The Fangs of the Dragon by Simon Cheshire Read Free Book Online

without removing all those panels from the wall.’
    ‘And this parchment is a treasure map?’
    ‘Yes. Well, it’s not so much a map, more a description of where the treasure is. Although apparently this description doesn’t make much sense. Anyway, Jack says his dad says
it’s not as old as it looks. He reckons it was probably put there by the orphans.’
    ‘Orphans?’ I said, chewing at a triangle of toast.
    ‘During World War Two, the house was a shelter for kids who’d been orphaned by the bombing. Loads and loads of people have lived in that house over the years. It’s only
recently that it’s been empty and run down.’
    ‘And these orphans made this parchment?’ I said.
    ‘That’s the theory. It’s just the sort of thing a bunch of kids would do, isn’t it. They come to live in a spooky old house, and they start making up games about hidden
treasure and so forth. This piece of paper must have been left over from their games.’
    ‘And how did they find that hidden compartment?’
    Muddy shrugged. ‘Just came across it one day, I guess. Then left their treasure map in there by mistake, maybe. Of course, it might not have been the orphans at all. Could have been kids
from the 1960s, or the 1970s or something. The house was still lived in until 1987. Anyway, Jack says his dad says it was most probably the orphans.’
    I thought carefully for a minute or two. No, Jack’s dad was definitely wrong. Perhaps he was distracted by the huge job he’d taken on, but there was an obvious logical flaw in his
theory. From what Muddy had told me so far, I knew that the parchment had to be nearly a century old, at the very least. And I knew that the orphans couldn’t possibly have put it there: it
was a question of historical events . . .
    Have you spotted it?

    Muddy had told me that the heating system was dated 1937. He’d also told me that it had only been removed on Tuesday, the secret compartment being behind where a
radiator had been fixed. Which meant that during the whole of World War Two, 1939–1945, the orphans couldn’t have got to the compartment. In fact, nobody could have got to that
compartment since 1937, so the parchment had to be at least that old, and possibly much older.
    I decided there and then that learning dates in history lessons at school was a useful thing to do after all!
    ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s take a look at that piece of paper. I think it could be perfectly genuine.’
    ‘Hang on,’ called Muddy, as I sped off, ‘I haven’t finished my beans yet!’

 
C HAPTER
T HREE
    ‘N OW THAT IS SPOOKY ,’ I whispered.
    ‘It’s like it’s looking back at you,’ Muddy replied.
    The Horror House stood like a huge, crouching goblin. It was set back from the road, and surrounded by a snarling, overgrown garden. Behind it, we could see the tops of the trees in the wooded
area that led down to the local canal. (That wood was equally gloomy, and had an equally sinister nickname: The Hangman’s Lair. I solved a very puzzling mystery there once. I might write up
my notes on that case one day.)
    Number 13 stood well away from the other houses in Deadman Lane, as if it was being snotty and didn’t want to talk to its neighbours. The tall sheets of corrugated metal that had fenced
the house for as long as I could remember had all been torn down. They were stacked in a huge heap amid the tangle of thistles and thorns that nipped at us as Muddy and I walked up the cracked path
to the front door.
    Jack Wilson greeted us like an excited puppy. The human equivalent of an excited puppy, I mean. He didn’t lick our faces. Or have a tail to wag. Or bark. But you get the idea. Jack was a
round, bouncy boy, with a face that always looked as if he’d just got some really good news. He ushered us inside a large, shadowy hallway.
    ‘Wooooww,’ gasped Muddy, taking it all in.
    ‘So this is The Horror House,’ I said, gazing up at the high ceiling.
    ‘It’s revooooolting,’