gleaming hat pin securing it.

Amanderella did not brandish it.

She simply existed in its company.

Von Vroom’s sentence faltered.

“Oh,” he said, stepping back half an inch. “Yes. Quite.”

She smiled politely, the smile of a woman who could, if pressed, defend herself with seventeen different techniques but would much prefer not to.

“I thank you for your concern,” she said, “but I prefer to make my own arrangements.”

The landlord, who had been watching with the faint interest of a man who had seen many varieties of unwanted helpers., said, “If you’d rather not stay here, miss, The Boddals is up the rise. They take in folk.”

Von Vroom rallied. “Then I shall escort you.”

“No,” Amanderella said, still perfectly polite, still perfectly calm. “You shall not.”

The dog under the table gave a soft, approving huff.