Free The Fangs of the Dragon by Simon Cheshire Page A

the dampness of the walls was soaking it up as he spoke. ‘Where on earth would you
put a saucer?’
    ‘I assume he means like a china tea-set saucer,’ said Muddy. ‘Not a flying saucer.’
    ‘I don’t think they had aliens in 1844,’ said Izzy, pulling a face at the patch of mossy stuff that was growing on the brickwork beside her.
    I was also feeling puzzled, to say the least. But the last line had to indicate something down here. I took another close look at everything around me:
    1. The ceiling – made up of grey panels that had been nailed in place; obviously not the original ceiling, but a more modern covering of some kind; bashed and gouged in several
places.
    2.  The floor – plain, grey flagstones; almost slippery with damp in places; some of them worn into a dipping, uneven surface, one so deeply you could put your foot in it; with
a scattering of dirt and rusted nails.
    3. The walls – the same plain brick as the walls in the rest of the house; dark and damp, several of them in a crumbly, flaky state, forming a kind of dotted line at knee
height; the mortar between them dotted with black.
    ‘Of course,’ I whispered. ‘I see it now. It’s one of Silas’s sideways-thinking clues. All you’ve got to do is ask yourself, “What does
a saucer go under?”’
    Can you spot it?

 
    I crouched down and pointed to that deeply worn flagstone in the floor. ‘“Where the saucer goes, go I.” A saucer goes under a cup. That flagstone is worn
into . . .’
    ‘Something pretty close to a cup shape,’ said Izzy.
    ‘Muddy,’ I said, ‘got something to get that flagstone up?’
    Muddy produced a large screwdriver from his bag and pushed the flat end of it as deep into the crack at the edge of the flagstone as he could. With a few heaves, the stone was lifted. With a
loud k-klak it dropped over on its front.
    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.’

 
C HAPTER
S EVEN
    I ZZY , M UDDY , J ACK , J ACK’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,