But from my reading I also learned that I was correct. Since there was a Last Dragon, there had to be a last Dragonslayer; only he or she could mete out punishment as only he or she could pass the marker stones unharmed. The question was: where was the last Dragonslayer? Since I knew he had to be somewhere close to the Dragonlands he administered, it stood to reason he would be either here in the Kingdom of Hereford, or in the neighbouring Duchy of Brecon on the other side of the Dragonlands. I began my search in the telephone directory. There was nothing listed between Dragon Pagoda Chinese takeaway and Dragon tyre services, so I looked under Slayers but had no luck there either. I called directory enquiries, who were of little use, then the police station. Sergeant Pozner was friendly as usual, but explained that most officers were on duty policing the crowds that were getting restless up at the marker stones, and those that were off duty were the ones getting restless at the marker stones. When pressed on the subject of how to contact the resident Dragonslayer if Maltcassion breached the Dragonpact, he told me to go away and knew nothing about Dragonslayers, pacts or even Maltcassion by the sound of it.

I called Mother Zenobia to see whether she had any ideas – and my luck changed.

‘The person with whom you need to speak is William of Anorak,’ she said, ‘who was, at one time, a foundling like yourself. He is a remarkable man of high intellect who has wasted his brain by absorbing millions of facts and figures and never assimilating them into anything useful. He is a walking encyclopedia of facts that you would never need to know, like the train timetables of ten years ago, or the acreage of Norway, or the person who didn’t win the 1923 presidential elections in Mausoleum. He is a fountain of useless facts and figures that bore to death all who come near, but if anyone can answer your questions, it is he.’

William of Anorak was not difficult to find. He was at Hereford’s main railway station on Platform 6, staring at the rolling stock. He was about fifty and dressed in a hooded cloak of a rough material, tied at the waist with baling twine. He was nearly bald and peered out at me through thick pebble spectacles. I noticed that he wore sandals carved from old car tyres and a duffel coat that was so worn and threadbare that only the buttons remained.

I hailed him and he looked up, gave a wan smile and replied to my greeting:

‘The Audio chameleon changes sound to fit in with its surroundings. On a busy street it sounds like a road drill, but in the front room it makes a noise like a ticking clock. Good day!’

‘My name is Jennifer Strange,’ I said, ‘I have need of your services.’