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

by Kim M Watt

  Yule Be Sorry

  A Beaufort Scales Mystery - Book 2

  Kim M. Watt

  Copyright © 2018 by Kim M. Watt.

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  All rights reserved. No part of this book/ebook may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including scanning, uploading or electronic sharing, without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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  Seriously, don’t steal books. Share them. Talk about them. Review them. Tell your friends about them. Writers love that. But book thieves will be fed to dragons.

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  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For further information contact: www.kmwatt.com

  Cover design: Monika McFarland, www.ampersandbookcovers.com

  Editor: Lynda Dietz, www.easyreaderediting.com

  Logo design by www.imaginarybeast.com

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  ISBN: 978-1-9993037-7-8

  First Edition: December 2018

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Your FREE Book is Waiting!

  Details on how to get yours at the back of the book!

  Abominable snow-creatures.

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  Adorable muggers.

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  Dubious disguises.

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  And how that whole barbecue and tea party thing came

  about …

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  Grab your copy of The Tales of Beaufort Scales for FREE, and find out how it all began.

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  PLUS, you’ll also be able to get your talons on free advance copies of new books, newsletter-exclusive short stories, and more!

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  Find details at the back of this book!

  For Mick,

  who always believes.

  And who gives proper consideration to questions

  regarding Yorkshire, baking,

  and dragons.

  Contents

  1. Mortimer

  2. DI Adams

  3. Miriam

  4. Mortimer

  5. Alice

  6. Miriam

  7. DI Adams

  8. Miriam

  9. Alice

  10. Miriam

  11. DI Adams

  12. Alice

  13. Mortimer

  14. Miriam

  15. Alice

  16. DI Adams

  17. Mortimer

  18. Miriam

  19. Mortimer

  20. Alice

  21. DI Adams

  Recipes

  Mince Pies

  Fruit Cake

  Mocha Yule Log

  Cranberry Pistachio Cookies

  Pavlova

  Afterword

  Need more dragons?

  Book 3: A Manor of Life & Death

  A Manor of Life & Death Chapter 1: DI Adams

  A Manor of Life & Death Chapter 2: Miriam

  Want to keep reading?

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Your Free Book is Waiting!

  Also by Kim M. Watt

  1

  Mortimer

  The air was crisp and still, sparkling with the promise of frost, and the stars pocked across the sky were dim beyond the Christmas lights. The scent of mulled wine and roasting chestnuts rolled across the cobbled streets, and yellow light spilled from the steamed windows of the pubs (both the nice one with foodie aspirations, and the other one, where the carpet was always sticky and it still smelt of cigarettes from the 90s). The smattering of shops and businesses that crowded the little village square had fairy lights and decorations and fake snow in their windows, and even the butcher’s empty display cases with their dubious plastic holly managed to look grudgingly festive.

  But no one was window-shopping tonight. All eyes were on the tented market stalls blossoming across the square, crowded by shoppers with red noses and heavy jackets, while the stall holders chattered through their spiels and breathed mist onto the night.

  The fairy lights and lanterns of the stalls shone on hand-tooled leather bags and knitted beanies, paintings in small frames and bird houses waiting for a distant summer. There was jewellery with hand-lettered labels, and cakes wrapped clumsily in cling-film, cupcakes with towering domes of wintry frosting and novelty T-shirts with flashing lights and tinsel. There were toys and puzzles, journals and pickles and nougat and gingerbread. There were wreaths and trees and brightly coloured soaps, wooden toys and dried flowers and bacon sizzling on a grill and a stall selling hot chocolate and spiced cider. It was, in short, a wonderland, the sort of place that required immediate exploration, and Mortimer was more than a little worried that was exactly what was on Beaufort’s mind. The old dragon had wriggled his scaly head out under the canvas at the back of the Women’s Institute stall and was peering around eagerly.

  “Um, Beaufort?” Mortimer said. “No one can see you, can they?”

  “Of course not, lad,” he said. “We’re dragons. No one sees dragons unless they’re expecting to see dragons.”

  Mortimer could think of at least half a dozen occasions in the last year alone where humans had seen dragons whether they expected to or not. It was one thing spending time with the Toot Hansell Women’s Institute, who were not only remarkably well-disposed to see dragons, but were very indisposed to share that knowledge with anyone else. It was quite another being in the middle of a crowded market place where anyone Sensitive enough could see them. All they needed was some reporter over from Skipton, writing a story on the Christmas market for the local paper and being all observant.

  “Beaufort, do come back in,” Alice said, not looking up from restocking the mince pie plate. Mortimer watched carefully to make sure she didn’t drop any. Although, with Alice, that was unlikely.

  Beaufort gave a very pointed sigh and retreated, bumping into Miriam’s legs.

  “Oh! Sorry, Beaufort. Are you alright?” Miriam was pink-cheeked in the soft light, hair escaping in all directions from under a misshapen wool hat.

  “Just keeping an eye on things. It’s terribly busy out there, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Miriam checked for eavesdropping customers before she kept talking. “I don’t think anything needs keeping an eye on, though. And you do need to be careful – we don’t want a repeat of the first Christmas market.”

  Beaufort Scales, High Lord of the Cloverly dragons, veteran of more battles than he cared to remember and possessor of a most impressive set of age-yellowed teeth, looked suitably chastened. He sat down next to Mortimer, out of the way of the two women selling Christmas cake and chutney and hot drinks, and Mortimer’s own enchanted dragon-scale baubles and magical boats.

  “That market was more fun, though, don’t you think?” he said to the younger dragon.

  Mortimer snorted. “You made us wear dog suits, Amelia almost ate a dog, and then you caught fire. I guess it depends on your definition of fun.”

  “It was more fun than sitting behind the counter, not being allowed to talk to anyone.”

  Mortimer inspected him for a moment, then held out a plate. “Christmas cake?”

  “May as well.”

  Mortimer had never imagined what would come from such a little thing as suggesting to the High Lord that time spent searching for treasure troves would be better used collecting barbecues and gas bottles for drago
ns to sleep on. Beaufort had abruptly transformed from a bored old dragon to a very interested old dragon. Interested in everything, and once Mortimer had met Miriam and come up with the idea of restarting the dragon-scale trade (only instead of selling scales to knights for armour, he made magical baubles that unfolded into flowers and floated in mid-air when lit, or boats that blossomed into intricate sailing ships once they touched water, or gliders that were delicate and beautiful and near enough unbreakable. He felt it was an improvement), Beaufort had gone from interested to involved. It still made Mortimer shudder, thinking of the old dragon crashing the Women’s Institute meeting almost two years ago. Although that was nothing compared to the murder investigation they’d crashed this last summer.

  Miriam held out a jug of mulled wine to the dragons. “Beaufort?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Mortimer?”

  He took a paper cup with a wary glance at Beaufort. “Not too much.”

  “Mortimer, the wine had nothing to do with last time.”

  Mortimer had his own thoughts regarding that. He still distinctly remembered Beaufort, in a dog costume, wandering off to buy mulled wine from a very confused stall holder. He had nightmares about it, in fact. “Well. Just – it’s for the customers, isn’t it?”

  “We always make extra,” Miriam said, pouring some for Alice, who took it with a smile and wrapped her hands around the cup.

  Mortimer sighed. Beaufort had already finished his wine and was looking at the tureen expectantly. The High Lord was bored. It never did for the High Lord to get bored. He’d start Thinking About Things, and that never ended well.

  Alice tipped her mug to the dragons in a gap between customers, white hair falling in neat lines to her chin from under her rather fetching felt hat. “The baubles are selling very well, Mortimer. I hope you have more.”

  “I do. And the boats?”

  “Not as well, but they’re still popular.” Alice leaned forward to watch the dragon-scale baubles bobbing softly at the ends of their tethers, like gently lit balloons. Some of them looked like birds, others like stars or butterflies or flowers, others just globes with fanciful patterns carved in their sides. They burned without using fuel or releasing heat, and had proved so popular that Miriam had introduced the dragons to something called the Etsy. The income was handy for things like gas bottles and barbecues, which the Cloverly dragons had embraced eagerly. But Mortimer felt that was only the start. He was currently trying to figure out whether to invest in AGAs, or if the logistics of underfloor heating in the caverns was a possibility. There were many options available for a modern dragon.

  Miriam sat down on a folding chair next to the dragons, and Mortimer shuffled a little closer to her, letting the heat of his breath warm her hands. Beaufort sat by the counter, watching the passage of customers with old gold eyes while their gaze passed unseeing over the dragons, draped in fireproof blankets and half-hidden in the shadows.

  “I feel like a horse,” he grumbled, shaking his wings so violently that the blanket almost fell off.

  “Well, you don’t look like one,” Alice said, stooping to pull the blanket up again and patting him on the shoulder. “Not to me, anyway.”

  “It’s better than looking like a dog,” Mortimer said under his breath, and Miriam snorted.

  Beaufort looked back at them both and grinned suddenly, exposing those fearsome teeth. “Never mind, lad,” he said. “I’m sure something exciting will happen soon.”

  Mortimer fervently hoped not.

  It was getting late, the customers dwindling, heading home to firesides and warm beds. The mulled wine was almost finished, the boxes of chutneys and cakes and baubles under the counter all but empty. It had been a good night for the Women’s Institute, and Alice and Miriam were the last ones to take their turn standing in the cold (relative cold, thanks to the dragons, who radiated a lot more heat than the gas heaters some of the other stallholders were using). Gert and Jasmine had stayed to help them pack up, but it was mostly just empty boxes. The stall was rented and would be collected the next day.

  “I think that’s the last of them,” Alice said, handing Gert a shopping bag full of flattened boxes.

  “How did my cordial sell?” Gert had an enormous scarf on over a puffy coat, and bore a startling resemblance to a large purple bear.

  “All gone. I think telling people that it might be a teeny bit alcoholic and that they shouldn’t serve it to kids was actually a selling point.”

  “Of course it was.” Gert tucked the bag under one arm and picked up the empty mulled wine urn with the other. “You ready?”

  “Oh, no. You go on. We’ll pack up the rubbish then walk back. No sense all of us hanging around.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “The walk’ll be nice,” Miriam said.

  “If you prefer, then,” Gert said. “Come on, Jas. Let’s get out of the cold.” The younger woman nodded and picked up a storage crate full of paper plates and mugs and napkins.

  “Lovely sandwiches, Jasmine,” Beaufort said from the shadows.

  “Oh, really?” She gave the old dragon an enormous smile. “You really liked them?”

  “They were wonderful,” Beaufort assured her, while Miriam and Alice made agreeable noises. Mortimer nodded vigorously. Fire breathing doesn’t lend itself to a very refined palate, so he hadn’t minded the sandwiches, although somehow they’d been both soggy and dry, and while the filling had looked like turkey and cranberry, it had tasted more like some sort of foam insulation. He imagined that was why Alice had asked Jasmine to be in charge of transport rather than, well, anything else. The younger woman had made some lovely wreaths for the stall, but so many bits had fallen off on the way here that they’d had to just use them for decoration at the back, where no one could see the gaps.

  “Well, I’m so glad you liked them.” Jasmine’s cheeks had flushed a rather pretty shade of pink, and she was still grinning. “Okay – ’night everyone!” She all but skipped off toward the van, leaving a trail of paper cups behind her.

  “I’ll get them.” Miriam hurried off in a swirl of bright skirts and multi-coloured thermal tights, collecting the spilled cups and calling to Jasmine to slow down. Alice smiled, and went back to wiping off the counters.

  Beaufort stretched, and brushed Christmas cake crumbs off his snout. “Is there any mulled wine left?”

  Alice raised her eyebrows, tucking the cash box into her bag. “There is.”

  “It will keep, you know,” Mortimer pointed out, although he supposed the danger was past. They were one of the last stalls still packing up. Even if Beaufort got it in his head to start wandering around, hopefully anyone perceptive enough to see him would be coming out of the pub and would either think they were hallucinating or that he was a very odd, slightly oversized Shetland pony.

  “But I thought this market was a one night only thing,” Beaufort said.

  “We could take it to the W.I. meeting next week.” Alice sounded as if she was smiling, although she didn’t look up from what she was doing.

  “Well. Of course. That's right. We should do that. You, I mean.” Beaufort had a disappointed little droop to his shoulders.

  “That seems like a good idea,” Mortimer said, trying to help Alice by taking the bin bag out but only succeeding in puncturing it with his claws. “Oh. Sorry.”

  Alice took the bag off him. “Leave that, and do try to relax a little, Mortimer. It all went perfectly, no one looked twice at either of you, and there’s just enough mulled wine for four good glasses. A perfect evening, in other words. There’s no reason for you to fuss so much.”

  Mortimer felt his scales flush a slightly ashamed yellow. Alice hadn’t even raised her voice, but it was worse than being shouted at by Lord Margery.

  “Too late, am I?” A man leaned over the stall counter and peered into the shadows beyond, smelling of beer and chips and some undefined hunger that made Mortimer’s stomach tighten. The young dragon froze wher
e he was, taking on the pale, murky colours of the tent canvas and the cobbled street underfoot, feeling Beaufort doing the same. The man felt aware, and combined with that hungry smell, it didn’t seem like a good thing.

  “You are, I’m afraid,” Alice said pleasantly. “I’ve just sent the last of the stock off. Not that there was much left.”

  “Those baubles,” the man said, straightening up to look at her. “Pretty good craftsmanship.”

  “Excellent,” Alice agreed, re-bagging the rubbish bag that Mortimer had torn.

  “Make them yourself?”

  “No, but we buy them direct from the artisan.”

  “The artisan, now. That’s fancy.” The man grinned, and Alice left the bag of rubbish on the ground, folding her arms.

  “Well, he is an artist. They don’t come from a factory, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Mortimer considered the fact that Amelia and even her little brother Gilbert were helping him now, and wondered what, exactly, constituted a factory.