Laughs maniacally.
Boiled's alternative chapter 3 whilst we wait for Myrtle's chapter 3
In Which Maud Attempts To Go To Durham (But Fate Has Other Plans)
Maud had woken with purpose.A crisp, efficient, Surveyor‑of‑the‑Fabric‑adjacent purpose.Today she was meant to be in Durham, eating something involving micro‑herbs with Gosie, discussing symbols and foundations and the irritatingly elusive Number Thirty‑Seven.
Instead, she was in the Bluestocking pub, staring at a half‑packed overnight bag and a tumble dryer that continued—maliciously, she felt—to cling onto half her wardrobe like a sulking barnacle.
The Bluestocking was warm, noisy, and full of the usual mid‑afternoon regulars: the knitting contingent, the crossword pair, and Fawley the cat, who was asleep on a barstool wearing her “SCENE SUPPORT” vest like she was on break from a very minor emergency.
Maud rubbed her face. “This day is cursed.”
She said it quietly, but the Bluestocking had acoustics that carried despair beautifully. Mrs. Prendergast looked up from her sherry. “Oh dear. Travel trouble?”
“Everything trouble,” Maud muttered. “I should already be in Durham. Gosie needs help. There are symbols and foundations and windows and manuscripts and archaeology and—” She gestured helplessly at the tumble dryer. “And that.”
The dryer gave a low, grinding whummp, as if agreeing.
Maud’s itinerary—written in neat, optimistic handwriting last night—had said:
11:00 — Train to Durham
12:30 — Lunch with Gosie
14:00 — Assist with Symbol Investigation
16:00 — Possibly interrogate a Margrave‑adjacent funding trail
Instead, the clock on the Bluestocking wall said 14:07, and Maud was still wearing one shoe.
She hopped over to the dryer, yanked it open, and was immediately engulfed in a wave of warm, damp laundry steam. Half her clothes were still wet. The other half had fused into a single, super‑garment that looked like a jumper trying to swallow a pair of trousers.
“Brilliant,” Maud said. “Perfect. Ideal.”
Fawley opened one eye. “Mrrrp.”
“That’s not helpful.”
She grabbed the least damp items, shoved them into her bag, and marched toward the door with the determination of someone who had decided the universe could go hang.
She made it three steps.
The door swung open.
In came Knotty, carrying a box labelled URGENT: WOOLLY HUGS – DO NOT TIP.
“Oh good, you’re still here,” Knotty said cheerfully. “I need a favour.” “It’s just a quick one! I need someone small and nimble to fetch the dropped crochet hook from behind the radiator.”
Maud considered her options:
Durham Cathedral
Gosie
Symbols
Mystery foundations
A cursed day
A crochet hook
She sighed. “Fine.”
Five minutes later she emerged, dusty, holding the hook like a relic retrieved from a tomb.
“Thank you!” Knotty said. “You’re a star.”
Maud handed it over. “I’m a gerbil who is supposed to be in Durham.”
“Well, go then!”
“I’m trying!”
She grabbed her bag again, marched to the door again, and—
The tumble dryer beeped.
A single, smug beep.
Maud froze. “No.”
It beeped again.
She turned slowly.
The dryer door had swung open on its own, revealing her favourite navy pinafore—still inside, still damp, still essential for any serious investigative work.
She retrieved it with the resigned dignity of someone who had accepted her fate.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll wear the damp pinafore. I’ll smell like warm laundry. Gosie won’t mind. Durham Cathedral won’t mind.”
She slung the pinafore over her shoulder, stomped out of the Bluestocking, and declared to the street:
“I am going to Durham and NOTHING will stop me.”
A bus immediately splashed her with a wave of puddle water.
Maud stood dripping, blinking slowly.
Maud, usually a gerbil who gets things done can currently be found, propping up the Bluestocking bar, on her fourth sherry.