At first it was difficult to follow the crabbed, small hand that helter-skeltered across the pages, but I took it slowly and methodically, realising that my uncle had probably written it during his last illness.
"My dear Niece," he had written. "It is one of my regrets that we shall never meet, although I have the advantage of knowing a little of what you look like, and also have an idea of your disposition."
Out from the letter fell a small pencil sketch. No way was it me—I thought I recognised a copy of a soap advertisement that graced the hoardings in London, but the girl had my curly hair, large eyes (even to the tilt) and wide mouth.
"As far as I can see, you have inherited your mother's hair, short nose and mouth; the rest must come from your father. I have had nothing but good reports of you. My solicitors wasted six months trying to discover your whereabouts and I had almost given up hope, when I saw an advertisement by a fellow calling himself the head of a Lost-and-Found Bureau. I had him visit me here and was both surprised at his youth and charmed by his manner, which was obviously his intention.
"However I decided to give him a try, though payment was to be by results only—I have often found this is efficacious, especially when hiring porters, guides etc. abroad. To cut a long story short, the young man found you through a combination of common sense and good luck far sooner than I had hoped. During this time I suffered another heart attack and realising that the next would be the last, I paid him for finding you and suggested another payment for sending me a detailed report as to your character, disposition and interests.
"You must forgive this second-hand snooping, but I felt there was such a short time left to decide exactly how to dispose of what little there is left. I learnt of your poorly paid post, your earnest endeavours with the children and your especial care of a young boy called Toby Jugg—why do parents not think harder before they burden their children with names that will invite derision? I say nothing of the name you were burdened with, you notice! I was told of your scrimping and saving, your regular attendance at church; I was also given a list of your reading matter, and the museums, concerts and galleries you attended. All of these I thoroughly approved of—even down to your regular feeding of the sparrows on your window-sill!"
I put down the letter in bewilderment. How on earth could this person he hired have found out all this—even down to the sparrows? I got up to stretch my legs and to both pull the curtains and light the oil lamp on the table; candles, unless right at one's elbow, are not ideal for reading. It must have been difficult for Miss Austen and the Misses Brontë, I reflected. I put a couple more logs on the fire, and the pine spat and crackled cheerily.
I moved over to the table to continue reading.
"I am of the opinion that you have inherited the courage and love of life that characterised my dear sister and also the patience and attention to detail that must have contributed to your father's success as a watch-maker, and probably both a compassion and love of learning that has nothing to do with either.
"But I digress. This letter was meant to explain why I have been so dilatory in contacting my only surviving relative. Let it be said here and now that I was weak not to stand up to my parents, and initially it was pure escapism that made me choose a life abroad, but gradually I became absorbed in exploration, and discovered a real affinity for the objects I excavated, so much so, in fact, that collecting rapidly became an obsession that took over my life, even after the hold my parents had over me was loosed by their death. Mea culpa!
"It was only after my bout of malaria, which recurs even now, and the first heart attack and consequent enforced convalescence, that I began to see how selfish my life has become. Of course some of my work has been worthwhile, especially the research, but a great deal has been downright stealing, the theft of historical objects that rightfully belong in their countries of origin. So I determined to return the majority of the artifacts from whence they came, but where this was either unwise or impracticable, I would leave them to museums here, so that they might be enjoyed by all. Research material and papers go to my old college, in the hope that they may inspire future students to follow my profession, albeit with a greater sense of responsibility.
"Part of my regret, as far as you are concerned, is that all that travel and acquiring of artifacts have left me with very little money, and during these last few years I have been living on my capital. My solicitors inform me that once the last artifacts have been shipped, funeral expenses paid, an annuity (which they richly deserve) left to Mr. and Mrs. Early and their own charges disbursed—avoid solicitors like the plague, Niece, if you can: they will bleed you dry!—there would be only the Hall and less than five hundred pounds left. And if they say `less,' then that is exactly what they mean.
"And now I come to the nub of the matter. There remains in my estate four or five hundred pounds and the Hall. I offer you a choice. You may either take the money and walk away to, I hope, a better life, in which case the solicitors have instructions to sell the Hall to endow an archaeology scholarship at Cambridge, or you may inherit the Hall and do with it what you please. In this case the moneys awaiting will be used for you to undertake an expedition very dear to my heart, which I am now too old and ill to contemplate. This latter choice will not be easy, but I am convinced that if any woman can do it, you can. If you decide to take the money I shall not blame you, but give it to you with my blessing. If that is your decision, inform the solicitors and it is yours at once. However if the other alternative has any appeal please read—carefully—the rest of this letter . . ."
I sat back in my chair. Four or five hundred pounds was a fortune! I could give up work, rent a small cottage and even afford a cleaner. . . . Or, if I went back to work, I could buy some decent clothes and find a better position. Whichever way, the money would last for a long, long time—at least ten years. I found I was smiling with relief and pleasure; how very kind of my uncle!
But he had mentioned an alternative: something about an expedition? Although I was sure I had made up my mind, I owed it to him to at least read on.
"Ah, I see you are either not satisfied with a little security, or else are filled with a natural curiosity in that you continue with this letter. Good. I should tell you that I hate to leave any matter unfinished, and there is one problem I have been unable to solve during my lifetime. If I may beg your indulgence to explain further?
"I visited many out-of-the-way places in my journeys, but it was on a routine stopover in Venice that my curiosity led me to visit a local auction, the contents of a crumbling palazzo that was being pulled down to make way for a more modern building. There was little to attract my attention, except for a box of miscellaneous items, amongst which was a rather fine blue glass vase. I already possessed one, so bid for the box, paying less than a tenth than I thought it worth.
"I caught the transport I was awaiting, leaving the unopened box in store, and almost forgot to retrieve it when I returned some three months later, and did not fully examine it until some year later, when I finally returned here. The blue Etruscan vase joined its sister—they are some of the few items I kept: you will find them in the morning-room downstairs. Most of the rest of the items I threw out as chipped, broken or worthlessly modern, but right at the bottom I found a package wrapped in an old cloak. It contained a round object like a small cannon-ball, a crumbling bundle of manuscript, an ivory figurine of some age and a twisted piece of horn.
"At first I could see no connecton between the disparate objects, but a closer scrutiny revealed that around the round object was wrapped a piece of material which read: `This be Dragonnes Eg.' Of course I treated this statement with the scholarly contempt it deserved, but by now I was intrigued enough to examine the manuscript more closely. I found it was written in a kind of mediaeval shorthand, but once I had cracked the code I found it contained the remnants of an interesting tale. Remnants only, alas, because many of the pages were wormeaten or had fallen into dust, or the poor ink used had faded beyond deciphering.
"That part I could translate contained the story of a brave young woman who undertook some sort of pilgrimage, firstly to find a husband, and then trace her lover, who, according to the story, was a dragon-man. According to the narrative she covered many hundreds of miles in her searching and the story is unfinished. I dismissed it as pure fiction at first, but when I had finished the translation, with its sorceries and magics, talking animals, shape-changing and flying pigs, I found many of the details as to places—a desert I recognise, towns that still exist miles from anywhere, rivers and mountains that are readily identifiable—so convincing that the writer must at least have visited these places.
"A couple of scraps of map accompanied the manuscript, and these I have redrawn. My translation together with these and what remains of the original are locked away in the cabinet to which you have the key."
I glanced across at the cabinet; the key was in my reticule and I was dying to open it and take a look, but I would see what else my uncle had to say first.
"I could not immediately see any connection between the four objects in the bundle, but then I recalled mention of an `Eg'—the product of a liaison between the heroine and her dragon-lover—being stolen. There was also mention of a `Unicorn's ring' and a shape-changing creature called `Ky-Lin,' a mythical creature from the Buddhist religion.
"Once I realised, however, that whoever had collected these articles believed in their being kept together because of their relevance, I examined them more closely. I weighed and measured the so-called `Eg'—typical mediaeval phonetic spelling—then attempted to break it open or crack it, but it resisted all my efforts. One thing I did notice was that it was not as cold as stone. It seemed to hold the same warmth as of that fossilised resin, amber. The little ivory figure is exquisitely carved, obviously Chinese, but shows no sign of the "life" attributed to it in the manuscript. As for the twist of horn, presumably meant to represent the so-called `Unicorn's Ring,' it would fit none of my fingers nor those of Mr. and Mrs. Early.
"So I put this puzzle to one side for two or three years, occupied as I was with other matters. When I returned to it, of a mind to retain the manuscript and the figurine and dispense with the stone and the twist of horn, I made a startling discovery. On picking up the stone it felt heavier and larger than previously. Unwilling to trust my senses, I checked both weight and size against my earlier notes, and indeed, if I had calculated correctly initially, the stone was not only four ounces heavier, it was also two inches larger!
"Now I am not a superstitious man, any more than other scientists, but here was something strange. I was due to travel to the Valley of the Kings, a journey I could not delay, but as soon as I returned I again weighed and measured the stone, to find it had gained another couple of ounces and another inch in diameter. This time there was no mistake, no miscalculation, which I had rather hoped for as a rational explanation. And it was still relatively warm. . . .
"I wonder if you can have any idea of the turmoil this discovery threw me into! Here was I, a dry-as-dust scientist without an ounce of imagination, forced to re-evaluate all my previous theories as to the state of the universe! At first I clung desperately to the theory that what I held was merely some large reptile egg, of a species as yet unknown, but yet was not a dragon a reptile? Was there some truth in the manuscript? Were the times so different then that what we now dismiss as sorcery and magic did exist? I am no longer sure of just how true scientific facts are: all I am sure of is that something mighty strange is going on. I have left a list of measurements of the egg—or stone, who knows?—in the cabinet, together with the measuring instruments, and I'm willing to wager you will find an increase.
"Explain it I cannot, except that I do now believe that the object will not get any rest or fulfilment until it is returned to the place from whence it was stolen. Perhaps it will hatch out into something so incredible that our modern, nineteenth-century minds cannot encompass it.
"If I were still alive and well I would make this my last expedition, but, as you will realise as you read this, I am not. I would ask that you, my niece, might undertake this task. An arduous and tall order, I agree, but as I said before, I cannot bear unfinished business. If you do decide in favour of this suggestion, then the moneys you may receive as a lump sum will have to be used for travelling expenses, especially as someone from the solicitors' office would have to accompany you, and I would wish the young `detective' who found you to travel with you as well, as extra protection.
"I have another, more quixotic, condition: that this expedition must be completed within a calendar year. So, my dear niece, you have a choice: either accept what little moneys I have left, or embark on an adventure you may never forget. It is up to you, but before you decide I would ask that you read my transcripts, look at the maps and examine the contents of the cabinet. Also remember that if you do succeed you will receive Hightop Hall, to do with as you will. Hideous, I agree, but it would make a good school or orphanage . . ."
Strange . . . exactly what I had thought.
"When you have read the transcript, then read the last pages of this letter—"
There was a tap on the door.
"Suppertime, Miss Lee," said Mrs. Early. "Hope I'm not intruding—goodness me, you've near let out the fire!" Rapidly she laid the table from a tray she had brought with her, then poked and coaxed and replenished the fire till it was once more a cheerful blaze. "I'll be up with the soup in a moment—"
"Don't go, Mrs. Early." I hesitated. "Tell me—you knew my uncle for—how long?"
"Thirty-five year," she answered promptly. "Not to know him as we did when he moved here, but I went as under-housemaid to his parents when I was thirteen, and have been with the family, as it were, ever since. Mr. Early was gardener's boy when I first met him, and—"
I tried to stem the flood. "What I really wanted to know was what he was like as a person—"
"Just you wait one moment . . ." She clattered away down the stairs to reappear with a magazine, which she opened at a well-thumbed page.
"See this? It were a sketch some artist did for a posh magazine, and it's him to a T!"
I must confess I had expected a tall, burly man, with probably a full beard, but the reality was quite different. He had been clean-shaven and balding. In the drawing he looked nervous and had his hands clasped behind his back. The man I was looking at was unused to the niceties of social life and preferred objects to people. No, not preferred: felt more comfortable with. A lonely man . . .
"Would you say my uncle was an imaginative man?" I asked, handing back the magazine. She looked puzzled. "I mean, was he easily persuaded into believing superstitious tales, for instance?"
She shook her head vigorously. "Quite the opposite, miss! Very sceptical, he was. Never took nothing for granted. Always weighing and measuring and labelling things. Liked everything just so, he did." She paused. "Only time I ever saw him upset was over something in that cabinet; something about measurements that weren't as they should be. Even had us trying to put some old bit of horn on our fingers to prove something or other, but it didn't work." She paused again. "Come to think of it, it was that time he asked us if we believed in magic. Strange, coming from him . . ."
"And what did you say?"
"Said of course we didn't; after all, that's what he wanted us to say. Not true, of course; anyone who lives on or near the land knows all about witches and such, though he never noticed the hag-stones as are hung near the back doors, nor that the nearest trees are rowans . . . Still, him being so generous and all, couldn't destroy his beliefs. Why, if I was to tell you that Mr. Early and I were courting for twenty years before he asked us here, and that he not only attended the wedding but gave us the gift of a full twenty pounds to set ourselves up with, well then you'll know that—"
There was another knock on the door and Mr. Early came in with some more wood. He nodded to me and spoke briefly to his wife. "Tatties is done," he said.
This signalled the end of Mrs. Early's reminiscences, and the appearance of supper: tomato soup, cutlets, roast parsnips and potatoes and a helping of local cheese and biscuits to follow. When she came up to clear away the dishes she brought me a hot toddy, and asked if her husband should bring up my bathing water in a couple of hours. I looked at my watch: eight-thirty.
"That'd be fine, thank you." A couple of hours should be long enough to read my uncle's transcript, but I must admit it was with a rapidly beating heart that I fetched the key to the cabinet from my reticule and fitted it in the lock.
It turned easily and the door swung open. There were two blue-velvet lined shelves. Picking up the lamp from the table, I peered inside. On the top shelf was a bundle of papers in a leather folder, a small curiously carved creature and a twist of horn. The lower shelf held a box of hard, dry vellum, some measuring instruments and a large, round object that glinted in the lamplight.
This must be the fabled "Dragonnes Eg" that had so perplexed my uncle. I touched it gently—as he had said, it wasn't cold like stone. I wanted to pick it up, test its weight, but decided that first I would read the transcript, so I took the folder back to the table, turned up the lamp, put another log on the fire and settled down to read.
As my uncle had said, it was an intriguing story. As I sipped my toddy, redolent with cloves and cinnamon, I followed the adventures of a girl called Summer who left home when she was orphaned to find a husband, but it seemed she found everything but; it pictured her with a magic ring, which enabled her to understand the speech of animals, but it didn't stop her from ambush, ghosts, starvation and a flying pig. Much of the story was missing apparently, but my uncle had tried to make her journey clear through mediaeval France, then a series of petty kingdoms. The first part ended with reference to a "dragon lover."
There was more in the second part of the narrative. Apparently the girl decided to pursue her missing dragon lover, accompanied by her dog, also mentioned in the earlier narrative. She travelled many miles towards a fabled Blue Mountain, where she hoped to find her lover. On the way (this bit wasn't quite clear) she produced a small dragon's egg. She found her lover, but the egg was stolen at the last moment by Ricardus, one of her companions, only to be returned on his death to a merchant in Venice who had inherited Summer's memoirs. What happened to her afterwards wasn't clear either.
I sat back in my chair.
Of course the whole thing was ridiculous! Dragon lovers, flying pigs, talking dogs . . . And yet while I was reading it I had almost been persuaded that it was true. I shivered, and noticed the fire was nearly out. I could hear Mr. Early clumping upstairs with the first of my hot water. Hastily I returned the transcript to the cabinet and locked it. Time enough to examine the other objects tomorrow, when daylight would show everything in its true light, I hoped. In the meantime I looked forward to a good night's sleep . . .
Which I didn't get.
All night long I tossed and turned, dreaming of dragons: tiny ones scurrying about the carpet, medium ones stalking the corridors of the Hall and large ones landing on the roof—
And all of them crying with one voice: "Bring us back our egg!"