by Kim M Watt
Gert led them into a low-ceilinged kitchen and waved at the table. “Sit, sit. Tea? Or mulled wine? We could treat ourselves, couldn’t we? It is almost Christmas!”
Miriam made a small, panicked noise at the back of her throat, and Alice said, “No, tea would be wonderful, Gert. Thank you.”
They made themselves comfortable at the table while their host busied herself with cups and teabags, and Miriam examined the pile of neat labels and curls of ribbon at the end of the table. ‘Homemade Damson Gin’, the labels said, and she swallowed against a nasty stickiness in her throat.
“Gert,” Alice said, once a tea had been taken through to the living room and the three women were sat at the table together. “Did you hear about the postman?”
“I did. It was on Facebook this morning. Terrible, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Alice said, and Miriam knew the older woman was looking at her expectantly, but she was concentrating on not spilling her tea. Alice was going to have to do this one on her own. Who ever thought tea-drinking could be so difficult?
“Well,” Alice continued, when it was clear Miriam had nothing to add, “remember the terrible incident with the vicar, and the detective inspector who came around?”
“Of course. It was very sad, that, but the new vicar seems nice.”
“She does,” Alice said, and Miriam made some agreeable sound at the back of her throat. She wasn’t sure if an extra teaspoon of sugar would make her feel better or worse. It was probably worth a shot. She wasn’t actually certain that feeling worse was even possible. She pulled the sugar bowl toward her and added a spoonful, moving carefully. Alice tutted slightly, and Miriam had the feeling that if it hadn’t been such an impolite thing to do, Alice probably would have rolled her eyes.
“Well, the inspector visited us the other day,” Alice said.
“What for?” Gert demanded. “Has there been another murder?”
“No, no murder—”
“Oh, thank God for that. Imagine being linked to another murder! No one would ever join the W.I. again.” Gert opened a Tupperware full of mince pies and pushed them into the centre of the table.
“Well, yes—”
“Never mind what it could do to property values.” Gert leaned forward conspiratorially. “Have I told you our Dani’s gone into real estate?”
“No, you hadn’t. That’s nice.”
“So if you need your house valued or anything, she’s only in Leeds. She can come out.”
Alice frowned. “I have no intention of selling my house, Gert.”
“No, of course. But just so you know.”
Miriam hid a smile behind her mug, quite glad that she wasn’t in any state to take part and wondering if Gert had been the best place to start their questioning. But the reigning arm-wrestling champion of Toot Hansell was the repository for all village gossip, if not all gossip in the county, so it had seemed reasonable at the time. Plus, it was common knowledge that Gert Knew People, and quite often Knew Things, too (including, according to local rumour, how to Make Problems Go Away). It was just terribly easy to get sidetracked by her very extended and very tangled family.
Alice took a sip of tea and pushed on. “The inspector came to see us about the missing postman.”
“The missing postman? She doesn’t think we had anything to do with it?”
“No, nothing like that.” There seemed to be a silent yet at the end of the sentence. “The inspector did want to know if we’d heard anything about it, though. Particularly as certain aspects of it seemed, well, dragon-y.”
“Dragon-y?” Gert put a mince pie on her plate, scowling. “In what way?”
“There was a certain fire-related element to it.”
“Oh, my.” Gert pushed the Tupperware toward Miriam, who caught a whiff of brandy and swallowed hard. “And the dragons …?”
“Well, of course they had nothing to do with it,” Alice said sharply. “This is Beaufort and Mortimer we’re talking about. But that’s not to say that other, ah, parties might not have had a hand in it.”
“Other parties? Well, that is intriguing! What sort of other parties?”
Alice sighed. “We don’t know yet. Look, Gert, have you heard anything? Rumours about the postman, perhaps, or anyone suddenly having lots of spare presents to sell or anything like that?”
Gert ate her mince pie while she thought about it, her gaze fixed on some inner distance far beyond the warmth of the kitchen, chewing slowly. Miriam took another sip of tea. The sugar was definitely helping, but it didn’t make the tea taste very nice.
Finally, Gert wiped her fingers on a paper towel and dusted crumbs off the front of her jumper, then said, “I can’t think of anything out of the ordinary right now, but let me make some calls. I know a few old girls with their ears to the ground.”
“Wonderful,” Alice said. “But discreetly, yes? I don’t think the inspector will really appreciate our getting involved.”
“Obviously.”
The two women nodded at each other and smiled while Miriam examined the Tupperware, wondering if a mince pie might actually help. More sugar, plus a little hair of the dog. It seemed reasonable, and she was feeling marginally less sick with the tea inside her. She reached out a hesitant hand while Alice and Gert moved on to discuss the market takings, then jerked back with a yelp as a large, smoky grey tabby with a kink in his tail and one ragged ear appeared on the table. The cat stared at them with flat, amused green eyes, his ears pricked with interest.
“Tom! You know you’re not allowed on the table.” Gert clapped her hands at him, but he ignored her, examining Alice and Miriam with that unblinking gaze.
“Yours, Gert?” Alice asked, not looking away from the cat.
“Oh, he comes and goes.” Gert picked the cat up and put him on the floor. “I’m not sure he belongs to anyone at all, but at least half the street feeds him.”
Miriam peered under the table, but the cat was already gone. “We should probably head off,” she said to Alice.
“Oh, you can talk, then?” Gert said. “You look a little peaky.”
“Flu,” Miriam mumbled, and Alice gave an unladylike snort.
They called goodbye as they walked through the little hall, and a disembodied voice floated back to them from the living room. At the door, Gert watched with her arms crossed as they put their jackets on.
“I’ll find out what I can,” she said.
“Thank you.” Alice steadied Miriam as she stumbled, one boot half-on. “You know the dragons would never do anything like this. And they helped us when we were implicated.”
“For the dragons,” Gert said, and grinned.
“Exactly.”
Outside, it was still raining, and Miriam pulled her hood up with a shiver. Gert waved as they started down the path then shut the door, leaving the day a little greyer than it had been.
“Where now?” Miriam asked Alice.
“Jasmine’s, I think. See if that husband of hers has shared any police gossip with her.”
“Okay.” Miriam opened the low gate, and added, “Alice? Remind me to never, ever drink Metaxa again.”
“I honestly thought anyone over the age of twenty had already learnt that lesson.”
“My youth was obviously not as misspent as you think.”
Alice laughed, and turned to shut the gate behind her. A ripple of grey movement in the damp bushes caught their eyes and they both jumped back, Miriam grabbing Alice’s arm. The big grey tomcat appeared on the gate post, sheltered by the small arch above, and looked at them with that expression of eternal amusement.
“Alice,” Miriam hissed, “Do you think—?”
“Of course not. He’s just a cat.” She glared at him. “Aren’t you?”
The cat looked even more amused, if possible, and yawned, exposing sharp white teeth and neat pink gums.
“Let’s go,” Alice said. “We can’t be distracted by every cat that comes along.” She turned and walked away.
&
nbsp; Miriam hesitated, still watching the cat, not sure what she expected it to do, but oddly sure that there’d be something. So when the cat winked, Miriam winked back. It seemed only reasonable.
4
Mortimer
“This is a bad idea,” Mortimer whispered to Amelia.
“Well, what did you think he was going to do?”
“Not this.”
The Grand Cavern was packed. Well, as packed as it got. The Cloverly dragons were not only small dragons, they were a small clan these days. It was one of the reasons they’d survived the expansion of humans and adapted so well to life in the small patches of wilderness left to them. Mortimer counted about sixty dragons gathered in the warmth of the big fire that always burned in the centre of the Grand Cavern, even in these modern days of barbecues and gas bottles. They sat in little huddles on the worn rock floor, muttering to each other, or perched on ledges along the walls, waiting expectantly. A little deeper into the cavern than the fire rose the tall rock of the High Lord’s ancient seat. Not long ago, there was a rough bed of broken swords and rusting shields atop the outcropping, but now it was crowned proudly with a gleaming Weber barbecue. One of the top-of-the-range ones, with shelves and a pot warmer, and a temperature gauge on the lid. Beaufort appeared to be snoozing on the rounded top, but Mortimer could see the gleam of one gold eye, cracked open and watching the newcomers.
Apparently, the High Lord had not been as certain that his clan was above suspicion as he had made out to the inspector, a position Mortimer agreed with wholeheartedly. Not all dragons thought their forays into the modern world were a good idea, no matter how comfortable the barbecues or how tasty the mince pies. There were certain dragons who thought some things were best left well alone, and that going back to living in the shadows was a better option. There were days Mortimer thought that himself, especially when Beaufort was being excessively enthusiastic, and Mortimer’s stress-shedding was playing up. But still, to eat a postman – that took a pretty high level of determination. And now he wasn’t quite sure what the High Lord was thinking of, calling a full Furnace of dragons. He scratched at a loose scale and waited.
Beaufort let the muttering and shifting build, let the questions and whispers be passed from one to the other among the waiting dragons. Furnaces, a gathering of all members of the clan, weren’t called often, and usually only for matters of succession or war. There hadn’t even been one regarding the transition from gold to more modern treasure, or the question of whether selling dragon-scale trinkets to humans was a good idea. Those had been the High Lord’s decisions, and news of them had spread quietly outward, to be participated in or not as each dragon preferred. Dragons, for the most part, run their own lives with little interference from each other, or indeed the High Lord. This meeting was unusual, to say the least, and Mortimer could see Lord Margery (all high-ranking dragons were Lords, gender being a rather fluid term to them. And titles weren’t hereditary, but hard-earned through bravery or cleverness. It was quite a satisfactory system) watching the gathered dragons with a disapproving look on her face. She wasn’t entirely delighted that Beaufort had found a new lease on life with all the human interaction. She’d been fairly certain she was going to make High Lord within the next century or so, but now … well, since Mortimer had first introduced Beaufort to the concept of barbecues, the old dragon had shed all his patchy scales, grown lovely new ones, and was spending very little time snoozing by the fire, as would befit a very ancient dragon. He didn’t look like he’d be dropping dead of old age any time soon, and as that was the only way a High Lord left office without losing in a fight to the death with a challenger, Lord Margery had some waiting ahead of her.
Beaufort finally sat up and cleared his throat. A hush fell over the assembled dragons, and sharp eyes turned expectantly to the High Lord on his sleek silver throne. He cut an impressive figure, Mortimer had to admit, perched there broad and barrel-chested, with the firelight running off the golds and greens of his scales and his head lifted high above them. He shook out his wings, making himself appear larger still, then folded them back into place with a snap.
“Fellow Cloverlies,” he said, his deep voice booming off the walls. “Thank you for coming. I appreciate this was all on short notice, and I hope it won’t take too long.”
“What are we doing here, Beaufort?” Lord Margery asked. She was perched on the highest ledge in the cavern, so that he had to look up at her. “Are we going to talk about this human nonsense you keep dragging us into?”
Beaufort regarded her with the same sort of smile he gave young dragons learning to fly, which made her puff angry yellow smoke, then he said, “Not exactly, no.”
“Well, we should be! All this bauble rubbish. It’s undragonish!”
Mortimer huffed. Bauble rubbish? Well, that was just rude. He’d like to see Lord Margery make one.
“It’s merely a matter of shifting focus,” Beaufort said. “Rather than scrabbling in the dirt for leftover treasure, of which there is very little, we’re creating our own. It’s very innovative—”
“It’s very risky,” Lord Margery said. Her wings were half-open, flushed a deep and angry purple-red against the grey stone walls. There was a rumble of agreement from some of the assembled dragons, and Mortimer saw Rockford in the middle of it. He would be. He was only about Mortimer’s age, but he was so big he was like a throwback to the days when dragons had still been known to steal sheep and burn the odd farmhouse. And he was always on about wanting to go back to the “glory days of dragons”, whatever that was meant to mean. When they’d been hunted for their scales, maybe?
“It’s how we will move into this age of humans,” Beaufort was saying. “Rather than trying to cling to something long gone.”
“It’s how we’ll bring the humans down on our heads. Again.”
A louder murmur drifted through the Furnace, and Rockford snapped his wings out, knocking over a smaller dragon who looked like he wanted to say something but didn’t dare. The other dragons who always seemed to stick with Rockford, scaring the hatchlings and talking a lot about some mysterious training but never actually doing much, laughed. Other than them, though, Mortimer couldn’t see who was speaking. Except for Lord Margery and the little group, no one seemed too keen to oppose the High Lord.
“We can survive in fear or we can thrive in courage,” Beaufort said. “Which do you prefer?”
Silence answered him, and Lord Margery growled something at the back of her throat, then folded her wings and sat down, taking on her usual rather fetching colours of silver and blue. Mortimer grinned, hearing Amelia give a little snort of amusement next to him. If all else fails, suggest a lack of courage and suddenly every dragon in the place is behind you.
“Now then,” Beaufort said. “If anyone has any more objections before we get started?”
No one answered, not even Rockford, and Mortimer sighed. He’d half-hoped the whole thing would be derailed, whatever the whole thing was. Calling a Furnace was serious, and he hoped it was just to tell everyone to keep extra-low profiles.
“Yesterday,” Beaufort said in a grave tone, “a postman was kidnapped and the mail stolen. All signs point to the involvement of dragons, and no one is leaving until we find the culprit!”
Indignant chatter erupted across the cavern, everyone protesting at once, and Mortimer sighed. So that was what the High Lord was thinking. Never mind Cloverly dragons would never do such a thing. No, let’s just accuse everyone, all at once. He shook his head.
“Did he really think that would work?” Amelia asked, a note of wonder in her voice.
“He’s been watching too much TV.” Mortimer sat down wearily. “May as well make yourself comfortable. It’s going to be a long day.”
Oddly enough, attempting to simultaneously interrogate sixty-odd dragons was not working out so well. Even Beaufort looked a little dispirited, and Mortimer had shed five scales in the last hour. Five. He was carrying them around with him until he co
uld take them to his workshop, because Beaufort was making good on his threat not to let anyone leave.
“Beaufort, sir,” he said, as the High Lord demanded to know, for the fourth time, where a somewhat round and very annoyed-looking dragon called Wendy had acquired a large pink blanket for her barbecue. It featured a cat sleeping by the fire while mice played around it. “There’s too many dragons. It just doesn’t work.”
Wendy nodded vigorously. “Just silly, this.”
Beaufort huffed frustrated red steam. “It always works for Hercule Poirot.”
“Yes, but he’s usually got half a dozen humans, not sixty dragons,” Mortimer pointed out.
“It’s the same principle.”
“Principle, yes. But all that’s happening is everyone’s getting annoyed, and no one’s going to help even if they can. Plus Lord Margery’s already made Gilbert cry.”
Beaufort followed Mortimer’s gaze to where Amelia was standing in front of her little brother, and looked to be exchanging some rather sharp words with Lord Margery. Gilbert had both paws clutched to his chest and had flushed a murky mix of anxious grey and embarrassed lilac. It had been his job to stop anyone leaving, which on reflection wasn’t the best idea, considering he was both young and a little on the sensitive side.
Beaufort sighed. “You may be right, lad. But this is most disappointing. I even have a notepad.” He showed the younger dragon a large yellow pad, somewhat singed on one corner following a heated exchange with Lord Pamela.
Wendy snorted. “That’s a waste of trading scales, that is. A notepad.”
“All the best detectives have them,” Beaufort said, sounding offended.
“You’re a dragon.”
“You’re wearing a purple beanie,” the High Lord snapped back.
She adjusted it with a frown. “Still better than your notepad.”
“I’m sure the notepad’ll come in handy for something.” Mortimer supposed he should just be happy Beaufort hadn’t managed to find an overcoat and a Homburg hat from somewhere.