Free The Fangs of the Dragon by Simon Cheshire

it was?

 
    ‘The teacher, Josiah Flagg,’ I said. ‘Every single clue we’ve followed has involved exactly the sort of maths, science and history that we learn about
even today. Most people in 1844 had no real education at all. Most people would have got hopelessly stuck somewhere along the trail.’
    ‘Noooo,’ said Izzy. ‘He hated Middlewich. Let’s face it, everyone hated Middlewich. That can’t be right.’
    ‘Silas Middlewich left this trail for someone to follow,’ I said.
    ‘Even the great Saxby Smart can make one leap of logic too many, you know,’ she said, eyeing me with a sly smile.
    ‘You just wait,’ I said, eyeing her right back. I turned to the window, brandishing one of the sheets of paper Izzy had brought with her. ‘ Voilà! ’ I
declared. ‘The trees!’
    I showed them what Izzy had printed out at the library. It was an engraving, dated 1860, showing the house from a short distance away. As well as the woods behind the house, there were thickly
wooded areas to both sides as well.
    ‘If you’d have looked out of this window in 1844, all you’d have seen would have been trees, trees and more trees. You’d probably still have seen trees in
1944.’
    ‘Right,’ said Jack. ‘So now . . .’
    . . . fall from the glass and feel the soil.
    We slid the window open, peeped out and looked directly down. A ‘fall from the glass’ would have dropped us into the garden. Well, it might have done in 1844. But not any more.
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Muddy quietly.
    We were looking at the large, plastic roof of a conservatory, added to the side of the house by a more modern owner. Two minutes later, we were looking at that same roof from beneath it. Then we
looked down, at the rock-hard floor of concrete under our boots.
    Down, and down, and where the saucer goes, go I.
    ‘“Down and down”, it says,’ wailed Muddy. ‘We can’t go down through this. Not without some seriously huge equipment.’
    ‘I don’t believe it!’ growled Jack furiously. He stamped against the floor as hard as he could. It was so solid, the blow barely made a sound.
    ‘Isn’t there a cellar?’ I said.
    ‘Yes, but it’s towards the back of the house,’ said Jack.
    Suddenly, Izzy twitched as if she’d just been jabbed with a stick. ‘Wait! Wait!’ She quickly searched through her pile of print-outs, tossing sheets aside as she went.
‘In amongst that load of documents your parents got with the house, Jack! Plans of the sewers!’
    ‘I am not going down a sewer!’ cried Jack.
    ‘Of course!’ I said. ‘That plan would include anything under the house.’
    Izzy found the document she was looking for and tapped a finger against it with excitement. ‘Look! Look!’
    ‘The cellar goes all the way across here,’ I said, tracing the line that marked its edges. ‘It extends out past the side of the house, including this spot where we’re
standing right now. We can go down from here.’
    Without a moment’s hesitation, we raced for the cellar, clattering down a flight of wooden steps into a long, low room lit only by a single bare lightbulb hanging above us. Then we
hesitated.
    ‘Urgh, it stinks,’ said Izzy.
    ‘It’s very damp,’ said Jack. ‘Dad says it’ll be the biggest job in the house, putting it right. It’s going to be a boiler room and laundry.’
    ‘We’ve got to go right over to that far corner,’ I said. ‘That’s the section under the conservatory.’
    The cellar was mostly empty. A few decaying wooden crates were stacked to one side, leaning against the moist brickwork of the wall as if they were too exhausted to stand up by themselves. Our
boots made dull scraping sounds against the shiny grey flagstoned floor. The single lightbulb beamed claw-like shadows around us as we moved.
    Once we were in the right place, we took a good look around.
    . . . and where the saucer goes, go I.
    ‘But there’s nothing here,’ said Jack quietly. His voice sounded thick and heavy, as if