Reluctantly, and with more questions than answers, I departed.

By the time I had got back to Zambini Towers, there had already been fresh allegations about Maltcassion’s supposed misdemeanours. I was called to them both, one after the other. Detective Norton was waiting for me, and this time he had what could only be described as a large smirk etched across his features.

‘Try and tell me this wasn’t a Dragon!’ He leered.

He led me on to a side road near the village of Goodrich and pointed at the ground. There was a black scorch mark on the road, the sort of mark an over-hot iron might make on a shirt. The scorch mark had left the clear imprint of a man, a spreadeagled pattern; I didn’t like the look of it.

‘Scorch mark, no body, classic sign of a Dragon. And,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘I have a witness!’ He introduced me to a wizened old man who smelt of marzipan. He was eating the foul substance out of a paper bag and was unsteady in speech and limb.

‘Tell the Dragonslayer what you saw, sir.’

The old man’s eyes flicked up to mine. He explained in a stammered and broken voice about balls of fire and terrible noises in the night. He spoke of his friend being ‘there one moment’ and ‘gone the next’. He showed me his scorched eyebrows.

‘Enough for you?’ asked Detective Norton in a humourless way.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘Maltcassion is being framed. I was with the Dragon not two hours ago. This witness of yours wouldn’t last ten minutes in a court of law. The same burden of proof is required for a Dragon as it is for any other living creature.’

‘You’re becoming something of a pest,’ responded Detective Norton. ‘I’ve been a policeman for over twenty years. Who do you think did this if it wasn’t Maltcassion?’

‘Someone keen on getting the Dragonlands for themselves. King Snodd perhaps, or Brecon. Both of them have an interest in the lands.’

‘You’re crazy!’ he said, pointing a finger at me. ‘And what’s more, you’re dangerous. Accusing the King of complicity in murder? Have you any idea what could happen to you if I decided to make that public?’

He glared at me and I glared back.

‘C’mon,’ he said finally, ‘there’s another incident that I want you to see.’

He drove me ten miles towards Peterstow, where a field of cows had been torn literally limb from limb. It was not a pretty sight, and the flies were already buzzing happily in the heat.

‘Seventy-two heifers,’ announced Norton, ‘all dead. Talons, Miss Strange. Your friend Maltcassion. You have a duty to protect your charges and carry on your work. Maltcassion has gone loco in his old age. You must defend the realm.’

‘He didn’t do it.’

Norton rested his hand on my shoulder.