The Fangs of the Dragon

by Simon Cheshire

  Beneath it, surrounded by earth, was what could only be the lid of a small wooden chest.

  ‘That’s it!’ cried Jack.

  ‘The treasure!’ cried Muddy.

  I, being me, didn’t want to start sinking my hands into the soil. Eurgh! But Muddy, being Muddy, dived straight in, digging the box free. At last, he hauled it up out of the hole he’d dug and set it down on the shiny floor.

  It wasn’t very large, but it was very decayed. The wide metal straps that reinforced its edges had become pitted and discoloured over the years. The wood it was made from had been half eaten away by the earth and whatever lived in it.

  I took the key we’d found from my pocket and handed it to Jack. ‘It’d probably split open with a good kick,’ I said, ‘but I think this would be more appropriate.’

  With a grin, Jack knelt down and twisted aside the small metal plate that covered the lock. The rest of us hardly dared breathe, our hearts racing. The key turned, and with a crunching sound the lock sprang open.

  Jack lifted the lid. Inside, tightly wrapped in a thin sheet of roofing lead to preserve it, was a leather-bound notebook. Every page was filled with handwriting, lists and numbers. Towards the back of it was a torn edge, where a sheet had been ripped out. Inside the front cover, in the same familiar lettering as the parchment, were the words: Journal of Mr Silas Middlewich, begun 4 June 1837, ended 7 August 1844.

  ‘That’s it?’ said Jack. ‘That’s the treasure of Dead Man’s Lane?’

  ‘It certainly is,’ I said, smiling broadly. ‘It certainly is.’

  CHAPTER

  SEVEN

  IZZY, MUDDY, JACK, JACK’S PARENTS and I assembled in the rubble-strewn tip that was going to be the house’s main dining area, once all the refurbishment was complete. It had been a week since we unearthed Silas Middlewich’s journal, and I now had the means to put right a great injustice.

  The others all sat on upturned packing crates. I stood in front of them holding the journal.

  ‘We expected to find gold and jewels,’ I began. ‘Or something similar. You’re all still asking yourselves: so, what actually happened to Silas Middlewich’s ill-gotten gains? Where did he hide all the cash he’d squeezed out of those he’d swindled? The answer is: he never had any in the first place.’

  ‘What?’ said Izzy. ‘That completely contradicts everything that’s known about him.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘Everything that’s known about him is wrong. This journal proves it. Silas Middlewich had a reputation as a crook and a cruel workhouse owner, but in reality he was the exact reverse. He was a champion of the poor. This house, the workhouse he built, was used to shelter destitute people. He put every penny he had into keeping them safe and properly fed.’

  ‘But how, then, could he get such a terrible reputation?’ said Jack.

  ‘Izzy discovered,’ I said, ‘that he got the money to build this place from various dodgy land deals with local bigwigs. That much is true. I can’t say I follow all the legal ins and outs of it, but basically the bigwigs were buying and selling each other’s land illegally. They knew what they were doing was criminal, but they thought Middlewich was on their side. He wasn’t. Brilliantly clever of him. He got them paying all kinds of rents and allowances to him, and they couldn’t do a thing about it, because every last deal they’d signed would have landed them in jail.’

  ‘So, these landowners then started calling him a crook?’ said Jack.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘They couldn’t go to the police, so they used their influence to try to ruin Silas Middlewich some other way.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Izzy. ‘Surely what Middlewich did was wrong too? I mean, he did swindle those landowners, even if he did it for the best of reasons.’

  ‘Absolutely right,’ I explained. ‘But he realised that these wealthy landowners had a lot more to lose than he did, if it all came out in public. He wasn’t interested in his reputation. He didn’t care who called him a crook. He’d been born into a poor family, and he saw it as his mission in life to help others in the same position. He was a kind of Victorian Robin Hood!’

  ‘So where does the treasure trail come in?’ said Jack’s dad, a scattering of plaster dust falling lightly from his hair.

  ‘Ah!’ I said, holding up the journal. ‘It wasn’t long before the landowners were plotting amongst themselves to have Middlewich run out of town. Of course, they wouldn’t do their own dirty work, so they persuaded the local schoolteacher to organise efforts against Middlewich.’

  ‘Josiah Flagg,’ said Muddy.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘But Middlewich stayed put. Soooo, Plan B, one of the landowners, Isaac Kenton, sends his own wife to Middlewich’s workhouse, pretending she’s a pauper. The idea is for her to find and destroy any evidence Middlewich has against her husband and his cronies.’

  ‘Good grief,’ said Izzy quietly. ‘And the landowners spread a rumour that Middlewich had murdered her.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘The perfect way to make Middlewich look like even more of a despicable low-life. The trouble was, Mrs Kenton didn’t find the evidence she was looking for. So, somehow, the landowners managed to persuade the police to raid the house twice, and they didn’t find anything either. Why?’

  I paused for a moment. Smiles began to creep across the faces of my audience. Then they began to nod knowingly.

  ‘Because,’ I said, ‘the evidence was hidden behind that wall panelling. That was what the secret compartment was for. Hiding this journal. Middlewich was a clever man. He knew those landowners would be after his blood, so he kept every last piece of evidence here, in his journal, safely tucked away, ready for when trouble started brewing.’

  ‘Which it did,’ said Jack.

  I nodded. ‘By now it was 1844. The landowners were up in arms, the police were getting involved, and Middlewich knew that soon the game would be up. He had to pass on his evidence, his journal, his “dark and mighty treasure”, to someone who could look after it and take it to the authorities if necessary.’

  ‘Josiah Flagg again,’ said Muddy.

  ‘Flagg had secretly been on Middlewich’s side all the time,’ I said. ‘The landowners didn’t suspect him. If Middlewich’s journal went to Josiah Flagg, it would be safe. The last few days of Middlewich’s life are still a mystery, but obviously he felt that his hiding place, behind the panelling, was no longer safe enough. So in the back of his journal he wrote out a treasure trail. He tore out the page, and put the page behind the panelling instead.’

  ‘And it fitted the secret compartment perfectly,’ said Izzy, ‘because it was torn from the same notebook that the compartment had been designed for in the first place.’

  ‘Yes!’ I said. ‘He buried the journal in the cellar.’

  ‘And then?’ said Muddy.

  ‘And then, the story ends,’ I said sadly. ‘The journal was buried, and we have nothing to tell us what happened next. My guess is that the undercover Mrs Kenton, and the mysterious Martha Humble, the woman who killed Middlewich, were one and the same.’

  ‘Mrs Kenton murdered him?’ said Jack.

  ‘Once we realise that Middlewich wasn’t cruel to the residents of this house, as the official history says, then it doesn’t make sense for one of them to have killed him. They’d have no reason to hate him. But Mrs Kenton would. Izzy’s research showed us that Middlewich’s killer said he’d swindled her husband. Well, we now know what she meant.’

  ‘But why didn’t Josiah Flagg get hold of the journal, as Middlewich intended?’ said Jack.

  I shrugged. ‘I guess that’s something that will remain a mystery. Perhaps he didn’t get the chance to follow the trail. Perhaps the landowners found out about him. Perhaps Middlewich died before he could tell Flagg about the secret compartment. Whatever the truth, time passed, and Silas Middlewich drifted away into history as a crook and a scoundrel. Well, until now. Until Saxby Smart got on the case!’

  ‘But what if it’s the journal that’s th
e phoney?’ said Izzy. ‘What if Middlewich wrote it just to make people change their minds about him?’

  ‘It’s a question of character,’ I said. ‘Remember how I said that the historical accounts of Silas Middlewich didn’t match the facts we could deduce about him from the treasure trail? The whole existence of the treasure trail only makes sense once we realise Middlewich was a good guy.’

  ‘You know,’ said Jack’s dad. ‘I bet that journal would be worth something to local historians. Hey, it might even pay for a few tins of paint!’

  As it turned out, Jack’s dad was right and wrong. Right, because the journal certainly did turn out to be of interest to historians. Wrong, because the sale of the journal at auction a few weeks later didn’t pay for a few tins of paint. It paid for the entire refurbishment of the house.

  Once everything was sorted out, I returned to my garden shed to write up my notes and sit in my Thinking Chair. The journal is currently on display in a museum. It’s strange to think that something that was once so secret is now gawped at every day by visiting parties of school kids. And it’s also strange to think that I was able to help a Victorian regain his proper place in history.

  Case closed.

  CASE FILE SIX:

  THE FANGS OF THE DRAGON

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU, but I always find it odd when I see my teachers out of school. It’s as if you don’t expect them to have a life beyond the school gates. In your head they’re always glugging coffee in the staff room, never filling trolleys at SuperSave.

  So I was surprised when, one weekend, Miss Bennett called at my garden shed. She teaches the year group below me and runs the book club I go to once a week after school.

  As usual, the Saxby Smart – Private Detective sign fell off the door the moment she knocked, and as usual I found myself having to apologise for being unable to nail a simple piece of wood to a door. I slung the sign into a corner, not sure whether to use a bigger nail next time or just to give up having a sign altogether. Paint it! I should paint it on! Of course! Why didn’t I think of —

  Anyway, I let Miss Bennett sit in my Thinking Chair, and I perched on my desk. It was the middle of summer term, and the assorted gardening stuff I’m forced to share my shed with was giving off the aroma of cut grass. I could feel my hay fever coming on.

  Miss Bennett was, as far as I could judge, the youngest teacher in the school. She was certainly one of the most popular. If the descriptive word ‘willowy’ hadn’t already existed, you’d have had to invent it specially for her. She had eyes that looked like they’d been borrowed from a cartoon deer, and a mop of frizzy blond hair that was constantly struggling to free itself from the little hair elastic holding it in a ponytail. She was the last person I’d have expected to present me with one of the oddest cases I’ve ever come across.

  ‘How can I help you?’ I said. I had my arms in a sort of thinking pose, so as to look properly detective-y and on the ball, brain-wise.

  ‘I’m not sure where to begin,’ said Miss Bennett. ‘I mentioned this problem in the staff room, and several of the other teachers suggested I come and talk to you.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. I wasn’t sure whether or not it was a good thing to be talked about in the staff room. ‘So, what kind of problem is this? Has a crime been committed?’

  ‘Well,’ said Miss Bennett, pulling her face into a sort of err-umm-dunno expression, ‘more a sort of non-crime, really. In fact, a whole series of non-crimes.’

  ‘You’ve come to see a private eye about no crime being committed?’ I said.

  ‘It’s like this,’ she explained. ‘Six members of my class have had intruders in their homes over the past few weeks.’

  ‘Ah! So each house has been broken into?’

  ‘Nnnnnnno. There’s been no sign of forced entry.’

  ‘Ah! So stuff’s been stolen?’

  ‘Nnnnnnno. Well, some cash has gone. But there could be other explanations for that.’

  ‘Ah! So burglars have been caught in the act, before they could escape?’

  ‘Nnnnnnno. Nobody’s been seen.’

  ‘So,’ I said, my eyes narrowing. ‘Let’s recap. Six members of your class have not had break-ins, have had nothing stolen and have not spotted any shifty-looking blokes in stripy jumpers and eye masks lurking in the bushes. Hmm, yes, I can see they’d be worried.’

  ‘I know it sounds barmy, Saxby, but each of these six is convinced that someone has been in their house.’

  Now it was my turn to use the err-umm-dunno expression. ‘How?’

  ‘That’s half the trouble,’ said Miss Bennett. ‘There’s nothing they can be sure about. It’s a feeling. They’re certain that things have been moved, just slightly. Objects looked at, wardrobes opened, desks picked through. Things like that.’

  ‘Couldn’t they just be being, I dunno, oversensitive, or something?’

  ‘I might think that too, but six of them? In the same class? Within a few weeks? That seems very odd. And none of them are the sort of kids who’d make things up.’

  ‘Hmm, yes, I see your point. But couldn’t it also be a case of one person saying something and the others picking up on it?’

  ‘No,’ said Miss Bennett. ‘This only came to light because we were having a PSHE lesson the other day. One of the girls, Sarah, happened to mention this peculiar feeling she and her mum had recently experienced, and then the five others spoke up and said they’d experienced exactly the same thing. None of them had mentioned it before, because at the time they all thought, as you would, that it was nothing more than an isolated oddity.’

  ‘You said cash has been taken?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, four of these six say that they, or their parents, have missed small amounts of money. A ten-pound note, or some loose change they thought they’d left in a particular place. Again, nothing that’s really definite. With no break-ins, nothing else taken, they all thought they’d simply mislaid the money. But now, knowing this has happened six times, the missing money suddenly looks like deliberate theft.’

  ‘It certainly does,’ I said. ‘But what kind of thief leaves no trace of breaking in, takes nothing but small amounts of cash, and only takes this cash in four instances out of six?’

  ‘Quite,’ said Miss Bennett. ‘Do you see why I came to you now? My whole class is very worried about this, and so am I. We’re all wondering who’s going to be next.’

  ‘Haven’t any of the six’s parents gone to the police?’

  ‘And tell them what?’ said Miss Bennett. ‘There’s still no actual evidence of any crime having been committed at all. What could the police do?’

  ‘Good point,’ I said. I hopped up off the desk and on to my feet. ‘Well, I can honestly say that’s the weirdest problem anyone has ever come to me with. Ever.’

  ‘So . . . you don’t think it can be investigated?’ said Miss Bennett.

  ‘On the contrary,’ I said. I tried to sound confident, but to be perfectly honest I didn’t feel the slightest bit confident at all. This problem seemed totally baffling even before it had begun! However:

  ‘I’ve never turned down a genuine mystery yet,’ I said, ‘and I don’t intend to start now. Saxby Smart is on the case!’

  A Page From My Notebook

  Fact: Six households, six no-break-ins, six no-crimes-except-possibly-some-cash-nicked. And yet, firm impressions all round that an intruder had been at work.

  Possibility 1: They’ve all gone a bit barmy. Convenient – all I’d have to do is say ‘You’ve all gone a bit barmy,’ and case closed. But not very likely.

  Possibility 2: We’re dealing with a burglar who walks through walls and doesn’t much like stealing things. Not. Very. Likely.

  Connection: All these incidents have happened within one small group of people, i.e. one class at school. So! There is a probable link between the incidents and the school. Must investigate further.

  Problem: However, this doesn’t alter
the basic difficulty here, which is that – so far – the only evidence that these incidents took place AT ALL is the gut reactions of those involved!

  So! All I’ve got to go on is feelings. And feelings are not facts. I need facts. Not feelings. Facts. And there are none to go on. Plus, I think my hay fever is really starting to kick in now. I am not happy.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  WHEN YOU’RE A BRILLIANT SCHOOLBOY detective like me, you can’t afford to let anything pass you by. You never know when a clue, or a connection, or a significant fact, will turn up and blow a case wide open. You must always be on the alert. Always.

  On Monday morning, I was about as alert as a dead wombat. The pollen count was at an all-time high, and my nose was at an all-time low. I slouched to school, cursing the DNA of my parents for passing on the hay fever gene to their only child! I couldn’t decide which were runnier, my eyes or my nostrils. I was not in the best of condition to observe and deduce.

  Even so, taking my usual route across the park at 8.40 a.m., I noticed something very odd. If you’ve read my previous volume of case files, you’ll be well aware of that low-down rat Harry Lovecraft. He’s in my class at school but, as I like to say, the rest of us out-class him in every way, ha ha. Harry Lovecraft is my arch enemy, a sneaky, smarmy, shiny-haired and shiny-shoed weasel, who’s about as trustworthy as a starving cobra in a boxful of white mice. If there’s a con trick to be played in the playground, he’ll play it.

  So I was naturally suspicious when I saw him, taking his usual route across the park, chatting amiably to a group of younger kids. Believe me, that low-down rat Harry Lovecraft never chats amiably to anyone, least of all kids in the year groups below him. Tricks them out of their dinner money, yes, but chats amiably, no.

  I walked faster and caught up with the group. They seemed to be talking about wizards, frog-people, and something called a ‘Grand Croak Toad Belcher’.