The Dragon's Eye

This map of the British Isles shows some of the locations visited by Dr. Ernest Drake and his two dragonological apprentices Daniel and Beatrice Cook during the course of this adventure. Apart from the locations of the lairs of those dragons that are visited during the story, and which must perforce be revealed, it does not indicate any other sites where dragons may be found; this has been done in order to minimise contact between these creatures and humans who have not undergone training by the Secret and Ancient Society of Dragonologists.

Should any reader discover evidence of a dragon's lair or any other signs of dragon activity, it is requested that they take great care and investigate further only with the help of one of Dr. Drake's books on the subject.

The British Isles

At quarter past six on the morning of Friday July 7, 1882, a black carriage burst out of the entrance of Tottenham Court Road in London so quickly that it had to veer to avoid a bird fancier's cart that was coming down Oxford Street. The carriage — which was of the old-fashioned type known as a brougham — tipped onto one of its wheels, and for a moment seemed as though it was going to fall onto its side before the driver managed to right it and sped off towards St. Giles. As the carriage thundered by, the exotic birds sent up such a terrible cackling and squawking that the cart driver had to stop to pull a tarpaulin over the cages.

The carriage continued down St. Andrew's Street and into Wyvern Way. At the sound of a sharp tapping from inside, the driver of the brougham halted the vehicle and the top of an ornate dragon-headed black cane jabbed out towards a rather curious little shop that, judging by the display in its ancient windows, might easily have been the very shop where the cane itself had been purchased.

The driver and his mate went round to the back of the carriage and untied the large wooden crate that was lashed to the back. As it was still early, they were observed by no one, except for a stray dog that had been nosing through a pile of rubbish and that now came sniffing round the wheels of the carriage. But as soon as it put up its nose to sniff the crate, it froze, its wispy hair standing on end and its ears shaking, before it leapt away, yelping in terror. The driver grunted and was just about to lift off the crate when it shook so violently that he was almost knocked off his feet. He then stood looking at the crate until the dragon-headed cane jabbed out of the carriage once more and gave him a nasty poke. A thin voice hissed, “For goodness' sakes, get on with it!”

The driver nodded to his mate, and the pair of them lifted the crate off the back of the carriage and shuffled it over to the doorway of the shop. The driver returned to his seat and picked up his whip, while the other man went up to the shop and rang the bell as loudly as he could several times, before climbing back onto the carriage himself. Only when the driver was certain that he could hear noises coming from one of the little rooms above the shop did he crack his whip and send the carriage speeding off down the narrow street and into St. Martin's Lane. A man of about sixty with a large walrus moustache and an old-fashioned nightcap opened one of the windows and put his head out, just catching sight of the rear end of the carriage rounding the corner. The man looked at where it had disappeared for a moment and then, hearing thumping noises from the street below, looked down to see the crate that had been left so unceremoniously on his doorstep. It was shaking violently, and thin jets of smoke issued from several holes in one of its sides.

Meanwhile, the black brougham set off into Whitehall and turned into a street of government buildings, stopping in front of a black door. A tall man whose features were mostly hidden by a high-collared coat and a top hat climbed out of the carriage and, after checking that there was no one about, rapped on the door with a dragon-headed cane.

When there was no answer, he rapped again, more loudly. There was still no answer, so he rapped a third time, at which a butler finally opened the door and, raising his eyebrows at the appearance of the visitor, said, “Yes?”

“I come in the name of Ebenezer Crook,” hissed the man. “My mission is urgent. I must speak to your master immediately.”

“I am afraid the Minister is in bed,” said the butler.

“This is an emergency,” said the man. “Please inform him right away.”

“Inform him of what?”

“Ah,” said the man, twisting his cane irritably. “I fear I must tell him that myself. Mention Mr. Crook's name to him the minute he wakes; I'm sure he will see me right away.”

The butler shook his head, then disappeared inside.

He quickly returned.

“The Minister will see you at once, sir,” he said.

As he ushered the man into the building, the butler glanced over at the brougham. Inside, looking out at him with two jet-black eyes, her pale white face framed by black hair, sat the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

In July of 1882, I was twelve years old and had never heard of Dr. Ernest Drake. I had certainly never met a dragon. In fact, the whole idea of fire-breathing, scaly monsters that could blast me with flame or tear me limb from limb couldn't have been further from my mind as I rode on a train through London. I was on my way to Waterloo Station to meet my parents. They were returning from India to spend the summer holidays with my sister, Beatrice, and me. I hadn't seen them in four years, and I was thinking about their last visit. I remembered how excited I had felt as they came striding down the gangplank of their ship wearing big smiles, bringing us presents, and talking of mountains and maharajas and elephant rides into the jungle. I was sure this summer was going to be even better. Four years is a long time to wait before seeing your parents, but now the waiting was over.

The train pulled into Waterloo. Beatrice was already there. She was standing by her suitcase, her long brown hair tied with a ribbon under her straw hat. But she was holding a letter and biting her lip.

“Hello, Daniel,” she said, giving me a weak smile.

“What's in the letter?” I asked.

Beatrice looked at the floor while she handed it to me. It was in my mother's handwriting.

“It arrived this morning,” she said.

I took it and read: