Yule Be Sorry--A Christmas Cozy Mystery (With Dragons)

by Kim M Watt

  “You should. It’s excellent. Quite the training manual.”

  DI Adams wished people would stop giving Beaufort ideas.

  “Scone?” Miriam said. “They’re cranberry and orange. Just as a change from mince pies.” She glanced at Mortimer, who had three pies still on his plate. “Not that everyone gets bored of them, of course.”

  “Well, they are compulsory,” Alice said. “It’s Christmas.” The dragon head cane rested next to her chair, the finish looking a little the worse for wear and a couple of new silver bands fitted where the wood had cracked. Not, as she had already pointed out to the inspectors, that she intended on needing it for long. But it was good in the snow.

  DI Adams took a scone and decided that it was wiser not to share her opinion about walking in the snow within a couple of weeks of a hip operation.

  “Can I have some eggnog?” Amelia asked.

  “Me too,” Gilbert said immediately. He still had no scales on his chin after his spectacular final fall on the fells. He continued to insist that it had been deliberate, as he’d landed on two goblins and rolled over another three, but Amelia had pointed out to the room that he hadn’t been flying since. He’d even walked home after the battle was over.

  “So,” DI Collins said, balancing a plate stacked with a thick wedge of Christmas cake, four cookies, and three mince pies on his knee. “We booked the men from the house with kidnapping, mail theft, selling stolen goods, you name it. They’d just inherited the house from a great-aunt, and went a bit mad running up credit card bills buying flash cars and clothes and so on, thinking they were rich landowners. Turns out the house is just about falling down and the land’s already mortgaged as far as it can go. They claim that they were trying to make enough money from the scam to pay off their bills and were working alone. They also keep asking for the maximum sentence and a cell with no windows. They don’t even want to be out on bail.” He deliberated, then took a large bite of cake. “So, over to you, um, High Lord? Your Highness?”

  “Beaufort,” the old dragon said. “I take full responsibility for the involvement of dragons, and they are all being punished. Alex is now Lord Walter’s helper, and Rockford has nursery duty for at least the next ninety-three years.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Mortimer said.

  “Yeah,” Gilbert said. “Rockford’s just a—” He choked on his tea as Amelia elbowed him.

  “But it was my fault,” Beaufort said. “I rushed ahead into what I saw as a great opportunity for the clan to come out of hiding, and I didn’t listen to the voices of others.”

  “Beaufort,” Mortimer protested again, and the High Lord held his paw up.

  “I’m working on being more democratic, which will hopefully balance out the needs of those who want to stay hidden and those who are more comfortable being part of the modern world. As to Rockford, he thought that if he ruined the bauble trade in a way that threatened to expose the existence of dragons, I would be ousted and we’d return to a more traditional way of living.”

  “Hiding,” Amelia scoffed, and dunked a piece of Christmas cake in her eggnog.

  “Then some goblin got his ear and convinced him that it’d be even better if, rather than just stealing the baubles, they created their own faulty ones. Then they could wreak a little havoc on humans, which Rockford quite liked the idea of. He still fancies himself as a bit of a marauder. Meanwhile the goblins were stockpiling all the stolen baubles to sell later on at a profit.”

  “I still haven’t worked out how the humans came in,” DI Adams said.

  “The goblins needed someone to post the baubles and help with the internet thingy. Their grasp of English and technology is a little shaky. They’re terribly good at sniffing out desperation, though, and they convinced the humans that they’d split the money from the baubles, plus be able to ransom the drivers. Of course, the goblins would’ve eaten everyone for Christmas dinner, captives and cohorts alike. That’s how they usually do things.”

  DI Adams wrinkled her nose and took a sip of tea. She’d had a nightmare last night in which six of the things had been chasing her while she pelted them with treacle tart, for some reason.

  “Well,” Collins said thoughtfully. “It puts a new slant on some cases that have been bothering me.”

  “Me too,” DI Adams said. “I wish you’d told me before that there were things other than dragons out there. I can think of half a dozen cases that fit goblins.”

  Beaufort shook his head. “Most of them will be human, I’m sorry to say. You can be quite nasty enough to each other.”

  DI Adams sighed. “That’s true, unfortunately.”

  “Not all of you, though.” Beaufort raised his mug. “In fact, most of you are entirely wonderful. Just like Folk.”

  There was peaceful quiet after that, filled with the whisper of the fire and the contented rumbling of the dragons. DI Adams sipped her tea and watched Collins examining them. He looked like he wanted to measure their teeth and look inside their ears, and was only restraining himself due to a combination of cake overload and the memory of Walter’s near-scorching.

  “What about the silver Audi?” Miriam asked.

  “What, mine?” DI Collins asked, glancing out the window as if to make sure it wasn’t being taken apart by goblins.

  “No, the one that was lurking around the village,” Alice said. “There were goblins driving it at least once.”

  DI Adams supposed that explained the ladies of the W.I.’s impromptu spying session in the village square. Aloud, she said, “Funny, you didn’t mention that.”

  Miriam went very pink and made a little squeaking noise, and Alice gave DI Adams an amused look. “She was doing so well, Inspector.”

  DI Adams took a scone from the coffee table. “Sorry, Miriam. But as to the car, the brothers got themselves four matching silver Audis for some reason. We found two of them driven off the road around the farm, and another sticking out of the tarn, so maybe the goblins were teaching themselves to drive. I imagine they were hanging around looking for their chance to steal baubles.”

  “They were planning to kidnap either Alice or Miriam,” a new voice said, rich and a little BBC-presenter-ish. “Or both. They thought they’d fetch a rather good ransom from the Cloverlies.”

  DI Adams pinched the bridge of her nose, wondering if she was ever going to get to grips with Toot Hansell. DI Collins choked on his tea and Alice said something very unbecoming. Miriam made a new sort of squeaking noise.

  “That – what?” DI Collins said.

  Alice picked the cat up and lifted him to eye level. “All of that nose pointing and wine spilling, and you could have just told me what was going on?” Thompson blinked lazily and yawned at her, and Alice put him on the floor. “I don’t think I want you on my lap anymore.”

  “Suit yourself.” He inspected a paw. “But you’re lucky even goblins are smart enough to know not to grab humans that the Watch have their eye on. That’s why all they did was try and warn you off.”

  “The Watch?” Beaufort asked.

  “Well, I’m Watch, aren’t I? But it goes no further. Some things can be kept between friends.”

  DI Adams wondered if she wanted to know about the Watch, and decided that a talking cat was more than enough for one day. “So you were protecting them?” she said.

  The cat looked uncomfortable. “Looking out for them, let’s say. Protecting’s a bit … you know. Doglike.”

  “And you did that by taking them straight to the goblins?” Mortimer demanded.

  “Yes,” Beaufort said. “Why didn’t you come to us?”

  The cat shrugged. “I can’t get anywhere near a dragon hill. Not with those blocking runes you have all about the place. You weren’t around, so I thought the ladies, as you call them, could take a look and call the police. I didn’t expect them to go all commando on me.”

  Alice scowled at him. “As you call them indeed. And you’ve not once said thank you for all the tuna.”

&n
bsp; “I prefer salmon,” Thompson said, and sprawled out by the fire.

  “I still want to know why you didn’t talk,” Alice insisted. “It would have been an awful lot easier.”

  The cat looked at her lazily. “This. Questions, questions, questions. Talk-talk-talk. It would have been the new year by the time we got there.” He closed his eyes.

  “And that,” Beaufort said, “is why most people are better off thinking cats can’t talk.”

  DI Adams glanced at Collins. He was looking at his mince pie as if suspecting it might contain some rather unusual and possibly illegal ingredients. “I’m really not keen on the eggnog idea,” she said, “but if you have any Scotch …?”

  “And what about you, Detective Inspector Adams?” Alice asked. “I understand you weren’t really meant to be up here.”

  DI Adams sipped her Scotch. Yes. Turning up with a stitched-up arm from an arrest that wasn’t even in her jurisdiction, let alone in her caseload, hadn’t exactly put DCI Temple’s mind to rest. He was still concerned about her stress levels, although she had told him, quite truthfully, that she felt much better. There had been pursuit, and some good punches, and even a couple of tackles, although technically that had all been with the goblins. The humans had all been fighting to be first in the car. It had done the trick, though. “I’m on probation,” she said.

  “I keep telling her that if she likes it that much she should just transfer up here,” DI Collins said. “I’ll put in a good word for her.”

  “I’d be bored out of my mind. What was your other case? Missing turkeys?”

  Gilbert choked on his eggnog, and Amelia patted him on the back affectionately.

  “Oh,” Mortimer said. “I completely forgot.”

  “Forgot what?” Beaufort asked.

  “Why were you chasing a turkey when you went into Rockford’s cave, Gilbert?”

  Gilbert mumbled something, and everyone leaned forward.

  “Sorry?” Beaufort said. “Speak up, lad, some of us are a bit deaf.”

  “It got away,” Gilbert said.

  “Away from where? There’s no turkeys living on the hill.”

  Gilbert took a deep breath, then said, “I took them from the turkey farm and hid them in my cave. I didn’t want them to get eaten. I was going to let them go, but then I figured it’d be safer after Christmas.”

  “Gilbert! Not again,” Beaufort said, frowning. “We’ve talked about this.”

  “You’ve got to stop,” Amelia said. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Gilbert glared at her. “They’re living creatures!”

  “Frank does overcharge terribly,” Alice said, “And I don’t think he feeds his birds decent food.”

  “You see? I saved them!”

  “You stole them,” Beaufort said. “You have to put them back.”

  “But they’ll get eaten! It’s so unfair!”

  “There’s your case solved,” DI Adams said to Collins.

  “And you thought it’d be boring. Can I just – Gilbert, why don’t you want them to get eaten?”

  “Because no one needs to eat meat. We should all eat pumpkins,” the young dragon said earnestly.

  DI Collins looked at DI Adams, then took a large bite of Christmas cake. “I was prepared for dragons,” he said. “No one said anything about vegetarian dragons and talking cats.”

  Outside, the snow began to fall again, bringing a hush to the soft fields and wild fells, and a full moon hung silver among the stars as Christmas edged quietly closer. Inside, in warm cottages and fire-lit caverns, in cosy dens and sheltered nests, small secret lives were lived and loved and dreamed, on two legs or four, and sometimes on more or less than that. And, for one night at least, magic was as much a part of the world as all the many forms of love, because they are, after all, one and the same thing.

  And what a poor world it would be without either.

  Recipes

  Ah, Christmas. What is Christmas without a complete over-indulgence in a whole variety of special occasion food, with a heavy emphasis on mince pies and fruit cake?

  Well, to be fair, I’m not a fan of fruit cake (it’s the marzipan), and being from New Zealand a mince pie means a meat pie. I really did think the English were rather odd, have mini meat pies with their cups of tea as a festive treat.

  But that was before I encountered the glory of a well-made mince pie, with its perfect balance of rich dried fruit and flaky pastry, often served with a crumbling slice of Wensleydale cheese. They are small, unassuming, and spectacular.

  And it being that time of year, in the following pages you’ll find a handful of festive recipes, dragon-approved and unlikely to displease the W.I.

  Holidays (whether Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Saturnalia, or something else entirely), more than any other time of the year, seem to be when food becomes more central than ever. The making and sharing of dishes gives us a way to express love, friendship, and appreciation for each other. It draws us together in celebration, and offers the chance to provide for each other in both heart and belly without feeling awkward or cheesy. Plus the opportunity to argue over why we keep eating brussels sprouts and whose turn it is to wash the dishes.

  But, arguments aside, that connection is something truly worth celebrating. With or without eggnog.

  * * *

  Note: I use UK measurements (metric). I’ve converted them to US, but this is a less than exact science (which sounds better than “I got a bit confused between cups, sticks, and ounces, so just took a stab at one.” Which is more true). You may need to experiment and tweak a little. Good luck!

  Mince Pies

  I should also point out that, in the UK, mincemeat is minced dried fruit, often mixed with brandy and left to mature a little. As a New Zealander, just as mince pies are meat pies, mincemeat is minced beef or lamb or other unidentifiable bits that are left over.

  I really did think English people were a bit weird. Until I tasted one of their mince pies. And they are amazing.

  Now, to be fair, they’re not all amazing, and a good balance between pastry and mincemeat is essential. Too much pastry (particularly if it’s not very good pastry), they’re dry and claggy and you have to choke them down with excessive quantities of tea (if there is such a thing). Too much mincemeat, and they’re so sweet your eye starts twitching.

  Now, serious bakers like Gert will make their mincemeat from scratch, marinating it in brandy from the end of summer, if not before. Those of us catering to dragon appetites, such as Miriam (or being non-drinkers like me) will be quite happy to buy our mincemeat in and just make the pastry. And if you tell me that’s not homemade I’ll keep them all to myself.

  This recipe uses brown sugar, which lends itself amazingly well to the mincemeat filling, and is my own invention, because I ran out of regular sugar and (to the horror of the SO, who’s a pastry chef), I substitute fearlessly and with little regard for the consequences.

  It usually works out.

  * * *

  225g / 8 oz cold butter, diced

  350 g / 2 cups + 3 Tbsp plain flour

  100 g / ½ cup (packed) light brown sugar

  280 g / 1 ¼ cups mincemeat (the fruit variety)

  1 small egg

  Icing sugar to dust

  * * *

  Rub butter into flour until fully combined – you could do this in a food processor, but the less you work it the more delicate the pastry will be, so by hand is gentler. Also more fun, right?

  * * *

  Mix in the sugar and a pinch of salt, then work lightly into a ball (don’t add any liquid – I promise it’ll work!). The mix will be firm, and more like shortbread dough than pastry. You can use it straightaway or chill if for later. I tend to make a double batch and freeze half, and it lasts really well.

  * * *

  Preheat oven to 200C/400F. Using two mince pie tins (these are much shallower than muffin tins – about half the depth or even less. But I have used muffin tins before and just half-filled th
em, which worked okay, although getting them out was a bit tricky), press small balls of pastry (about a tablespoon) across the base and up the sides. Try to get the thickness as uniform as possible – the pastry is too soft to roll, so you’ll need to get your hands in there again. You should get about 18, with enough left over for the tops.

  * * *

  Spoon mincemeat into bases, then take slightly smaller scoops of pastry and pat them into lids. Top the pies with them and press edges together to seal – or get lazy like me and dot scraps of pastry over the top of the pie rather than making a lid. These will spread to form a crumble-like top, which looks rather pretty and is really nice if you don’t like too much pastry.

  * * *

  You could freeze your pies at this point, but where’s the fun in that? Bake for about 20 minutes or until pastry is golden, then let rest in the tins for five minutes or so before lifting them gently out with a knife or fish slice. They are delicate, but oh, they’re nice.

  * * *

  Make triple batches for dragons.

  Fruit Cake

  Hmm. Fruit cake. Dragons rather enjoy fruitcake, particularly dipped in eggnog, but maybe it’s something to do with their fire-breathing tastes. I mean, the cake is nice, but then everyone goes and loads it with weird plastic icing. You know. Marzipan. Ew. As far as I’m concerned, it’s fun for making things with, but so’s modelling clay. I’m not going to eat either of them.

  However, Mick Carbert, SO, utterly amazing supporter and truly excellent pastry chef, assures me that I would love this one. And I trust him. There’s not a scrap of marzipan in sight …

  * * *