Giggleswick: The Amadán Map

Chapter Seventeen: A Last Will and Testament

Chapter Seventeen: A Last Will and Testament 

When Elliot awoke the next morning with a dull headache, the details of the previous night were such a blur that it made him wonder if any of it had actually happened. It wasn’t until he felt the lump on the back of his head where George had kicked him against the wall that Elliot knew for sure it hadn’t been his imagination. The map was really gone, and George and Killer were probably docking in America this very minute, he thought.

He rolled out of bed feeling very sore, and after slipping on a pair of jeans and a hoodie, he stumbled out of his bedroom and down the stairs into the kitchen where his father was already seated with the paper and his mother was busy fixing something on the stove.  

Mr. Bisby folded the paper and laid it flat on the kitchen table. “Elliot, my boy, how ya feeling?” he said cheerfully. “Your mom’s fixing your favorite –– French toast!” 

His mother smiled at him over her shoulder. “Coming right up, dear,” she said, flipping several pieces of toast onto a plate. 

Elliot sat at the table and took a sip from the glass of chocolate milk that had already been poured for him. “I’m alright,” he answered his father. “Have a headache.” 

His mother swept over to the kitchen table with a plate of steaming French toast that smelled sweetly of cinnamon and sat it in front of Elliot along with a bottle of foosap. “I’ll get some medicine for your head, dear. Eat up!” said Mrs. Bisby. She then eyed Mr. Bisby and inclined her head toward their son.  

Mr. Bisby cleared his throat. “Eh hem, right. Elliot ... your mother and I owe you an apology,” he said. “Alright –– more me than your mother,” he added when Mrs. Bisby glared at him. “Anyway, I’m very sorry I didn’t believe you about George. Perhaps if I had ... well, there might have been something we could have done.” 

Elliot poured a generous amount of foosap over his French toast. “S’alright,” he mumbled. His body ached too badly and he was too upset about the map to find much comfort in his father’s apology. “Was just a hunch really ... didn’t have anything but his scratch to go on.” 

His mother joined them at the table. “Well, either way, we’re very sorry, dear. You did a great thing for Giggleswick, and your father and I are very proud of you.” 

“But I lost the map,” Elliot said bitterly. “It was all for nothing.” He pushed the cut up pieces of French toast through the syrup across his plate but couldn’t bring himself to eat any. 

“Nonsense, Elliot. I won’t hear any of this––” his father began to say, but before he could continue, the telephone jingled on the wall where it hung. 

Mrs. Bisby hopped from her seat and fetched the receiver in just enough time to greet the person at the other end, and Elliot was certain it was the nasal voice of Trixie Trollop he heard coming over the line. 

“Well, I don’t think that should be a problem,” his mother said. “Two o’clock? Yes, if that is what the constable wants, then we’ll be there. Uh huh –– thank you, bye,” she said before placing the phone back in its cradle with a curious expression upon her face. 

Elliot hoped the constable was wanting to meet with him to discuss the prior day’s events. Last night, when Trixie had gotten off the phone with him, she’d told them that Humphrey had reacted rather calmly to the news and said he’d sort things out presently. Nevertheless, Elliot was still fearing the worst, seeing no possible means of Constable Humphrey retrieving the map at this point.

“That was Trixie calling from the Offices of Tranquility,” Mrs. Bisby told Elliot and his father. “Says that Constable Humphrey has requested our presence today at the reading of Poppy Scrum’s will.” She looked from her husband to her son as if hoping this made more sense to one of them than it did to her.