Amanderellaand the Punctual Ghost Chapter 6.

Chapter 6.

 

 

Roman Trackways and Forts.

 

Osric waited until Honoria became involved in tying up a Dahlia stem before sidling back up to Amanderella. He tapped his notes and carried on as if he had not been interrupted. “The alignment is unmistakable once you ignore the modern lanes. The land still remembers the straight line, even if the maps don’t,” he said. He turned a page in his notebook, revealing a neat but slightly smudged diagram.

“There are three known Roman forts in the valley,” he said. “One at the far end, one near the river crossing, and one just beyond Nether, well, Nether Whatever the villagers insist on calling it.”

Amanderella nodded.

“The Romans built a trackway between them. A practical, direct line. But if you measure the distance from the far fort to the next one, it is too great for a day’s march. Even for Romans. They were efficient, not miraculous.”

He tapped the page with mild triumph.

“So, there must have been another fort somewhere along the track. A smaller one. A way‑station. A place to rest the troops before they went on.”

Amanderella glanced toward the ridge. “On the far side?”

“Oh no,” Osric said, shaking his head. “The railway cutting rules that out entirely. If a fort had ever stood there, the engineers would have uncovered something. Railway men are very thorough, even when they don’t mean to be.”

He pointed instead to the slope above the garden.

“So, the missing fort must have been on this side, the village side, somewhere along the rise between the ridge and the valley road. Exactly the right distance from the known forts. A day’s march from one, and a day’s march to the next.”

Honoria, passing with a basket of dahlias, said without looking up,

“The land remembers weeds, Osric. That’s all.”

Osric ignored this. “I believe the missing fort is somewhere near here. Not under the house, that would be absurd, but somewhere close. The Romans were very fond of gentle slopes.”

Avarine murmured, “Dinner is at seven,” in the tone of someone gently steering a conversation back toward the house.

Osric looked faintly startled. “Is it? Already?”

Honoria gave a small sigh. “Yes, Osric. Already.”

Amanderella smiled. “Thank you. It is a very interesting theory.”

Osric beamed, reassured. “I have diagrams,” he added helpfully.

Osric tapped the edge of his notebook again

. “I sent a summary of my findings to the North Riding Antiquarian Circular. They print anything if it has a diagram. And I posted a copy to a gentleman in Kent who once wrote to me about Roman milestones. One must share these things.”

Amanderella nodded politely.

Honoria, passing with her basket of dahlias, said, “You sent it to half the county, Osric. Anyone might turn up.”

Osric looked mildly pleased. “Yes. Quite.”

Avarine murmured, “That may be how Mr von Vroom heard of it.”

Osric blinked. “Who?”

“The motor‑car man,” Honoria said. “The one who asked you whether Romans lacked imagination.”

“Oh,” Osric said, visibly ruffled, “Him.”

Amanderella felt the smallest, neatest click of understanding.

Of course.

A privately printed pamphlet, a circular that would publish anything with a diagram, and a gentleman in Kent with a fondness for milestones, it was exactly the sort of trail a man like von Vroom would follow with great enthusiasm and very little comprehension.

She pictured him arriving in the village with:

- a notebook he did not know how to fill,

- a spade he had never used,

- a camera he could not operate,

- and a determination to “discover” something before anyone else did.

It explained his eagerness, his self‑importance, and his belief that he was on the brink of archaeological glory. It also explained why the villagers looked at him with the mild concern usually reserved for people who were likely to fall into a ditch.

Amanderella inclined her head politely. “I see.”

Honoria gave a small, satisfied nod. “Well, he won’t find anything here except gooseberries and disappointment.”

Osric looked wounded. “He might find a fort.”

“He might find the compost heap,” Honoria said. “If he’s lucky.”

Amanderella kept her expression composed, but privately she filed von Vroom under matters to be sorted out in due course.

Honoria rose, smoothing her apron with the brisk, unselfconscious gesture of someone who always knows what ought to be done next. “Cassiana, we should see to the dinner the oven is a sensitive beast that requires careful negotiation."

Cassiana stood at once, collecting her notebook and pencil. “I’ve already noted the timings,” she said. “But it will be safer if we begin now.”

Honoria nodded. “Quite.”

She turned to Amanderella. “You’re welcome to stay here or stretch your legs again. We’ll call you when everything is ready.”

Cassiana added, “If you hear a bell, it will be for the kitchen. We’ll fetch you.”

The two of them left the morning room with the practised ease of people who had been running a household together for years. their footsteps faded down the passage, followed by the resolute ring of a heavy pot meeting the range.

Osric remained seated, staring thoughtfully at his notebook as though the missing Roman fort might reveal itself if he looked at the page long enough.

Amanderella, left in the calm of the late afternoon, considered the garden, the ridge, the household, and the man with the engine who would undoubtedly make himself known again.

Dinner, she suspected, would be interesting. Amanderella went inside and into the morning room. Osric stayed outside still staring at his notebook as though the missing Roman fort might reveal itself if he looked long enough.

At seven precisely, Avarine appeared in the doorway.

“Dinner is ready,” she said. “If you’ll come through.”

The dining room was modest but well‑kept, its dark furniture polished to a quiet shine. Cassiana had laid the table with her usual neat precision; Honoria presided at the head, her expression one of brisk satisfaction at having brought the oven to heel.

The meal was simple and tasty: a stew that had been simmering since mid‑afternoon, bread still warm from the range, and a gooseberry fool... whipped into such stiff peaks it looked ready to defend itself.

Conversation was mild and orderly. Osric attempted to explain the difference between a Roman road and a Roman trackway; Honoria corrected him twice; Cassiana corrected him once; Avarine passed the salt.

Amanderella listened, absorbing the household’s rhythm, the way Honoria kept things moving, the way Cassiana anchored the conversation with small, precise remarks, the way Avarine smoothed over the gaps, and the way Osric drifted in and out of relevance like a well‑meaning weather vane.

It was only when Cassiana glanced at the mantel clock that the tone shifted.

“It’s nearly eight,” she said quietly.

Honoria nodded. “Yes. Best mention it now.”

Amanderella looked between them, attentive but untroubled.

Honoria folded her napkin with the air of someone delivering a practical household instruction.

“At two minutes past eight, you’ll hear a noise along the back passage. A whooshing, then footsteps. It happens every evening.”

Cassiana added, “We call it the punctual ghost. It’s nothing to worry about.”

Osric brightened. “It marks the line of an ancient trackway. I’m almost certain.”

Honoria ignored this. “It’s harmless, but it can startle visitors if they’re not warned. It’s very precise. Eight‑oh‑two exactly.”

Amanderella accepted this with perfect composure. “A very reliable resident,"

Cassiana poured a little more tea. “We used to explain it afterwards, but that seemed discourteous.”

The clock ticked on, steady and unbothered.

At exactly 8.02, the house gave a soft, unmistakable whoosh, as though a draught had gathered itself into a single purposeful breath, followed by the sound of footsteps moving briskly along the back passage.

No one spoke.

Honoria sat with her hands folded.

Cassiana counted the steps under her breath.

Avarine listened with the calm of someone who had heard it all her life.

Osric tried to time it with his pocket watch, which had stopped again.

Amanderella observed, thoughtful and analytical.

The footsteps faded. The house settled.

Honoria nodded once, satisfied. “There. That’s all.”

Amanderella set down her teacup. “Thank you. It is… very punctual.”

Cassiana allowed herself the smallest smile. “It always is.”

Osric looked faintly triumphant. “A Roman would approve.”

Honoria rose. “Well. That’s the evening done. Tomorrow will bring its own nonsense.”

Avarine, glancing toward the window, said, “Especially if the man with the big car returns.”

Amanderella suspected he would, and that she would be the one to deal with him.