by Kim M Watt
“Sandwiches?” she suggested, slightly desperately.
Alice gave her one of those severe looks she was so good at. “Miriam, it’s the middle of December. Why on earth would we want sandwiches at four in the afternoon?”
“But I don’t know what to do,” Miriam whispered. “What should I do if I don’t make sandwiches?”
“Just sit here and calm down,” Alice said, and patted her shoulder reassuringly.
“I wouldn’t mind a sandwich,” Beaufort said, then when Alice glared at him he added quickly, “The inspector wasn’t looking at the W.I., Miriam. I’m sure it’ll all be fine.”
“She still makes me nervous. She’s very… efficient.”
“So am I,” Alice pointed out.
“Yes. You’re making me nervous too. You’re going to want to do something, aren’t you?”
Beaufort looked very interested at that, and Mortimer buried his snout in his paws.
Alice screwed her face up like she was trying not to say something sharp. “Well, at least I’m not going to arrest you.”
“You think she might arrest me?” Miriam heard the waver in her voice, but she couldn’t help it. This just got worse and worse.
“Of course not, Miriam. I was only joking. Why don’t we all go into the living room and have a nice sit down?”
Miriam shot out of her chair. “I haven’t checked the fire! I have to check the fire!”
“I’ll do that,” Mortimer said, and padded out into the hall. Miriam watched him go anxiously. He didn’t look much happier than she felt. Beaufort had lapsed back into uncharacteristic silence, the tip of his tail scraping the floor restlessly.
“And we could have some whisky, if you have it?” Alice suggested.
“Whisky?” Miriam looked at the dark already pressing in against the windows, hiding the winter garden from view and disguising the misdeeds of van torchers and postal thieves. “Yes, actually. That sounds rather good.” She got up and went to rummage in the pantry.
As it turned out, she didn’t have any whisky, but after some scuffling she found a bottle of Metaxa with a dubious, lopsided label that her sister had brought back from Greece. She poured generous measures into four mismatched glasses, although Mortimer made a face and nudged his over to Beaufort.
The High Lord took it in his front paws and examined the contents with his eyebrow ridges drawn down low and worried. “Who would kidnap a postman?” he asked.
“And who would make it look like dragons?” Alice added.
“She didn’t tell us everything,” Mortimer said. “I’m sure there’s something more. Why was she asking about what we ate?”
“Probably just because he’s missing,” Beaufort said. “If they’d actually found a half-eaten body, she’d have told us.”
Miriam gave a little squeak at that and took a healthy gulp of Metaxa, then started coughing wildly. It was quite horrible stuff.
“But she was sure enough that it could be dragons that she came to ask us about it,” Alice said, ignoring Miriam. “Beaufort, can we really be sure it wasn’t a dragon?”
Beaufort still had that worried look on his face, and now he swallowed Mortimer’s Metaxa, releasing a puff of bright blue steam. “I suppose we can’t, really. I’d like to think no one would do such a foolish thing, but, well. Maybe I’m wrong. Young dragons can be very silly at times.”
“It would endanger all of you,” Alice said. “It seems more than silly.”
“Not everyone’s happy with how things are,” Mortimer said, not quite looking at Beaufort, who snorted.
“Unhappy’s one thing. No one would do something like this deliberately.”
Mortimer looked like he had more to say, but he only poked a log into the centre of the fire, sending a little cascade of sparks onto the hearth.
Miriam had somehow finished her Metaxa, although she didn’t remember drinking it all. She topped her glass up, her face feeling tight and hot in the heat of the fire. “Maybe someone’s framing you.”
“Framing us?” Beaufort looked dubious.
“Sure.” She took another sip of the Metaxa. It wasn’t so bad, once you got over the initial sensation that your throat was on fire, and your nose stopped running. It had made the nervous, sick feeling in her belly fade, at least. “Maybe it’s another dragon clan out to get you, or – or – I don’t know. Sea serpents, or something.”
“It wouldn’t actually be possible for sea serpents—” Mortimer began, and Miriam gave a startled hiccough. She hadn’t really meant sea serpents, but everything else seemed to be real, so why not? She examined her glass, bemused to find it empty again.
“No, she’s right.” Beaufort scratched his chin. “It makes more sense than one of our own doing it. Maybe it’s the Bellerby clan. They still live in the bottom of that slate quarry up near Hawes. Absolutely refuse to move, despite the fact that they have to keep digging new caverns every few weeks when the old ones collapse. They despise anything new, but I’m quite sure they’re horribly jealous of our barbecues.”
“How would they even know about the barbecues?” Mortimer asked. “They never come out.”
Beaufort snorted impatiently. “Well, if not them, then the Kettlesmorgs.”
“The Kettlesmorgs? They’re the size of hamsters.”
“Mortimer, you’re not being very helpful.”
“It just seems unlikely, is all. It’d take fifty of them to even singe a van.”
Beaufort glared at him. “It won’t be a Cloverly dragon, so it must be another clan. They’ll be trying to scare us back into hiding.”
“It seems an odd way to go about it,” Alice said. “By drawing attention to you, I mean.”
“It’s a warning,” Beaufort said. “They’re telling us to stop associating with humans, or they’ll make it impossible for us to do so.”
Mortimer still looked dubious. “Why haven’t they just reported us to the Watch, then?”
“This is dragon business. We’ve always dealt with our own matters. Not even Skintboggles would go to the Watch, and they’re always grovelling about the place pretending they’re not even dragons.”
“Well, technically,” Mortimer began, then ducked when Beaufort glared at him, the High Lord’s ears starting to turn a threatening puce colour. “That’s quite right, is all I was going to say.”
“Who are the Watch?” Miriam asked. She glanced at everyone’s glasses, but hers was the only one empty. That didn’t seem very fair.
“They’re a very ancient order,” Beaufort said. “They keep the humans and the old Folk like us apart. Nosy little busybodies they are, too.”
“So this could be a matter for them,” Alice suggested.
“Not if it’s dragons,” Beaufort said firmly. “The Watch and dragons tolerate each other, that’s all.”
“Plus, no matter who’s responsible, they’d ban us from seeing you on pain of exile,” Mortimer said. “They’re very strict. I hope they haven’t heard about the post van.”
“Yes, they don’t believe in mitigating circumstances. If they investigate there could be all sorts of trouble.” Beaufort frowned at his glass as if not sure what to do with it, and Miriam leaned forward to top it up, using the opportunity to fill her own as well.
“It doesn’t sound like there’s much we can do, then,” she said. “We should probably just stay out of it.”
“Well, we did rather well last time,” Beaufort said. “And I’ve been studying those television shows very closely. I’ve picked up a lot of tips on investigating. I’m sure we can handle this.”
Mortimer stared at his paws. “Beaufort, I don’t think that’s the best idea.”
“Why ever not? The DI came to us for help, didn’t she?”
“No, I think she came to see if we might be suspects.”
“Rubbish. Anyone can see we’re not suspects.”
Mortimer closed his eyes, and Miriam thought from his pained expression that he might be counting to ten. She probably s
houldn’t have given Beaufort more Metaxa. She took a careful sip, spilling some on her fingers. She appeared to have put a little too much in the glass.
“Mortimer? Mortimer!” The High Lord sounded annoyed. “Are you listening?”
He opened his eyes again. “Beaufort, sir, she thinks dragons did it. We’re the only dragons she knows. We’re suspects.”
“We might be persons of interest, but suspects is pushing it.”
“Well, either way, we can’t go rushing off investigating.”
“She asked us to.”
“No, she asked us if we could look into dragons. That is not the same thing as investigating.”
Alice took the Metaxa bottle off Miriam with a rather unnecessarily firm expression, the younger woman felt. “Seems to me that the best way to show you’re innocent is to find out who’s guilty.”
Mortimer clapped his paws over his snout, his scales taking on a sickly grey that didn’t match anything in the room as Beaufort agreed heartily.
“Are you sure?” Miriam asked, trying unsuccessfully to reclaim the bottle. “That seems pretty much exactly the opposite of what the inspector told us to do. Plus there’s these Watch people to think about.”
“Yes,” Alice said thoughtfully. “But we don’t know that the Watch have heard anything yet, and if we can get it resolved quickly enough, they won’t have to. Plus, this is rather out of the DI’s jurisdiction, from the sounds of things. Both in the sense that it may be dragons, and in the sense that she doesn’t actually work up here. So whoever’s in charge of this case won’t even know about dragons. They’ll be completely at a loss, as well as being a risk if they start noticing dragon-y traces. Beaufort, you and Mortimer – all the Cloverlies, in fact – need to keep a very low profile. Even stay away for a while, particularly if this Watch might come sniffing around as well as the police.”
Mortimer let out a small puff of relieved pink smoke, and started to take on his own colours again, purples and blues creeping back. “That seems very sensible,” he said. “Is there Christmas cake, by any chance? I could really go for a piece of Christmas cake.”
Alice waved him to silence. “In a moment, Mortimer. Look, the only thing for it is that Miriam and I will undertake some investigation on this side, with a little help from the W.I. Pre-empt any police poking around. You two can eliminate the Cloverly dragons as suspects, then canvas the – what did you call them? The Folk? The ones you can trust, anyway. We’ll get to the bottom of this in no time with a bit of sensible division of labour.”
Mortimer stared at her, colour running out of his scales with alarming rapidity. Miriam wondered vaguely if dragons could faint. She didn’t feel so good herself, come to think of it.
“That seems reasonable,” Beaufort said. “We’ll have to be careful though, all of us. This attack could well have raised a few flags at the Watch already. If they’re investigating, they can’t fail to notice that there are a few dragonish things around.” He gestured at the baubles drifting silently across the low beams of the ceiling, glowing with yellow light and alive with soft movement.
“We’ll get them stashed away,” Alice said. “Miriam, are we in agreement?”
Miriam put her face in her hands, feeling really quite unwell. “I don’t think I want to be an investigator. It all went a bit wrong last time.”
“Nonsense, you were a wonderful investigator. Besides, it’s not like you’ll be doing it on your own.”
“What if you get arrested again? What if I get arrested?”
“That was nothing but a ploy by the detective inspector,” Alice said firmly. “And no one’s going to suspect you of firebombing vans.”
Miriam tried to think of another reason that they shouldn’t investigate, other than just the fact that it was a Really Bad Idea and that the inspector had specifically told them not to, which apparently counted for nothing. Or it certainly seemed to count for nothing when it came to the High Lord of the Cloverly dragons and Alice Martin, RAF Wing Commander (retired). Miriam supposed it was just in their natures. It certainly wasn’t in hers. “I don’t feel very well,” she said aloud, straightening up. “I think I’m getting the flu.”
“That’s the Metaxa,” Alice said, rather unsympathetically.
“That’s settled, then,” Beaufort said, and nudged Mortimer, who almost fell over. “Good plan, yes, lad?”
“I don’t think—” Mortimer began, but Beaufort wasn’t listening.
“We’ll head back to the caverns, then. No time like the present to get started.”
Alice stood up, straightening her cardigan. “Quite. We’ll sleep on it and get started tomorrow.” She picked up the Metaxa bottle, then added, “Just so we know, what do these Watch people look like?”
“Oh, that’s easy,” Beaufort said cheerily. “They’re cats.”
“Cats?”
“Cats. There’s one Watch cat in the village, but he turns a blind eye because I found him in the river when he was a kitten a couple of his lives back. Pulled him out and warmed him up, then dropped him on a friendly doorstep. He’s been quite decent with us since then.”
“I don’t like cats very much,” Miriam whispered. “I’m allergic.”
Alice looked like she had a lot of questions, but eventually she just said, “Good to know. We’ll keep an eye out for any unfamiliar cats, then.”
“Good, good. Mortimer?”
“Coming,” Mortimer said, sounding rather miserable. Miriam knew how he felt. The day had started out so well. They’d been totting up all their earnings from the night before, and there had been plenty for both the W.I. and the dragons, and Mortimer had been talking about buying AGAs for the caverns, and Beaufort had thought it was undragonish until he realised it meant he didn’t have to worry about sliding off the top of the barbecue in his sleep, and they’d all laughed, and it had all just been so nice.
And now the dragons were sneaking out into the early night like they’d done something wrong, and she felt ill. And yes, some of it was probably from the Metaxa, but she had a feeling that an awful lot of it was from the fact that they were going investigating. Again.
“Alice,” she said uncertainly, when the older woman came back from seeing the dragons off. “I’m really not very good at this.”
“You’re much better at everything than you think you are,” Alice said. “And it’ll all seem a lot clearer in the morning. You pop off to bed and I’ll bring you a cuppa.”
Miriam made a small noise that could have been agreement or disagreement, and did as she was told. It was easier than thinking about things too much.
Miriam woke in the morning with a nasty taste in her mouth and a horrible headache. She pushed herself up in bed and, peering blearily around the dim room, discovered a cold mug of tea and a half-eaten sandwich on her bedside table. She thought she remembered eating the sandwich, but she wasn’t quite sure. She might have dreamed it.
She pushed the covers back and climbed out of bed, looking down at her old flannel nightie with the ragged hem, printed with the pink bunny rabbits. She was almost one hundred per cent sure that Alice went to bed in perfectly ironed silk pyjamas, but she couldn’t muster the energy to feel embarrassed. Not just yet, anyway. She had a feeling that might come later.
She staggered into the bathroom, turned the shower as cool as she could stand it and jumped in, squeaking loudly and splashing soap all over the tub. Serves you right, she told herself, but she didn’t quite believe it. Getting a little drunk on ancient souvenir Metaxa seemed like the most reasonable response she could imagine to the prospect of undertaking another dragonish investigation.
Miriam trailed down the road after Alice, feeling damp and unhappy. She had an idea the day was going to prove to be a long one. She’d told Alice that she was sure she really did have a touch of the flu, but Alice had said tartly that, as far as she knew, you couldn’t buy the flu bottled from Greece. So that had been her excuse to spend a rather miserable December day sitting on the sofa
feeling sorry for herself completely ruined.
Now she wondered if her Paracetamol were out of date, and if scrambled eggs had been the best thing for breakfast. She still felt distinctly queasy, and her pink rain jacket was making her eyes hurt. It seemed an inauspicious start to the investigation.
Alice let them in the little gate to Gert’s house. It was a small, squat cottage with sunken windows that looked like it was folding in on itself, but the light inside was bright and warm.
“Alice, I really don’t feel well,” Miriam whispered.
“Being out and about will be good for you, then.” Alice knocked sharply on the door. Rat-tat-a-tat-tat. Miriam winced. It felt like someone was knocking on her skull.
Gert answered the door in half-glasses and an enormous purple jumper with cows embroidered on it. Miriam closed her eyes. The cows looked like they were moving.
“Alice! Miriam!” Gert exclaimed, and her voice was far too loud. They should have started with someone quieter, like Rose. Rose always talked as if she was in a library. “How lovely! Come in, come in. Mind the mess.” She stepped back into a narrow hall, cluttered with a rack of coats and bags and muddy wellies, and padded into the shadowed depths beyond.
“Who ’tis, Gertie?” a raspy voice called from one of the rooms beyond the hall, and Alice and Miriam exchanged glances as they took their boots off. Husbands were rather extraneous to W.I. business. Especially when it was dragonish W.I. business.
“Just a couple of the girls. Don’t fuss yourself. I’ll bring you a cuppa in a moment.”
“Right you are. Hello, ladies.”
“Hello,” Alice and Miriam called back dutifully, glancing into the living room as they went past. There was a fire on, and the Christmas tree was heaped with lopsided tinsel and flickering lights. Miriam spotted a slipper-clad foot hanging off one end of the sofa and felt faintly envious.
