《Small-Town Sleuth (A Low-Stakes, Cozy LitRPG)》


 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 1

    When crime knocked on Sunhampton¡¯s door, people couldn¡¯t just draw the curtains and pretend they weren¡¯t in. Someone had to answer, and that person was usually Mick Mulroon.


    They called him Skinny Mick, but ¡®Slim¡¯ would have been more accurate. He was in good shape for a guy of his age, even if he said so himself. Some fellas in their mid-thirties looked like they were hiding a pumpkin under their shirt. Nothing wrong with that - ¡®Bought and paid for¡¯ as his dad used to say. But Mick didn¡¯t want to have to buy a whole new set of shirts as he got older. Tailors were expensive, whereas staying in shape was free.


    He kept himself lean by going running twice every day. The first run, before breakfast, was on an empty stomach. Some people couldn¡¯t lace up their running shoes without a slice of toast or a bowl of porridge warming them, but not Mick. In his case, eating breakfast before running killed it for him. Made him feel heavy and off the pace.


    His second run was always a couple of hours after dinner, just late enough so his food had settled but not right before bedtime - which ironically would have made it harder to sleep. His route was always the same. One lap clockwise around Sunhampton, fifty five minutes at a steady pace. A conversational pace, they called it, a term which became literal whenever Flo Anderson joined him.


    Some folks asked him, ¡°Skinny, how¡¯ve you got the irons to go running every single day?¡±


    He told them that he found it as easy as buttering bread. Why? Well, that was simple. His running route took him around a town he loved with all his heart. Why should having the irons ever come into it?


    Sunday was the only day of the week that he let himself miss his morning run, since he always believed that a person needed at least a little bit of time off. He didn¡¯t always get time to relax, though.


    This particular Sunday was a special day, one that saw Mick retrieving his smartest shirt from his closet, his burgundy one that had cost a quarter of a week¡¯s wage, and which he had resented handing over every coin for. It was only the fact that it was on sale and should have cost twice more that allowed him to get over his coin clutching and buy it.


    Grabbing the shirt, Mick was disappointed to see that it was creased on the front, back, and one sleeve. This wouldn¡¯t do, not at all. Not when Wendira Bishop, head of the northern Easterly Guards¡¯ Commission, was coming to Sunhampton. What would she think if he turned up representing Sunhampton, looking like he¡¯d spent the night in the tavern?This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Though it wasn¡¯t even light outside yet, his Ma was already sitting at the counter in the kitchen. She got bad acid reflux sometimes, and it wasn¡¯t rare for her to wake up at four or five in the morning and struggle to get back to sleep.


    ¡°Hey, Ma. Your reflux playing up again?¡±


    In front of her was a plate with a single piece of dry, unbuttered toast on it, a corner bitten off. She nodded, struggling to swallow her unappetizing breakfast.


    ¡°Need me to stop by Healer Brown¡¯s on the way home?¡± Mick asked.


    She gave a dismissive hand wave. ¡°You¡¯re much too busy.¡±


    ¡°Ma¡­¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll be fine, Mick.¡± Not a second after saying it, she put her hand to her chest, winced, and then burped.


    ¡°I¡¯ll stop by Healer Brown¡¯s,¡± he said. ¡°Honestly, it¡¯s no problem.¡±


    ¡°You just make sure you don¡¯t change your whole day. Not for me, I¡¯ll be alright. Hand me that shirt.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a grown man, I can iron a shirt. Finish your toast.¡±


    ¡°Shirt.¡±


    ¡°Toast.¡±


    They stared at each other for a few drawn out seconds. Ma was legendarily stubborn. Everyone in Sunhampton knew it, and she was used to getting her own way. She¡¯d made her own nemesis in this regard, though, because Mick had inherited that same quality.


    ¡°On the scrapheap, at my age,¡± said Ma, in mock self-pity. ¡°My only son doesn¡¯t need me¡­¡±


    ¡°That hasn¡¯t worked on me in years.¡±


    Ma smiled, her self-pity gone. ¡°How are you feeling about today?¡±


    While Mick waited for the flat iron to warm up on the glow stone, he and Ma chatted about Head Commissioner Wendira¡¯s visit to Sunhampton. Normally, a village with just one voluntary guard wouldn¡¯t merit a visit from the head of the whole commission that oversaw guard standards and budgets, but Wendira was making a tour of the whole of the north, one district at a time.


    Mick had scarcely seen a single soul from the commission ever since becoming head of Sunhampton¡¯s guards. Even when he took over from his father, all he had to do was fill out a form and send it to Full Striding. This was an opportunity that he might not get again for the rest of his career.


    ¡°If I can get her ear,¡± said Mick, pressing the hot iron against the sleeve of his shirt and smoothing it out, ¡°maybe I can squeeze some gold out of her. You know, rental for an actual guard office instead of sharing Douggie Fernglass¡¯s tool shed. An actual uniform so folks know when I¡¯m on duty.¡±


    Ma gave him what he had always known as her ¡®ma¡¯ look, which had two variants. One signified that he was about to get a reprimand of some sort, though that didn¡¯t happen much these days, given his age. The second, more common, was that Ma had some motherly insight about him. Whether she¡¯d share it or not depended on her mood, and Mick¡¯s receptivity to such truths on any given day.


    He sighed. ¡°Come on, out with it.¡±


    Ma picked up her toast and raised it to her mouth, then thought better and set it back down. ¡°Might it not be about more than that, Micky?¡±


    ¡°What? I need coin. I don¡¯t get a penny from the guards¡¯ annual fund. In fact, I pay more in taxes to the guard fund than I actually receive, and I¡¯m a bloody guard!¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s another thing as good to receive as coin, though, ain¡¯t there? Might be nice to hear from this Wendira that you¡¯re doing a good job. When a person notices how hard you¡¯re working, there¡¯s nothing nicer. And you deserve it.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 2

    <h2>2</h2>


    Head Commissioner Bishop¡¯s tour itinerary was publicly available, and Mick had already asked Chester, the local librarian, to procure a copy. He knew that she was supposed to get to Sunhampton for eight o¡¯clock on Sunday. She wouldn¡¯t stay here long, which ought to give him time to get to the Tillwright¡¯s farm later and see what was going on there that needed a guard¡¯s presence.


    Dressed in his best, freshly-ironed shirt and wearing lace-up boots that he¡¯d wiped all the mud stains off and gotten so polished they gleamed, Mick waited by the town gates. He wished he could be wearing an official guard uniform today, but all his written requests for one had gone unanswered, and even paying a trip to the commission office in Full Striding had seen him return with nothing but a loathing for bureaucracy.


    As he stood and waited, his watch hands seemed to slow to a crawl. No matter how much he stared at them, he couldn¡¯t make those hands get to eight o¡¯clock any quicker.


    There was still no sign of Wendira Bishop¡¯s carriage twenty minutes later, but he didn¡¯t move from his post. As a guard, one talent he possessed was patience. Every fourth Sunday, he kept watch at the gates as merchants filed into town for the crafter¡¯s market. That could be a boring job, no denying it. The kind of job that would have cured Ma¡¯s insomnia, probably. Not for him, though. The ability to stand in one spot and coexist with his boredom was something that saw Mick in good stead.


    ¡°Ahoy, Mick. Market on today?¡± asked Phil Brownhill, who was walking out of the town gates. The fella was covered in tattoos of boats, anchors, and sea creatures. Seemed to have more every time Mick saw him.


    ¡°Just waiting for someone,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Want some company?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, why not, Phil? That¡¯d be grand.¡±


    Mick kept a watchful eye on the road leading to town as he and Phil chatted about this and that. Phil was on his way to his boat, the Water¡¯s Edge. Mick had yet to go and see it, but it was a marvel, apparently. Lewis Cooper had done a bunch of work on it for him, turned it into a store where he could sell his boats up and down the River Rumber.


    Soon, movement on the horizon caught Mick¡¯s eye, marking the emergence of a carriage heading towards town. Jitters danced in his stomach.


    ¡°Ah, this¡¯ll be your commissioner, then,¡± said Phil. He gave Mick¡¯s shoulder a squeeze. ¡°I¡¯ll be off. She doesn¡¯t need to see a ruffian like me, it¡¯ll give her a bad impression of the town. Best of luck, mate.¡±


    ¡°See you, Phil. I¡¯ll be down to visit your store one of these days.¡±


    ¡°Looking forward to it.¡±


    Mick forced himself to adopt a rod-straight guard posture as the carriage drew nearer. Finally, the driver urged his two horses to slow to a trot, then a complete stop. A passenger compartment door opened, and Head Commissioner Wendira Bishop stepped out.


    What a lady, he thought to himself. Her guard uniform was impeccably fitted, with not a single crease to be seen anywhere. On her left sleeve were the four arrows and a star depicting her rank. On her right were little patches of color, each representing merits earned through duty.


    It wasn¡¯t just her uniform that impressed him. Her bearing was effortless, and authority seemed to pour out of her even as she merely stood there and cast her gaze around. Mick forced himself to keep his posture as her stare settled on him for a moment. He tried to recall his carefully rehearsed words to mind.Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    Greet her, enquire about her journey, answer any questions and then ask about the guard budget, he repeated to himself as a mantra.


    A man stepped out from the cart now. He was shorter than Wendira Bishop, and the symbols on his sleeve denoted him as being several ranks her junior, despite looking older physically. He was probably Sergeant Bole, her assistant, if Mick¡¯s research was correct.


    ¡°This is Sunhampton then?¡± said Wendira.


    Mick noticed that the man was holding a notepad in his right hand and a pen in his left. He¡¯d trained himself on this, the art of observing little details about people. Not just the details, though. Details alone meant nothing. Forming the right conclusions from them was key. From the way this man held his pen, Mick supposed he was a leftie.


    ¡°Sunhampton. Population at last census, four hundred and six,¡± the man said.


    ¡°That¡¯s not what their sign says,¡± replied Wendira.


    Mick saw this as his chance to introduce himself. ¡°The sign was artificed wrongly. It counts up how many living souls are in ¡®Hampton, but it includes chickens, ducks, mice, and everything else. We keep it mostly out of novelty.¡±


    Wendira looked him up and down. ¡°Right. Very¡­interesting.¡±


    Mick smiled brightly. ¡°Mick Mulroon, your Guardship. Head of Sunhampton¡¯s guards.¡±


    The man and Wendira shared a look now. Mick didn¡¯t like it, but he reminded himself to project positivity, and so pushed it out of his mind. Wendira said, ¡°Ah. I hadn¡¯t known that you¡¯d¡­¡±


    ¡°I took the liberty of meeting you here, Madam, so I could answer any questions you have about our town.¡±


    And so I can convince you to release a coin or two from the guard budget once my charm wins you over, he thought.


    ¡°Very well. Sergeant Boles?¡±


    Mick allowed himself an inward self-congratulations that his research had been correct about this man, then waited patiently as Boles whispered something to Wendira. Mick only caught part of it, this being ¡®-ke something up.¡¯


    Sergeant Boles cleared his throat. ¡°Ahem. Tell me, mister, uhm, Muldoon¡­¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Head of Guards, sir. And it¡¯s Mulroon.¡±


    ¡°Apologies. Can you give me a breakdown of¡­uhm¡­violent crimes in the last twelve months?¡±


    Mick almost laughed. ¡°Violent crimes? In ¡®hampton? Well, someone smashed one of the King¡¯s Head¡¯s windows, but it was just kids messing around. I had a word with their parents, got them to pay for the glazing. Kids wrote a letter apologizing, as well. It was no bother.¡±


    ¡°Right. Very good. Tell me about your¡­ your crime prevention schemes.¡±


    Mick thought he had prepared for most things he might get asked today, but this caught him off guard. And as a guard, that was possibly the worst way for him to get caught.


    Thinking on the spot, he said, ¡°I make a swift patrol of the town twice per day. I¡¯m only a volunteer, and I have to work things around making a living, you see, but I make sure to patrol my beat morning and evening, without fail.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t a lie. Not exactly. They didn¡¯t need to know that his twice daily jogs were more to keep in shape than to oversee the town.


    ¡°A volunteer, you say?¡± asked Boles.


    He hadn¡¯t expected the conversation to reach this destination so soon. He hoped he might be able to take them on a tour of the town, and perhaps go for a coffee at the Sunny Caf¨¦ and talk it over somewhere better than the town gates. Still, you couldn¡¯t choose what day it rained, as Ma always said, but you could certainly grab an umbrella and make the best of it.


    He had something of a speech prepared for this moment, after all. When the opportunity came to ask them for a budget toward his duties. All that had changed was the time and the place.


    ¡°You see, Head Commissioner Bishop, Sergeant Boles, performing guard duties in this fine town isn¡¯t-¡±


    Wendira interrupted him. ¡°I¡¯ve just realized, Sergeant. We have to be in Perentee by eight thirty, don¡¯t we?¡±


    ¡°We do, Madam? Oh, yes, we do.¡±


    ¡°Lovely to meet you, Mr. Muldoon. Keep up the good work.¡±


    With a quick salute, he was dismissed. Caught between wanting to say something and keeping up his discipline with regards to their authority, Mick could only watch in surprise as the two walked back toward their carriage.


    It became clear to him now that this was no tour at all; it was an exercise in box ticking, was all. Head Commissioner Bishop was visiting every town and village in the north, sure, but she was spending ten minutes at each one. And that was if they were lucky.


    You know what? I¡¯m going to say something. Because this ain¡¯t right. I work hard for this town, and I do it for free.


    He strode toward the carriage, already forming a speech in his head. Only a few steps into his march, the driver flicked his reins and urged his horses on. Soon, the beasts carried the vehicle away, and it wasn¡¯t long before they followed a left fork in the road and disappeared from view entirely.

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 3

    <h2>3</h2>


    Trying not to dwell on it, Mick stopped by the Sunny Caf¨¦ in town and ordered himself a cooked breakfast. He took his seat at his favorite table, one right by the window that looked out onto Coiner¡¯s Way. Then, his resolution cracking, he allowed himself a few moments of dwelling after all. And why not? Today had been a disappointment. It was upsetting, even, that the head of the guards commission didn¡¯t seem to care.


    Letting himself feel his upset rather than bottling it up didn¡¯t have him instantly dancing for joy, but he knew that long term, it was much better than holding it in. What it did do in the immediate moment, however, was to let him focus on something else. He turned this new clarity toward the view from the window.


    Outside the caf¨¦, none of the stores on Coiner¡¯s Way were trading yet. Easterly trading laws meant they had to wait until ten o¡¯clock before they could open on Sundays, and it was only a hair past nine right now. Most of the merchants on the Way spat feathers about the trading laws, and for good reason. Almost every Sunday¨C especially on nice, sunny ones like today ¨C saw flocks of hikers arrive in town, ready to take on one of the routes nearby.


    ¡°It¡¯d be a crime in itself, Mick, if I have to miss out on serving them all breakfast. It should be my busy period, but I can¡¯t take a damned coin from folks,¡± Spruce Wilkinson complained to him in the tavern one evening, over a glass of King¡¯s Lament.


    Mick had thought about it. He actually agreed with Spruce here. Laws were laws. Sure they were. But who exactly were the trading laws helping? Not the hikers, who couldn¡¯t even buy a cup of tea before their walk. Not Spruce Wilkinson and the other fine traders on Coiner¡¯s Way.


    He decided that he was going to help out his friend, and this quest took him to Sunhampton library where, predictably, the head librarian, Chester, wasn¡¯t around. Spenny Hold, who had earned his librarian¡¯s token studying under Chester, usually ran things.


    Spenny was a nice lad, and he was happy to point Mick to the reference and history sections. The only problem was that he kept getting his name wrong. Always called him Bill. Mick had no idea why, and he was long past bothering to correct him. It made no difference.


    After a quick search, he grabbed a handful of books and took them over to a window on the east side of the library, which looked down onto Coiner¡¯s Way. There was a desk and chair there, which he always liked to sit at. In fact, he loved it. He loved the library, not just because everything here was free, but because what could be nicer than sitting at the desk by the window, a book in front of him, Coiner¡¯s Way down below?


    No place in Easterly could ever be more important to his heart than his hometown. He loved everything about it, including all the people in it. At least, in theory. He loved them as a collective. Individually, there were some folks who he didn¡¯t get along with, of course there were. But as a matter of principle he held dear the town and everything and everyone in it. Why else would he act as their head of guards for a salary that was only a hair above volunteering? The coins that dribbled his way didn¡¯t even cover all the expenses involved in guarding a town, which was why Mick had to be so thrifty. So, a place where it was quiet, the view was lovely, and not a single thing inside it cost a coin? How could Mick not love the town library?


    ¡°Cheers, Spenny,¡± he said, as he left.


    ¡°Have a good day, Bill.¡±


    The next day, Mick told Spruce Wilkinson, ¡°These trading laws. They brought ¡®em in back when the Church of Yellow Henry was more popular than beer and sweet rolls, to make sure workers and shoppers had time to go to Sunday Yellow Rites.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t say?¡±


    ¡°I do.¡±


    ¡°But those days are past, Mick. There¡¯s umpteen different churches these days. You¡¯re telling me I should miss out on trade because of one of them?¡±


    Mick had already thought about this. ¡°I¡¯m not telling you anything, my friend. I didn¡¯t make the laws. But I will tell you this: you can¡¯t break the law, Spruce. Not under my watch. Maybe, though, you could serve up breakfast for free on Sunday mornings. There¡¯s not a single line in the trading laws that forbid that.¡±


    Spruce had almost fainted when he heard that. ¡°For free?¡±


    ¡°Aye. Serve the hikers their breakfasts for free, but give ¡®em a token that they have to redeem before they leave Sunhampton later on. And how do they redeem it?¡±


    ¡°Ah. By paying me.¡±


    ¡°Exactly,¡± said Mick. ¡°The gold would be changing hands hours later, when it¡¯s allowed to.¡±


    ¡°What if they just jump on a commuter cart and leave?¡± asked Spruce.This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°Why would they do that, when the head of Sunhampton¡¯s guards is here, wearing his badge and watching ¡®em order their sausages?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll be here every Sunday morning?¡± said Spruce.


    ¡°Sure I will. What time do the hikers normally get to town?¡±


    Spruce put his hands on his hips as he thought. The pan next to him, which had seven sausages in it, spat oil on his apron. ¡°They trickle in. I¡¯d say most of ¡®em step off their carts between seven and nine. They like to start early, those hikers.¡±


    ¡°Well, then,¡± said Mick. ¡°I¡¯ll be here at seven sharp, eating the free breakfast you¡¯ve made me, reading my books. I¡¯ll make sure they see me. Nobody will take advantage of my pal, not under my watch. Just you make sure you¡¯ve got my breakfast ready. Sausages, bacon, mushrooms, toast, beans¡­am I forgetting something?¡±


    Martha Peters, who was sitting at a corner table drinking coffee and picking at a syrup-covered waffle, said, ¡°Grilled tomatoes.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right. Thanks, Martha.¡±


    And so Mick ate a cooked breakfast at the Sunny Caf¨¦ every Sunday, in part to help his pal, and also because it was free. A guy in his position, he had to watch every coin. He and Ma didn¡¯t need to pay rent on their little house on Hilda¡¯s Hill Road ¨C she had owned it outright since his dad¡¯s life insurance paid out. But there were still other things to buy in this long-running con game they called life. For Mick, his biggest expenses came with being head of the town guards.


    Right now, the guard budget was fluid. Only, the fluid in question had gone down the plughole. Everything he needed in order to guard Sunhampton had to come out of his own coin purse, and it wasn¡¯t as if his pockets were so full that coins were spilling out. He¡¯d never earned a class token of his own and he¡¯d never gone to a fancy college. Opportunities for well-paying jobs were like puddles in a desert for a guy like him.


    He was good at saving coin, though. He always found little ways to do it, and he actually enjoyed that side of things because it meant learning new skills. When the left armpit of his winter coat frayed away, for instance, he learned how to sew. When water started leaking in through the kitchen roof, Mick climbed up onto it and figured out that a couple of slates needed replacing, and that it was within his capabilities, meagre as they were, to do it.


    ¡°Here you go, Micky,¡± said Spruce, placing a full plate in front of him. ¡°The Mick Mulroon Special.¡±


    Five eggs, three rashers of bacon, three sausages, mushrooms, beans, and two grilled tomatoes. Enough to set a person up for the day. Mick wouldn¡¯t even need to buy lunch. For tea, he and Ma were going to have their third helping of the beef casserole he¡¯d cooked on Friday. He was a big believer in batch cooking. He¡¯d bought an artificed pan from Lewis Cooper so he could make five helpings worth of food in one go, along with artificed containers to store them in. It had set him back a few coins, for sure, but the lad¡¯s rates were fair, and the expense had already paid for itself.


    After tucking into his breakfast, Mick spent half an hour letting his food settle, while making notes about all the hikers who Spruce served breakfast for and gave tokens to. He jotted every detail down in his notepad. Details were important for a guard. You never knew what you might have to remember about a person.


    The only thing was you couldn¡¯t breathe without someone charging you a copper coin for the privilege these days, and notepads were one of the many things in life that were expensive. Hard to believe, but it was true.  Especially for a notepad connoisseur like Mick.


    Paisley Porter, for instance, only sold luxury notepads that were handcrafted by Jessie Condorphil, who lived in a house way outside of town. These were pricey notepads that Jessie made from scrap paper that she collected and then pulped by leaving them in a huge bathtub in her back yard overnight. Depending on where she reclaimed the paper from, she would make different notebook collections. For instance, when a ranger¡¯s office near Full Striding were relocating, they had a bunch of maps to get rid of. Jessie took them and turned them into notepads.


    But that wasn¡¯t all. Jessie was a fully classed notewright, and she could weave effects into her notepads in the same way artificers like Lewis and Jack Cooper sometimes did. The pads from the rangers¡¯ maps supposedly directed you places if you wrote your destination in them. She had all kinds of stuff like that, but Mick had never been able to afford to shop in her store.


    Joe Phillips, who owned the general store, had less expensive tastes in his stock. He sold cheap, simple notepads that were coin-purse friendly, but even his prices kept going up and up. He was a crafty one, old Joe. He¡¯d add a few coppers onto the cost of everything that sold well in his store, let the dust settle for a few weeks, then increase them again. Soon, Mick was going to have to remortgage his house just to shop there.


    He sometimes wondered about saving up to get a notepad from Jessie Condorphil someday, or maybe even an artificed notepad from Lewis Cooper. A pad that looked normal, but had maybe ten thousand pages in it. A pad like that was Mick¡¯s dream. A pad like that could almost last a guy a lifetime. Right now, though, he couldn¡¯t spare the coin.


    This meant he needed to make the most of what he could afford. So, Mick had learned how to read and write in shorthand to make the most of his notepads. It took a while but he did it, and now, he could write in a few lines what used to take up a full page.


    ¡°Finished with that, Mick?¡± said Spruce, nodding at his plate which had one sole baked bean on it.


    ¡°Delicious as ever,¡± he replied. ¡°Think I¡¯ll be heading off now. Things seem to be slowing.¡±


    ¡°Appreciate it.¡±


    ¡°And I appreciate the breakfast. See you in the King¡¯s Head later?¡±


    ¡°Looking forward to it.¡±


    Mick didn¡¯t feel guilty about the system that he and Spruce had made to get around the trading laws. They weren¡¯t breaking a single law, after all. Not even in spirit. Besides, he didn¡¯t want to enforce laws just for the sake of them. He wanted to be a town guard to improve the town, not subtract from it.


    Did that mean he was free to enforce the laws he wanted to and ignore the rest? Of course not. No way. If he¡¯d caught Spruce serving breakfasts and taking coins before ten o¡¯clock on a Sunday, he¡¯d have written him up, friend or not. All the same, he sometimes felt conflicted about their arrangement. When he did, he asked himself two questions, and forced himself to answer honestly.


    Have I broken any laws, or helped anyone else do it?


    No, I haven¡¯t.


    Have I made Sunhampton a better place, even if only by a tiny margin?


    I reckon I have.

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 4

    <h2>4</h2>


    With his belly full, Mick left the Sunny Caf¨¦ and headed out of town and to the Tillwright farm, where he found three of the Tillwright siblings already hard at work. Samantha and Jane were in the wheat fields, while Jonathan was working the water pump and filling up a huge bucket. They¡¯d probably been up before the birds. Mick sometimes thought he had it hard, but farmers didn¡¯t rest, not even on Yulthor day.


    At the farmhouse door he gave the guard¡¯s knock ¨C three loud and steady raps. Authoritative ones. A huge part of being a guard was projecting authority, and this went all the way down to the little details, like how you announced yourself at someone¡¯s home. Mick had practiced his guard¡¯s knock on his own door, with Ma standing behind it and giving him tips on how to improve.


    Alister Tillwright answered the farmhouse door. Now, this was a clever fella, if ever there was one. If he wasn¡¯t a decent sort of guy, you¡¯d have had to keep an eye on Alister. He could tie you up in an argument quick as you could blink. Mick saw him in the library all the time. Usually, he was nose-deep in a book about irrigation or animal husbandry or something like that. Alister¡¯s younger brother Jonathan, was the opposite. He liked to ¡®farm by his instincts,¡¯ whatever that meant.


    ¡°You left me a note,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Come in, come in,¡± said Alister, stepping aside.


    It shamed him a little, that people had to leave a note with Connor Perry at the post office to report crimes and other things that needed a guard¡¯s help. The trouble was, Sunhampton didn¡¯t even have a guard station. The Easterly Guard Commission allocated funding according to crime rates, and Sunhampton didn¡¯t even register on the graph. Hence, he was lucky to get even a handful of gold toward expenses.


    ¡°Beans or leaves?¡± Alister asked him.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take a coffee, please,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Sit yourself down.¡±


    Mick took a seat at the farmhouse table. While Alister poured coffees, he placed his notepad and pen down in front of him. He flicked through it to find some blank space.


    ¡°Here you go,¡± said Alister. ¡°That¡¯ll dust the cobwebs off.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. Your note said something about a pig?¡±Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    Alister nodded, his expression changing from one second to the next. Mick had never seen a fella go so pale, so quickly.


    ¡°It¡¯s Rohan. He¡¯s gone. Someone¡¯s made off with him.¡±


    ¡°A pig named Rohan?¡±


    Alister nodded.


    Mick had never heard of a pig being given a name like Rohan before, but this wasn¡¯t the time to say such a thing. Not with Alister looking so grim. Crimes in Sunhampton were never as serious as they were in a city like Full Striding, but it was important to remember that they were important events in the lives of the poor people they happened to. He always treated every crime and every victim with the respect they deserved.


    ¡°What¡¯s Rohan look like?¡±


    Alister described the pig like someone might describe a missing friend. Mick scribbled shorthand in his notepad.


    ¡°You keep Rohan in a pen at night?¡± he asked.


    Alister nodded.


    ¡°Any sign of damage?¡±


    ¡°He didn¡¯t escape, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re asking. The pigpen was fine. No sign of tampering.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll take a look all the same, if you don¡¯t mind.¡±


    ¡°But I just said-¡±


    ¡°Alister,¡± said Mick, in his most soothing voice. ¡°I know this is stressful, which is why I want to be thorough. Even if it means me raking over old ground.¡±


    ¡°Someone took Rohan two nights ago. I really shouldn¡¯t have had to wait so long.¡±


    ¡°My apologies, Mr. Tillwright.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not good enough.¡±


    ¡°You can only spread a knob of butter so thin,¡± said Mick. ¡°If I had my way, Sunhampton would have a permanent, full-time head of guards. As it stands, I work my arse off at my job, and then no sooner have I put my arse back on, than I work it off again after hours trying to keep our town nice and crime free, like it should be.¡±


    ¡°I know. I¡¯m sorry. It¡¯s just-¡±


    Mick smiled softly. ¡°Don¡¯t worry yourself. Just tell me everything I need to know about Rohan, and I¡¯ll see what I can do.¡±


    It turned out Rohan wasn¡¯t just any old pig. He was a prize pig ¨C or at least, the Tillwrights hoped he would be. They were training him to hunt for truffles competitively, and he was showing real promise. Alister hoped Rohan might even compete in the upcoming Jerkins Farm Games. Maybe even place in the top three and score them a free plow as a prize.


    Normally, a savvy person would have insured a pig that showed such potential. Only made sense to do so, Mick thought. The Tillwrights, however, had had a real struggle turning their late pa¡¯s farm around. Alister told Mick that they got their accounts done by Jester Hugill, and he had only very recently started using black ink when totaling up theirs.


    Mick hated seeing an honest person take a hit. He would have put all his effort into solving this matter anyhow, since he¡¯d sworn to do so as the head of Sunhampton¡¯s guards. But he liked the Tillwrights, he liked pigs, and he hated folks who thought they could just take things for free. Whatever had happened to poor Rohan, Mick would find out.


    After asking Alister everything he could think of, he added just one more line to his notepad.


    The Mystery of the Missing Pig


    With that, he finished his coffee ¨C cursing himself for leaving it to get too cool ¨C and told Alister he¡¯d call by soon, hopefully with some news about Rohan. He made sure not to promise, however. That was one thing every guard or sleuth in Easterly would agree on. Never make a promise.

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 5

    <h2>5</h2>


    The next day being a Monday, Mick had his regular job to attend to. After all, food didn¡¯t get put in their pantry by pantry pixies, as Ma liked to say. He was employed by Mr. Leabrook, the manager of Coiner¡¯s Way. This week, Mr. Leabrook wanted Mick to move all the junk from the back yard of the florist store that Wendy Stowthistle had recently vacated.


    ¡°This is gonna take all week, by the looks of it,¡± said Mick, staring at the frankly incredible hoard of trash bags, scrap metal, and even an old porcelain bathtub filled to the brim with rusted bolts. Mick had no idea how or why a florist would accrue all this junk. Wendy had certainly never mentioned her collection to him.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be taking this up with Ms. Stowthistle, believe me,¡± said Mr. Leabrook. ¡°The courts will see it my way, mark my words.¡±


    ¡°Taking it up how?¡±


    ¡°Well, I suppose finding her is the first step. I rather thought you might, as our town guard, you know¡­¡±


    ¡°What?¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Surely you have ways of locating people?¡±


    Mick had no intention whatsoever of helping Mr. Leabrook pursue Wendy in court. He liked her. She used to make him free bouquets to give to his Ma sometimes. He and Wendy got along like pie and mash, mostly because they were the same age. They¡¯d gone to Sunhampton school together, in fact, though they hadn¡¯t been friends back then.


    But it wasn¡¯t personal interest that stopped him from helping Mr. Leabrook ¨C it was his duty to uphold the law not to the letter, but in a way that made Sunhampton a better place. In this instance, Mr. Leabrook was on the wrong side of it. Knowing his boss well, he considered it part of his job to remind him of things from time to time.


    ¡°Folks pay a service charge along with their rent,¡± Mick said. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to take away their trash.¡±


    ¡°And I pay Miller and Sons Disposal to do so. They charge me by weight, Michael. Wendy was having a laugh, thinking I would remove all of this junk for her. Especially when it has nothing to do with being a florist.¡±


    Mick had read Mr. Leabrook¡¯s rental contracts. After all, if he was to keep his boss in line, it paid for his crossbow to be loaded with bolts of the finest knowledge.


    ¡°I reckon your contract says you¡¯ll remove trash as part of the service fee. Doesn¡¯t say what kind, or how much.¡±


    ¡°Yes, well. I suppose I ought to change that.¡±


    ¡°Too late to pursue Wendy for it, though. She¡¯s got no obligation to clear it up.¡±


    ¡°Whose side are you on?¡± said Mr. Leabrook.


    ¡°The side of truth, Mr. Leabrook. Always on the side of truth.¡±


    People were constantly telling Mick he ought to stop working for Mr. Leabrook. His ma, Lee Hunter, Spruce Wilkinson, Nell Kelly. They all said it. What they didn¡¯t seem to understand was that if you didn¡¯t have a class token, it was hard to find work in a small place like Sunhampton. Around here, most folks had to create their own work. Ma had been a solicitor, for example. Lee Hunter owned his hunting supply store and Spruce had his caf¨¦. Nell was different in that she worked as a teacher at the Sunhampton school, but she¡¯d had to earn her teaching class token for that.


    Mick had never pursued earning a class. Most folks started their apprenticeships somewhere between the ages of fourteen and nineteen. He, however, had spent his teens having fun. He¡¯d left school at sixteen, took all the gold he¡¯d earned from his weekend job at Bumpkiss¡¯s Butcher shop, and traveled the roads of Easterly. For five, glorious years he¡¯d seen what he could of the country, crossing north to south, east to west. Then, when homesickness had hit, he¡¯d come back home to Sunhampton, knowing deep in his heart he wouldn¡¯t ever want to leave again.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    That meant he had a problem. What was an unclassed twenty one year old with little job experience supposed to do? For a while he¡¯d thought about opening his own business. Maybe a food cart at the market, perhaps. Mick was a good cook, and he grilled a mean kebab. But there was a problem there. To start any kind of business, you needed gold. Mick didn¡¯t have any, and he wouldn¡¯t ask his poor ma for it. She had worked hard all her life, and she deserved to have fun with her savings.


    That was why Mick had been glad to accept a job working for Mr. Leabrook, who he¡¯d been employed by ever since. He and Douggie Fernglass shared duties on Coiner¡¯s Way, doing all the little jobs that were needed to keep the mercantile heart of Sunhampton ticking over. Douggie did all of the everyday stuff, like lighting the streetlamps, whereas Mick got tasked with the random jobs that involved any muscle except his brain. Things like clearing out Wendy¡¯s yard full of trash, for example. Mr. Leabrook didn¡¯t seem to think Mick was capable of better jobs than that, so anything that required more than a little bit of  wit went to Douggie.


    What this ultimately meant was that Mick had to work around his day job if he was to find out what happened to Rohan the pig. So, over the course of Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, he carved out every sliver of time he could to question folks in town.


    At lunchtime on Tuesday, for instance, he went to the King¡¯s Head and spoke to Alec. Tavern owners, bartenders, and serving staff were gold mines of information for a guard.


    ¡°Looking for a pig,¡± Mick told Alec. ¡°Goes by the name of Rohan.¡±


    ¡°Goes by?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s his name.¡±


    ¡°Right, Mick, but saying ¡®goes by¡¯ makes it seem like that¡¯s what the pig calls himself.¡±


    Mick sighed. Interviewing potential witnesses was one of the tough parts of the job. People could be stubborn, and you had to watch what you said and how you said it.


    ¡°Just wondering if maybe someone tried to bring a pig into the pub, maybe you overheard anyone talking about selling one.¡±


    ¡°Sorry,¡± said Alec, shaking his head. ¡°Now that you¡¯re here, though, there¡¯s a little matter I want to talk to you about. Someone¡¯s been moving my-¡±


    Mick must have spoken to all the regular faces on Coiner¡¯s Way over the course of that week, and nobody had seen snout nor trotter of Rohan. Most folks didn¡¯t much care, either, since they were lost in their own worlds. Paisley Porter and Lewis Cooper were as helpful as always and promised to keep an eye out, but he didn¡¯t really learn anything useful. Lacking any of the abilities that fully-classed sleuths had on their skill trees, this left him with few options.


    That night over dinner, Mick tried to put himself in the place of a pig, and then in the mind of a pig thief. Larceny seemed likely, though he couldn¡¯t rule out that Rohan had let himself out. Pigs were clever, and a good sleuth never excluded an option until they were sure.


    While Mick ate, Ma was doing squats in the living room, holding two bags of weighted sand in her hands. She¡¯d started attending body fitness classes at Yulred Usgood¡¯s back yard gym, determined to become fitter in her seventies than she had been in her fifties and sixties.


    ¡°Aren¡¯t you going to eat?¡± he asked her.


    ¡°Just¡­one¡­more¡­rep¡­¡± She dropped the bags of sand and straightened up straight. ¡°There!¡±


    Mick headed into the kitchen, dished up a bowl of three bean chilli, and placed it on the table in front of Ma.


    ¡°No garlic bread today?¡± she asked.


    ¡°You said you were giving it up.¡±


    ¡°Did I?¡±


    Mick nodded. ¡°Tuesday, eight-thirty-six. You said, and I quote, ¡®Mick, I¡¯m giving up bread. Even garlic bread.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Well, maybe that¡¯s what I said, but that doesn¡¯t mean I was going to do it. Everyone says things, Mick. You¡¯ll make a fine sleuth, believing what everyone tells you.¡±


    Said by anyone else and that would have sounded mean, but Ma didn¡¯t have a nasty bone in her body. He and Ma had always had a jokey relationship. They were very much alike, he and Ma, which was why they got on so well.


    Mick sat down at the table opposite her and poured himself a glass of beer from the pitcher. ¡°Ma, if you were to steal a pig, where¡¯s the first place you¡¯d go?¡±


    Without hesitation or inquiry, she said, ¡°Depends on the pig.¡±


    ¡°A prized pig. One that sniffs out truffles.¡±


    ¡°Well, if I was someone who knew about this kind of thing and had done my homework, I¡¯d start with every farmer around here who keeps pigs like that. You know, someone I could make a quick sale to.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 6

    <h2>6</h2>


    Mick thought Ma might be onto something, but he reasoned that the pig thief wouldn¡¯t risk trying to sell Rohan to a local farmer. Nor would any farmer around Sunhampton buy him without seeing legal documentation proving ownership. Folks around Sunhampton watched out for one another.


    With this in mind, he cast a wider net. At Sunhampton library, he visited the reference section to take a look at the artificed local survey map. This map, artificed by Jack Cooper years ago, folded out to cover two whole desks pushed together. The magic in it ¨C Mick knew that Jack Cooper hated that word but continued to use it anyway to annoy him ¨C made it so that when new stores opened or property changed hands, the map would reflect the changes.


    He used the map to make a list of farms that were more than five miles away from Sunhampton, yet less than thirty. A thief, he reasoned, couldn¡¯t sell his stolen goods, but also wouldn¡¯t want the burden or risk of traveling too far with an illicitly-gained pig.


    After work and at weekends, Mick visited farm after farm. Clever scheduling meant he could hit four or five farms in one trip, but it still took much more time than he¡¯d have liked. Some days, he finished whatever mindless task Mr. Leabrook had given him for the day, headed straight  for a commuter cart, and didn¡¯t get home until after midnight.


    Wednesday evening ¨C or Thursday morning, technically ¨C was the worst. He had eaten a whole plate of marinaded kebab wraps at one o¡¯clock in the morning. That was no time of the day to be eating kebabs. He didn¡¯t mind it if he got home drunk after an evening in the King¡¯s Head. The amount of beer you drank directly correlated with eating food at unsuitable times, everyone knew that. But a kebab in the early hours of the morning after spending an evening visiting farms? That didn¡¯t seem right.


    Something¡¯s gonna have to give, he thought. I can¡¯t keep this up forever.


    Then again, the last thing in the world that he wanted was to stop being Sunhampton¡¯s head of guards. Especially not so he could focus on his work for Mr. Leabrook. If his boss could teach a chimpanzee how to do his job for peanuts, he wouldn¡¯t blink before telling Mick to look for another job. Whereas keeping Sunhampton safe, whatever that meant in a quiet place like this, always made Mick feel important. Sometimes, that was what a person needed.


    On Thursday evening, Mick visited a tavern nine and a quarter miles outside of Sunhampton. This one had a huge wicker horse standing out front, twenty feet tall and visible from far away. It was called the Lame Horse, so named after the owner¡¯s beloved friend, Whisper, an ex-racing horse that he rescued and built a luxury stable for at the back of the tavern. It was said if a traveler wanted to find a pub where their horse would be treated better than they were, the Lame Horse was their place. Due to sitting right in the crease of where the routes to Sunhampton and a few other towns met, it also served as a pretty good waypoint for travelers.


    Inside, the Lame Horse was as dimly lit as most of those places tended to be. It was practically the law that a pub couldn¡¯t have brightness beyond a certain level. It was a cozy tavern, Mick always thought when he had occasion to visit it. The perfect little place for seeing out a winter¡¯s evening, warming by the fire with a beer to hand and pie and gravy ready to be eaten. And their fried potatoes? Best in Easterly, for his money.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    Taking a deep breath, he smelled stale pipe smoke ¨C a clear breach of the Easterly Tobacco policy that said you couldn¡¯t puff a pipe inside a public premises. As a guard, Mick was within his rights to arrest someone for that even if they weren¡¯t in Sunhampton right now. You had to pick your battles, though. What people didn¡¯t understand was the sheer amount of forms that cuffing just one person created. He was too exhausted for more paperwork, and as long as the pipe smoking didn¡¯t happen in front of him, he¡¯d let it go for his own sake.


    Approaching the bar, he waited patiently for the owner, Hugh, to serve two gentlemen. Listening with his trained ear, Mick gathered that they were comparing notes for a hike they were doing the next morning. One of them was up for a more challenging route, while his friend was hoping for a more relaxed stroll. After giving them their King¡¯s Lament ales and pocketing their coins, Hugh turned his attention to Mick.


    Hugh was bald on top, with a ponytail at the back of his head. His right ear was pierced three times. Painful. His face made him look like a badger, Mick thought. Hard to pinpoint exactly why, it was just an overall effect his eyes, nose, and mouth had that put you in mind of a black and white nocturnal critter. A kind of innate badgeriness that no man could force.


    ¡°Alright, Mick?¡± he said.


    ¡°Evening.¡±


    ¡°What can I get for you?¡±


    ¡°Looking for a pig. Goes by the name¡­he¡¯s called Rohan.¡±


    ¡°What do I look like, a farmyard auctioneer? Ales, pies, and maybe some jam tart if there¡¯s any left. That¡¯s all I can do for you.¡±


    ¡°People come here to make trades,¡± said Mick. ¡°I¡¯m just wondering if maybe a pig changed hands.¡±


    Hugh rested his arms on the beer pump. ¡°I don¡¯t make a point of asking questions. I mean, I make a point of not asking questions. If trades happen in my pub, they¡¯re of the legal kind. That¡¯s all I know.¡±


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t be able to miss this one. They¡¯d have had a huge pig with ¡®em.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s funny what you miss when  you¡¯re not looking. Ale, Mick?¡±


    Mick sniffed the air. ¡°Smells a little in here.¡±


    ¡°My barlad¡¯s sick. Mumps. Poor lad¡¯s neck swelled up like he tried swallowing a grapefruit. Until he¡¯s back, it¡¯s all I can do to keep ale glasses full. Don¡¯t have time to be mopping the floor.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not the floor that stinks,¡± said Mick. ¡°Smells like pipe smoke. Indoor pipe smoke, unless my nose is lying to me.¡±


    ¡°Must have wafted in from outside.¡±


    ¡°Way too strong for that. A smell so heavy, must be a full pipe¡¯s worth smoked right under this roof. Under your very nose, in fact. Nobody could miss that. Not even a fella trying to ignore it. Don¡¯t places get fined for allowing people to smoke indoors?¡±


    Hugh sighed. ¡°Look, there was a merchant here last week. He stayed for a night. Signed himself in as Papworth in the guest book. Something was off about him, can¡¯t say what, but there you go. You just get that feeling, don¡¯t you? Had four pigs with him. Said he was heading to Farley¡¯s Auctioneers near Perentee. That¡¯s all I heard. Now, are you going to spend a coin while you¡¯re here, or not?¡±


    Mick considered Hugh¡¯s tip. The thing about this Papworth guy seeming ¡®off¡¯ was interesting. Not enough to arrest a person for, of course, but you had to listen to tavern owners. Part of their skill trees was the ability to sense trouble. This fella might be worth looking into.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take a beer now that I¡¯m here,¡± said Mick. ¡°And tell your barlad I hope he gets better soon. I had mumps when I was a bairn, and it wasn¡¯t nice, I¡¯ll tell you that for free. My Ma, she got an ointment from the alchemist. Had to go all the way to Full Striding ¡®cos we didn¡¯t have an alchemist in ¡®hampton back then. Your barlad ought to see one.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 7

    <h2>7</h2>


    Farley¡¯s Auctioneers specialized in holding auctions for farm equipment, feeds, tools of the manual, tinkered, and artificed kinds, as well as livestock. If you wanted to buy or sell a pig, sheep, or cow, that was where you¡¯d go. Operating out of a huge warehouse outside of Perentee, it made it a popular haunt for anyone in the area with an agricultural leaning. People traveled for hundreds of miles to go to the monthly event, which Mick found out was arranged for the very next day.


    If this ¡®Papworth¡¯ merchant fella was indeed the pig thief, then Mick had to get to the auction tomorrow. No two ways about it. Otherwise, Rohan could be sold off and taken almost anywhere in Easterly. Then, the trail would be so cold that Alister would never see his pig buddy again.


    And there was the big problem, given that the next day was a Friday.


    How many other damned guards or sleuths have to get permission from their day job boss to work their cases?


    First thing in the morning, Mick went to see Mr. Leabrook in his office on Coiner¡¯s Way. He owned a three story place on the corner, just past the King¡¯s Head. He was always complaining about noise from the tavern. One time, he was so annoyed that he¡¯d even asked Mick to look into whether there was any way to get the tavern closed down. ¡°You know, a bylaw that Alec¡¯s breaking, or something.¡± Never mind that the tavern had already been there when Mr. Leabrook bought his building.


    Mick had no intention whatsoever of getting his favorite tavern shut down, and he told Mr. Leabrook so. ¡°And that¡¯s just me. I¡¯m a nice guy. The rest of the ¡®hamptoners? They¡¯ll drive you out of town if they knew what you were thinking, Mr. Leabrook.¡±


    Although the ground floor was the nicest part of the building and could have been made into a much more comfortable office, Mr. Leabrook kept his on the top floor, purely to make people walk all the way up the stairs if they needed to see him.


    ¡°Merchants and tenants,¡± he often said, spitting out the words like lemon pips. ¡°Always wanting something. ¡®Mr. Leabrook, there are rats in the alley. Mr. Leabrook, our water pumps are pumping brown liquid.¡¯ A bunch of whiners. You have to take every advantage you can get against them. Tiring them out even just a little before they reach my office gives me an edge in negotiations.¡±


    For a guy like Mick who went running twice per day, a few stairs were nothing. All the same, he still didn¡¯t fancy his chances against Mr. Leabrook today. As a tokenless odd-jobber, he was always going to be walking uphill when it came to dealing with a guy like his boss.


    He found him sitting behind his desk, reading the Sunhampton Chronicle. Mr. Leabrook liked to go through the classified section and find interesting things people were selling. Then, he¡¯d arrange to buy them, only to drop out at the last minute. Then he¡¯d go back a few days later and offer an even lower price. It was a trick that nobody in Sunhampton fell for anymore. Mick would have put a stop to it, but Mr. Leabrook wasn¡¯t doing anything illegal, more¡¯s the pity.


    ¡°Mick, glad you¡¯re here. I need you to climb down into the northside well. Something¡¯s turning the water an unsightly color, and since the well is an inch inside the boundaries of Coiner¡¯s Way, it seems that it¡¯s my damn problem.¡±


    The very last thing Mick wanted to do was climb down a well. The thought made his flesh creep. He wasn¡¯t scared of many things in life, but something about descending down into the darkness made him want to run for the hills and never come back. Besides, he had other stuff to do today, which was why he was here.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°I need to take a day of vacation leave, Mr. Leabrook.¡±


    ¡°Oh, do you? Well, let¡¯s check the planner and see if we can book something in. We agreed you¡¯d always give me three months¡¯ notice, so let¡¯s take a look...¡±


    ¡°I need it today.¡±


    ¡°Today?¡± said Mr. Leabrook with theatrical incredulity. You¡¯d have thought Mick had just told him he wanted a raise of five hundred gold per hour or something.


    ¡°I know it¡¯s short notice, but something urgent popped up.¡±


    Hearing this, Mr. Leabrook¡¯s face softened. ¡°Is your mother okay?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s stronger than an ox. It¡¯s something else. Guard business.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, Mick. Someone needs to climb down that well, and it won¡¯t be me.¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s a water issue,¡± said Mick, ¡°You ought to call out a professional.¡±


    ¡°And spend out masses of gold just for them to tell me it¡¯s something obvious?¡±


    Though he could respect a fellow spendthrift, there were limits. Mick was only ever thrifty in clever ways. If he could get the same thing with little detriment for much less gold, then it was worthy prudence. Skimping out on important things just to save some coins wasn¡¯t good thrifting, however.


    ¡°Whatever¡¯s going on in that well, it¡¯s beyond my skills, Mr. Leabrook. You need to pay out to get someone qualified to have a look. Which means you won¡¯t need me today.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s how it is, is it? More fool me for taking a chance on you,¡± said Mr. Leabrook. ¡°When I think back to that day¡­no work experience, just back in town from years of lazing around. And I took you on, gave you a job¡­¡±


    Here was that argument again. The same one Mr. Leabrook had used for years now. Mick was sick of hearing it. He was sick of working for this guy, spending most of his time doing things that he didn¡¯t want to do, and only carving out little slivers of time to what he enjoyed, the thing in his life that he felt had purpose.


    Tinkerer¡¯s gears started turning in his head. Maybe he was dimly aware of it right then, the idea that these gears were activating something important in his mind, but he couldn¡¯t have told you so at that very moment. All he felt was a burning feeling in his gut, where his instincts lay.


    Almost as if the words were spoken for him, he said, ¡°I quit.¡±


    ¡°You what?¡±


    ¡°I quit. Go climb down your own damn well. That is, if you can find your way out of your own arse.¡±


    Two separate winds of emotion rushed through his mind as he walked out of Mr. Leabrook¡¯s building. The first was, what would Ma say? She didn¡¯t work anymore. Mick brought in their income. Was this an incredibly irresponsible thing to do? Mick hadn¡¯t done a rash thing since leaving school and going traveling, so why had this streak resurfaced?


    He almost turned back around, but stopped himself. We¡¯ll be okay, he forced himself to think. We don¡¯t pay rent on the house, after all, and I have my emergency savings. I¡¯ll get another job, that¡¯s all.


    True words, but he only half convinced himself. The worry was still there, lurking in his mind, but he was able to push it away, grab room to breathe. His awareness of it was the same as enjoying a night in the tavern drinking beer with his friends, whilst knowing a hangover awaited him the next day. He could push it out of his mind for now, but it wasn¡¯t going anywhere.


    Something deep inside him told him that maybe this wasn¡¯t a wise decision. And sure, it wasn¡¯t the done thing to quit your job. It was a course of action a lot of people would have advised him against.


    Despite that, Mick felt deep down, right in his very soul, that this was the thing he was supposed to do that day. He hadn¡¯t known that when he got up in the morning, but there it was.


    What was telling him this, though? Which part of his mind or his body was  trying to reassure him? If he thought about it, he guessed it was his instincts. Those very things that any guard or sleuth worth their token would trust.


    Winning against the urge to turn back and ask for his job, Mick forced himself on. His slow pace turned into a brisk walk, and then, before he knew it, he found himself running. If he put enough speed into it, he could outpace his regrets and make sure his decision stuck. This decision that was logically so wrong, yet couldn¡¯t have felt better.

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 8

    <h2>8</h2>


    The auction house was a little further north of Perentee than he¡¯d expected. Perentee was sometimes talked about as Sunhampton¡¯s younger sibling, though the towns had little in common except for sitting on the same part of Easterly¡¯s map. Their proximity meant that some people lived in Sunhampton and commuted to Perentee for work, and the same the other way. Mick had been here a few times, including for Jack Cooper¡¯s birthday a few years back when they¡¯d covered ¡®The Fox Trail¡¯, which meant visiting every tavern in Perentee that had the word ¡®fox¡¯ in its name.


    Inside the warehouse, Mick was treated to a smell the likes of which he¡¯d never experienced before. Not just a farm aroma or that of the countryside. This was way worse. This was the stench created if someone had taken farm smells and distilled them to their essences, making them stronger than he could ever have imagined. Cow muck, horse muck, every type of muck possible. If the animal lived on a farm and had an arse, then its smell was here. This was going to take a dozen washes to get out of his clothes, he thought with regret. He might even have to pay Janey Morgan to make him some special washing powder, depending on whether that was more cost effective than just buying a pair of trousers and a shirt.


    I¡¯ll have to be even more thrifty until I find a new job he thought.


    Walking around the warehouse and threading his way through the various stalls to get his bearings, Mick felt sure he¡¯d never seen so many farmers in one place. They were everywhere he looked.


    ¡°You looking for some organic fertilizer, my treacle?¡± said one lady behind a stall that bore the name, ¡®Rumpers Organics.¡¯


    ¡°No, thanks.¡±


    Moving away before she could try to reel him further into her sales pitch, he found himself caught in the middle of a crowd. People moving this way and that, some of them barely stepping out of his way to avoid barging into him. Market stalls either side of him seemed to form a barrier hemming him in.


    Weaving his way out of the bustle, Mick carved out a little space for himself near the eastern wall, beside a stack of hay bales. Away from the constrictive busyness of the other people, he took a few deep breaths.


    It was his own fault that he felt so overwhelmed. He had bought a book called ¡®Nose for Trouble,¡¯ from Percy Tattersall¡¯s book store. Written by an ex-chief inspector at a guard station in Full Striding, the book was filled with techniques that a guard or sleuth could use to boost their senses. It was aimed at people who had a class token, but there were a few tricks that even tokenless guys like Mick could learn.


    So, this meant that his smell and hearing were perhaps a little better than regular peoples¡¯. In a place that smelled as bad as  this and had so many people talking at once, vendors yelling, and cows mooing, it didn¡¯t feel like improving his senses had been time well spent.


    A few deep breaths left him feeling a little more settled. Mick left his semi-secluded spot and headed for a stall he¡¯d spotted on his earlier patrol. There, a guy called Kit Henwright was selling hot coffee from beans that he grew himself. Mick treated himself to a cup, despite the price. Sure, he¡¯d just quit his job. Yes, paying out coins for luxury coffee felt foreign to him at the best of times. But to heck with it. Today was a day for doing things differently, it seemed. His life in Sunhampton had been the same for years now, ever since he got back from traveling. And it always would have been, he realized with brilliant clarity. If he hadn¡¯t have quit today, his life would never, ever have changed.


    He was always holding himself back, working all hours of the day and evening, never treating himself, paying for the damned guard stuff out of his own pocket. Right now, right here, he wanted a good-tasting coffee, and by the saints, he deserved it.


    ¡°Gets a little bit much, doesn¡¯t it,¡± said Kit Henwright, as he scraped coffee from his grinder. He dug at it with a special tool, tapped the grinder softly so that granules fell out, then got back to scraping.


    ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s like a farmyard in here,¡± said Mick.


    Kit laughed, though they both knew, deep down, that Mick¡¯s joke was a five out of ten at best. Maybe he could have elevated it to a six if he found a way to get ¡®moocha¡¯ instead of mocha into it, but he couldn¡¯t figure out a means of doing that.


    Kit continued, ¡°The trick is¡­well, there is no trick. Just get what you came here for, and leave. That¡¯s the secret. Have a good day, my friend. If you¡¯re ever in Sunhampton, you might want to check out a store. Paisley Porter ¨C Merchant of Fine Goods. She stocks my beans.¡±


    Mick couldn¡¯t help smiling at this. ¡°I think I¡¯ve heard of the place. Maybe I will. Take it easy, fella.¡±


    Feeling refreshed, Mick found his way to the part of the warehouse given over to auctioning off livestock. Cows, sheep, goats, rams. There were so many animals here they could have started a zoo. It occurred to him that if the animals had just a little more intelligence, they might realize that they had the numbers and brawn to take over. Maybe they could start selling the humans for auction, instead. One of them, a huge bull with furious eyes, looked like it could charge straight through a castle gate and barely feel it.


    Walking around each animal pen while trying to seem casual, Mick slowly made his way to where four pigs were kept. He took a few moments to look at them, to really take their appearances in. Then, he walked out of the livestock area and back towards the market stalls.Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.


    Taking his notepad out of his pocket, he flicked through it, trying to find where he¡¯d taken Rohan¡¯s description from Alister.


    This bloody notepad, he thought to himself as he struggled to locate the page. What I¡¯d give for an artificed one. Although, I s¡®pose I could have just folded the page.


    Finding the section he needed, he read his own shorthand. As he scanned Rohan¡¯s description, he felt himself deflating. Of the four pigs that were up for auction, one of them almost matched Rohan¡¯s description. The problem? This one had big, brown spots all over its body, whereas Rohan didn¡¯t have any.


    Shutting his notepad and putting it in his pocket, he was ready to chalk this up as a failed lead. Then, his instincts stirred for the second time today. Go take one more look, they told him.


    Acting on what his gut told him ¨C while wondering exactly why folks thought of their instincts being in their gut in the first place, since that was the last place Mick would have chosen to keep them ¨C he headed back towards the animals. He made another relaxed tour, before stopping at the pig pen.


    A guy was in the pen with them, kneeling down and painting red numbers on their rumps. He was a tall man, all skin and bones as Ma would say. Mick had seen more bulk on a tree branch in autumn.


    The man noticed him. ¡°In the market for a hog?¡± he said.


    ¡°Maybe.¡±


    ¡°Reared these beautiful beasts myself. They¡¯re up for auction in mebbe an hour or so.¡±


    ¡°Mind if I take a look at them?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    Mick moved to enter the pig pen, when the man held up a hand. ¡°Look with your eyes.¡±


    Despite not knowing much about farming and even less about buying livestock at an auction, he felt reasonably confident in assuming something.


    ¡°You expect folks to bid on animals they haven¡¯t inspected? This your first time?¡±


    The man scratched his ear. ¡°Well¡­I¡­uh¡­fine. Just don¡¯t get them riled up. Had a heck of a hassle getting ¡®em here.¡±


    Mick made his inspection look as casual as possible, making sure to give all four pigs a good looking over. When he judged he¡¯d made it look natural enough, he crouched beside the one who looked most like Rohan.


    A quick glance out of the corner of his eye told him that the man was watching him like he¡¯d just entered a jewelers store carrying a huge burlap sack. Look away for a moment or two, for saints sake, Mick urged him.


    ¡°Clive?¡±


    Someone stepped out from the crowd beyond the pig pen and called out to the man, taking his attention away from Mick and the pigs. Mick licked his thumb, then tried to rub away one of the spots from the pig¡¯s body.


    Nothing happened, but he hadn¡¯t really expected the paint to just come off like that. Still, it was worth a try. Looking over his shoulder to make sure that the man wasn¡¯t looking, Mick took a glass vial and a cloth out of his inner coat pocket. Using a pipette, he dropped some liquid onto the cloth and then gently brushed it on the pig¡¯s body.


    Well, would you look at that.


    He stood up, smiling to himself. The liquid was an alchemical formula Ma had bought from Janey Morgan last winter. It was a kind of paint stripper, only Ma was obsessed with knowing that any alchemical potions or salves she bought were safe for animals. Not that she encountered many, but she wanted to be sure in case of accidental contact and that kind of thing. All her plant feeds were animal friendly, for instance, so that no harm came to the cats that prowled her garden. That was Ma for you; she complained about the damn cats all night long, but wouldn¡¯t see any accidental hurt come to them.


    The pig vendor, who was almost certainly not just ¡®Clive¡¯ but ¡®Clive Papworth¡¯, was still talking to a stranger. From the look on his face, and the ¡°Yeah, yeah. Damn. Oh, really?¡± noises he was making, he was doing his darndest to extract himself from the conversation.


    Finally the man released him and moved on toward a nearby goat pen. Clive gave a long sigh, then turned around, resting his back against the metal railings.


    ¡°Saints alive, that guy can talk.¡±


    ¡°Got a question for you,¡± said Mick.


    Clive¡¯s face brightened, though it was a forced kind of cheeriness. ¡°If it¡¯s a question about pigs and I don¡¯t know the answer, then call the guards, because I¡¯m an imposter.¡±


    Mick couldn¡¯t help smiling, finding a small part of himself actually liking Clive. This fella must have had a skill tree involving persuasion, he decided. He better watch himself. Most folks with that skill tree, like Paisley and Jace Porter for instance, used it ethically. You couldn¡¯t expect the same kind of honor from a pig thief.


    ¡°Tell me this. Is there any way that a pig¡¯s spots might just¡­wipe off?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Might just wipe-¡± Clive stopped talking then, his eyes darting in the direction of Rohan. He took a step back, toward the pigpen door.


    ¡°Running will make it worse,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Just who the hell are you?¡±


    ¡°They call me Mick Mulroon, head guard of Sunhampton. Seems we need to have a chat.¡±


    ¡°A thousand gold,¡± muttered Clive.


    ¡°Huh?¡±


    ¡°I should clear three thousand, easily, when I ship these porkers off. I¡¯ll give you a third of it. You walk away with a pocket full of gold, the pigs go to some nice farm somewhere. Everyone¡¯s smiling.¡±


    ¡°Apart from a friend of mine, who lost his hog. What was it? You been casing all the local farms and settled on the Tillwrights¡¯?¡±


    Clive dropped his amiable look now, and a devious expression, probably his natural one, took hold on his face. ¡°Think I care a fig ¡®bout their names? One form or another, they¡¯re all the same.¡±


    ¡°Why pigs, though? Not a very bright thing to steal, if you ask me. Loud, what with all their grunting and squealing. Heavy as heck, hard to find a buyer for. If someone asked me ¡®Mick, what¡¯s the worst thing to try thieving?¡¯ I¡¯d have thought about it, then said pigs.¡±


    ¡°I got a way with them.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Animals. They like me. A few words and big, fat pigs like these will just walk away with me, no hassle. I can¡¯t pickpocket, I don¡¯t have the hand speed. Can¡¯t burgle someone¡¯s house ¨C even a guy like me has morals. Don¡¯t like creeping around in folks¡¯ homes. But animals? They trust me.¡±


    So this guy was good with animals, huh? Mick suspected a skill tree of a different kind now. Or if not a skill tree with an actual token, but some kind of innate talent that could have led to a skill tree one day if he¡¯d chosen the right path. Still, Clive had picked his route. He¡¯d committed to it, and that was his problem.


    ¡°You gonna come with me, or do you want to make things difficult? Either way¡¯s fine with me,¡± he said.


    ¡°Go where, exactly?¡±


    ¡°Perentee¡¯s got a jail. Think you¡¯ll be holing up there for a few days before they get you to court in Striding.¡±


    ¡°Two thousand,¡± said Clive. ¡°That¡¯s me practically giving up my cut. I ought to have you arrested for daylight robbery.¡±


    Mick could have done a lot with two thousand gold. With some of his thrifty tricks, he could make it spread quite far. All he had to do was walk away, and tell Alister that he hadn¡¯t managed to find Rohan.


    He shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t wanna hear a peep out of you until we get to Perentee. Then, my advice would be to cooperate with the guards there. Tell ¡®em where you got the other pigs from. Things might go easier for you.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 9

    <h2>9</h2>


    Friday night was quiz night at the King¡¯s Head, which meant the tavern was packed to the rafters. The people to beat were The Old Timers, a team consisting of Jack Cooper, Janey Morgan, Flo Anderson, and Martha Peters. They always grabbed the table closest to the bar so they didn¡¯t have to go far to order drinks. Between them, they had over two hundred and fifty years¡¯ worth of life experience and knowledge. How were people meant to compete with that?


    Mick¡¯s team¡¯s name changed every week, and he, Lee Hunter, Spruce Wilkinson, and Nell Kelly took turns in choosing. Mick had picked ¡®The Porkers¡¯ in honor of how he¡¯d spent his time recently.


    ¡°Question fourteen: in ¡®the Ballad of the Three Sisters¡¯,¡± said Alec, standing by the bar, ¡°One sister has a snake¡¯s head, the other a bear¡¯s. For one point, tell me what kind of head the third sister has.¡±


    Mick knew this one straight away, but part of being a good team player was letting the others feel involved by getting the answers. He sat patiently, watching Lee rap the table with his knuckles as he tried to tease the solution out of his mind.


    ¡°Come on, Nell,¡± said Spruce. ¡°Don¡¯t you teach literature at your school?¡±


    ¡°The Three Sisters is a little¡­well, it doesn¡¯t get taught anymore, put it that way.¡±


    ¡°Got it,¡± said Lee. He snatched the paper and scribbled ¡®wolf¡¯ onto the answer sheet.


    ¡°Alright, folks, we¡¯re halfway into the quiz. Let¡¯s take ten minutes, get yourself some drinks, and then we¡¯ll pick it back up,¡± said Alec.


    Nell stood up. ¡°Another round?¡±


    ¡°Yes please, Nell. My throat feels like sandpaper. Want a hand?¡± asked Mick.


    ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡±


    Nell had this trick where she could order four beers and bring them all back to the table in one trip, on her own. Mick never quite figured out how she managed it, but she made it look easy. So, if she said she was okay, he believed her, and didn¡¯t move to get up as she headed toward the bar.


    He, Lee, and Spruce chatted while they waited for Nell. Lee was considering approaching Janey Morgan with a business arrangement. If she could come up with various scents that would help hunters in the field, he could sell them in his store.


    This was all part of this idea he¡¯d gotten into his head that if he could just increase his takings in his ¡®hampton hunting store, maybe he could expand into Perentee, or maybe Full Striding. Lee had been spending his breaks and lunches at Paisley Porter¡¯s store lately, trying to get business tips from her. She¡¯d told him that it was no good having a product if you didn¡¯t have access to the right market, but no point having customers if you didn¡¯t offer what they wanted. A deal with Janey would work out for both the alchemist and the hunter.


    Spruce Wilkinson, on the other hand, had a different problem. He was thinking of easing off from the work side of things. Until maybe a year or so ago, he and Mrs. Grant had been an item. Things had ended amicably, and she was spending her days with Percy Tattersall lately. He was happy for them, since he and Mrs. Grant had parted as friends, and she and Percy were a better match anyhow. It just didn¡¯t work out, that was all. But the whole thing had got him thinking that maybe he ought to spend less time in his caf¨¦ frying eggs, and more time living his life.


    His problem, though, was that he didn¡¯t want to close the caf¨¦. To add another layer, he didn¡¯t quite trust another chef to take over duties. He, Lee, and Mick argued this back and forth for a while, before Spruce asked that they change the subject.


    ¡°Did I tell you what I got at the Hattersdale auction?¡± said Spruce.


    Spruce liked to visit auction houses and see what kind of bargains he could get. He didn¡¯t have the antique dealer class token, but he¡¯d done a lot of reading over the years and could generally tell whether a vase or a tea set was undervalued. It wasn¡¯t all about making a side profit, though. What he really loved was to sit there in the auction house and wait for something to just tug on his fancy.


    ¡°No, wait a minute. Let me guess,¡± said Lee. ¡°I reckon you got¡­a huge, stuffed bear.¡±


    ¡°Nope. A carriage.¡±


    ¡°A carriage?¡±


    Spruce nodded. ¡°It doesn¡¯t have wheels, and it¡¯s only a step up from kindling. But it¡¯s a fancy carriage. Or it was once, anyhow. A Clarington carriage, apparently. Might go see old Jack Cooper, maybe he¡¯ll be interested in restoring it for me.¡±


    ¡°How about you? You alright, pal?¡± said Lee, looking at Mick.


    Mick nodded. ¡°Right as rain.¡±


    ¡°Only, you¡¯ve been staring at the door every five seconds.¡±


    He sighed. ¡°Haven¡¯t spoken to Ma yet. Pretty sure she¡¯ll already know I quit with Mr. Leabrook. Word gets around.¡±


    ¡°So?¡± said Spruce.


    ¡°You know how mothers get.¡±This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Lee laughed. ¡°Mick, you¡¯re in your mid-thirties. Your ma can¡¯t tell you where to work.¡±


    ¡°I know. In theory, that¡¯s a sound premise. In practice, mothers keep their authority all your life. You see if they don¡¯t. I could be fifty, and she¡¯d still be able to scold me like a kid.¡±


    ¡°My mother¡¯s eighty-six, and she can still freeze me to the spot with a stare,¡± said Spruce.


    Nell approached the table with four glasses of beer and set them down without spilling a single drop. Then she sat in her seat and drank half her glass in one go.


    ¡°What are we talking about?¡±


    ¡°Mick and his job.¡±


    ¡°Oh. That. You¡¯ve never done a better thing than telling Mr. Leabrook to shove it, if you ask me. I¡¯m proud of you.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Nell.¡±


    Now, Lee, Nell, and Spruce glanced at each other like a set of thieves. Even if Mick didn¡¯t have his finely-sharpened instincts, they couldn¡¯t have looked more suspicious unless they¡¯d been wearing hoods over their heads with little eyeholes cut out, as well as carrying crowbars and loot sacks.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± he said.


    Lee cleared his throat. ¡°I was in Striding on Wednesday. At the market. Happened on this.¡±


    He took a folded up piece of paper from his pocket and handed it across the table. Mick took it and unfolded it, quickly scanning the contents.


    ¡°They¡¯re accepting candidates for the sleuth token training program in two weeks¡¯ time,¡± said Nell. ¡°We¡¯ve been talking about it. We think you should apply.¡±


    ¡°You guys been planning my future?¡±


    ¡°Well, meaning no offense,¡± said Spruce, ¡°but someone had to. If you¡¯d have been happy working for Mr. Leabrook, that¡¯d be one thing. Nothing wrong with being content. But you¡¯re always saying how-¡±


    Spruce stopped talking as the tavern door opened, and Ma walked through it. Mick¡¯s initial happiness at seeing her was quickly replaced  by a sudden shock of nerves. Funny how she could do that to him, even as a grown man. She stood in the doorway for a moment and looked left to right, surveying the tavern like an eagle looking down on a field and choosing which mouse to eat. Her head snapped in his direction, their eyes locked, and she stomped over to the table.


    ¡°Michael James Mulroon,¡± she said, getting closer.


    ¡°Alright. Before you say anything-¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you ¡®Before you say anything¡¯ me.¡±


    Nell stood up, grabbed a spare chair from Percy Tattersall¡¯s and Mrs. Grant¡¯s table, and then made room for it next to her. ¡°Sit yourself down, Mrs. M.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, darling.¡±


    Ma had always loved Nell. Ever since Mick had brought his new friend home after school and asked if she could stay for dinner all those years ago, Ma and Nell had been thick as thieves.


    His mother took a seat next to Nell. Mick, seizing the opportunity to extract himself from the situation whilst doing something good, asked if she wanted a drink.


    ¡°I want a whiskey,¡± said Ma. ¡°But I want a word, first.¡±


    ¡°Ma-¡±


    She held up her hand, silencing him as if she was a mage casting a mute spell. ¡°Mr. Leabrook told me about your little chat yesterday. He says things get said in the heat of the moment. If you go see him in the morning, then the water¡¯s under the bridge.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t-¡±


    Ma continued, ¡°However, I told him that if you quit, then you had a good reason. I told him that my Mick¡¯s stubborn as a mule, and he¡¯s been working that job too long anyhow.¡±


    She glanced at Nell now, who gave a crafty look back. So, it seemed Ma had been in on their conspiracy, too.


    ¡°You think I should go to Striding? Try and get myself on the sleuth token program?¡±


    ¡°Tell me this. Are you happy, Mick?¡± said Ma.


    ¡°You know me. I love it here.¡±


    ¡°I know you do. But that¡¯s not what I¡¯m asking ¨C I don¡¯t mean are you happy living in ¡®hampton. Look at this week just gone. Spending all your time trying to find a missing pig, not getting paid a penny more than your expenses for it. A person wouldn¡¯t do that if they didn¡¯t want to. You could just give it up whenever you feel like it - you¡¯re volunteering, after all. But you don¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Dad never quit.¡±


    ¡°He didn¡¯t. Here¡¯s another thing, Mick. Your father always talked about getting a class token, and he never did it. Are you going to go down that same road? It doesn¡¯t lead anywhere, let me tell you. I loved your father to his core, but by the saints, he needed a kick up the arse.¡±


    The next morning, Mick went for a run in an effort to sweat out all the beer he¡¯d drunk the night before. They had placed third in the quiz, which had only served to stoke Nell¡¯s competitive side, but it had still been a nice evening. Now, though, he was paying the price. His pace was slow but steady at first, but he quickened as he got into it. The chill breeze he ran directly into was especially welcome.


    On his way home, exhausted but actually feeling better, he stopped by the Tillwright¡¯s farmhouse. The siblings had already been up for hours longer than most folks in Sunhampton, and they were already having what was, to them, almost like their lunch.


    Jane, the second eldest Tillwright next to Alister, invited Mick in and practically forced him to sit at the table with them and enjoy a cooked breakfast. Sausages, beans, bacon ¨C the works. Mick wouldn¡¯t have told Spruce, but it had the edge on Sunny Caf¨¦¡¯s breakfasts.


    ¡°I can¡¯t thank you enough,¡± Alister Tillwright told him. ¡°The other pigs missed Rohan. I could tell. You¡¯ve never seen anything mope around like an upset pig.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s alright, then?¡±


    ¡°Back in his pen, wallowing in the muck.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m glad.¡±


    Alister rose from his seat. ¡°Stay there a second.¡±


    With half his plate still left to eat, not to mention toast and a square knob of butter still sitting on a nearby plate, he had no intention of moving just yet. All the same he humored Alister, watching him leave the kitchen and head down the hallway toward their living room.


    ¡°How¡¯s your Ma?¡± asked Samantha.


    ¡°Good.¡±


    ¡°She sleeping any better yet?¡±


    ¡°Some nights. She¡¯s been keeping a diary, trying to work out how her food affects it.¡±


    ¡°Pass on my best,¡± she said.


    ¡°Will do.¡±


    Alister returned not long after with a brown envelope. He set it down on the table, next to Mick¡¯s coffee cup. The corner of the envelope touched the butter, which was starting to melt.


    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± said Mick, aware that, as head of the guards, he ought to be very wary of accepting brown envelopes.


    ¡°A little something.¡±


    ¡°For finding Rohan? No, Alister. It¡¯s my job.¡±


    ¡°Well, I hope this doesn¡¯t sound rude, but I don¡¯t think it¡¯s a secret that you don¡¯t get paid for what you do.¡±


    For some reason, the truth of it hit Mick right there and then in the Tillwright¡¯s farmhouse kitchen. All his life, or at least after he got back from traveling, he¡¯d done his utmost to save every coin, to get the most out of his money. He¡¯d thought of himself as a thrifty guy, maybe even bordering on tight.


    At the same time, he¡¯d given precious hours of his life for free. He¡¯d worked as Sunhampton¡¯s guard while getting barely any coins for the pleasure. That wasn¡¯t thrifty; that was downright extravagant. Only, in a different kind of currency.


    ¡°Open it, for saints¡¯ sakes,¡± said Samantha.


    ¡°I can¡¯t accept it, whatever it is.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t payment,¡± said Alister. ¡°It¡¯s a gift from your friends. Everyone appreciates the work you do around here, Mick.¡±


    It was stupid, but this almost made him well up. He hadn¡¯t cried since Pa died, but this stupid envelope brought him close.


    When the moment passed, Mick put his thumb in the opening at the corner of the envelope and carefully wedged it open. Inside it was a single slip of card.

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 10

    <h2>10</h2>


    Like many crafters, Jessie Condorphil sold her wares from her home. It just made sense; why pay rent on a store when you could sell your things for free? Not every crafter had that luxury, though. Some of them needed the passing traffic at places like Coiner¡¯s Way, so were forced to spend out. As a notewright, Jessie¡¯s skills were so specialized, so rare, that she didn¡¯t need to go to markets, didn¡¯t need to advertise. People came to her. Heck, they¡¯d travel upwards of fifty miles to visit her studio.


    Mick didn¡¯t have to go that far. A ride on a commuter cart over the bumpy ¨C they really ought to maintain these damn roads ¨C Huckler¡¯s Pass took him most of the way. After paying the driver for his trouble, he took a short walk east along a dirt track, finally seeing a thatched-roof cottage up ahead.


    He already liked the look of the house. Quaint, and cozy-looking. The only problem was it was a little too isolated for him. He liked things quiet, sure enough, but there was quiet, and then there was silent. At least in Sunhampton, you wouldn¡¯t struggle for friendly conversation should you wish to find it. Out here, you¡¯d have to make an hour trip just to buy a loaf of bread. Still, he supposed Jessie Condorphil wouldn¡¯t have moved out here unless she liked it.


    When he knocked on her cottage door ¨C making sure to use his casual knock and not his guard¡¯s knock ¨C nobody answered. He knocked again, and the living room curtain shifted. Jessie stood there behind the glass, pointing at a sign by the front door.


    ¡®Customers, please proceed to the shed at the rear of the property.¡¯


    Mick reckoned that since Jessie had already seen him now, she could have just answered the front door. The horse had bolted from the stable, after all. Still, he supposed it was probably a work¨Clife separation sort of thing. The front door was for guests, the rear for customers.


    Her garden wasn¡¯t especially well kept, but you couldn¡¯t call it messy, either. Jessie did just enough to keep the grass looking tame and to stop weeds taking over the cracks between the paved walkway. At the far end of the lawn was what she¡¯d called a shed, but was actually a crafting studio almost as big as her house, albeit with only one level.


    Mick headed over to the studio door and waited. And waited. And waited. He checked his watch, which his Ma and Pa had given him for his twenty first birthday, and saw that it was nine forty-nine.


    What¡¯s taking her so long? She knows I¡¯m here.


    Then, Mick¡¯s gaze happened upon yet another sign, this one written on a square of wood that sat atop a pole wedged into the dirt.


    Hours of business, 10:00 ¨C 14:00.


    He couldn¡¯t believe it. Was she really going to make him wait out here for eleven minutes until her business hours started? Him, a paying customer? He guessed he had showed up to her home unannounced. All the same, it was after nine in the morning now. On Coiner¡¯s Way, every single store was already trading at this time, except on a Sunday.


    When Jessie finally left the cottage and met him by her studio door, her hair was wet, and she was holding a half-eaten slice of toast.


    ¡°Sorry about that. But I found if I don¡¯t defend my time, then I lose it. I know it seems harsh, leaving you here waiting. Let me get you a brew to make up for it.¡±


    It was no way to run a business, Mick thought. Then again, his mercantile knowledge wouldn¡¯t fill the corner of a napkin. What he did know was this: for some crafters, the whole ¡®making gold¡¯ side of their job was just an unavoidable obligation. If they didn¡¯t need to actually spend time selling their things, people like Lewis Cooper, for instance, would probably have shut themselves in their workshop for a full year and just worked away without a break.


    Jessie unlocked her studio door and walked inside, opening up all the windows as she toured the room. ¡°Gets stuffy in here,¡± she said. ¡°Not to mention all the glue I use. Now, what can I do for you?¡±


    ¡°Got a gift certificate,¡± said Mick, holding it up for her to see.


    ¡°Ah. You must be Alister Tillwright. Folks hardly ever send off for a gift cert, you know, so I was surprised you asked.¡±


    ¡°No, I did some work for Alister. Found his missing pig.¡±


    ¡°His missing¡­no, I won¡¯t ask. Don¡¯t have time. The gift cert gets you one of my medium tier notepads. Let me fetch them for you, and you can choose. Just don¡¯t take all day about it.¡±The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Jessie grabbed a stack of notepads and spread them out on a table set against the far wall of the room. While Mick studied them she got to work, soon ignoring him completely.


    Faced with a choice of notepads, Mick felt like a kid who¡¯d been given all his Yulthor money to spend. Most people wouldn¡¯t have thought this was a choice at all. They¡¯d probably ask, who cares about a notepad?


    But Jessie Condorphil¡¯s jotters were special. She was a notewright, which meant she could do things with notepads that people wouldn¡¯t believe. Artificers like Lewis Cooper could do fancy things like make notepads last longer, but Jessie made him look like an amateur, at least when it came to imbuing effects into stationery.


    The notepads that his certificate let him choose from were all different sizes, different thicknesses, different colors. Attached to each was a little tag on the end of a piece of twine, explaining what they did.


    Mick took his time making his choice. The first one was a transcribing pad, which would write down anything you said while it was open. The second was a notepad that had an encyclopedia enchanted into it. All you had to do was write down a question, and the notepad would try to supply you with the answer. A quick shake of the pad, and the question and answer vanished.


    ¡°These are amazing,¡± said Mick. ¡°Mind if I try this one?¡±


    ¡°Which?¡±


    ¡°The encyclopedia.¡±


    ¡°Go ahead. Writing in it is fine, since it self-erases. But if you tear it, then you buy it.¡±


    Mick tried to think of a way to trick the notepad. On the surface  it seemed incredibly useful, but it was only a medium tier pad. Presumably, this meant Jessie herself didn¡¯t rate it as one of her best works.


    Let¡¯s see. All this thing does, I¡¯m guessin¡¯, is to take  your question, refer to the encyclopedia, then write an answer. It¡¯s not actually doing any thinking by itself. I could get the same answers at the local library.


    Using the special pen that came with the notepad, he wrote his question.


    What¡¯s the secret ingredient in Spruce Wilkinson¡¯s chicken stew?


    He waited for a moment, before a single word appeared on the notepad.


    Unanswerable.


    ¡°Ha!¡±


    Jessie left her desk and wandered over, standing to the right of him. ¡°How do you expect it to know a thing like that? Is this Spruce guy famous? Would you reasonably expect to find him in an encyclopedia?¡±


    ¡°This thing doesn¡¯t have any local knowledge, does it?¡±


    ¡°What do you expect? Does it make you feel clever, tricking a notepad like that?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Didn¡¯t mean to disparage anything.¡±


    Jessie walked away muttering to herself and shaking her head. Suitably chastised, Mick decided to take this more seriously. If he was being fair about it, the encyclopedia notepad was still a wondrous thing. It¡¯d save him trips to the library to look things up, that was for sure. A crafty person might even use it to win the King¡¯s Head quiz.


    Then again¡­as great as this notebook was, visiting the library was free. Should he use up a valuable gift voucher on something he could get for free, if he was only prepared to take just a little more time about it?


    ¡°What¡¯s this pad do?¡± asked Mick, gesturing at the last one.


    Jessie took off her goggles. ¡°Huh?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no tag.¡±


    ¡°Oh. That. Truth is, that¡¯s not a medium-tier pad. It¡¯s higher. Only, the client who ordered it didn¡¯t pay the second half of her deposit and didn¡¯t show up to collect.¡±


    ¡°So why not sell it for what it¡¯s worth?¡±


    ¡°I got so mad I threw it in the sink. Half drenched it with muddy water. I came to my senses in time and got it out and dried it, and the enchantments still half work. Can¡¯t justify selling it for higher tier prices, though. Go ahead, open it up.¡±


    Mick did so, turning to the first blank page of the notepad. ¡°What now?¡±


    Jessie seemingly forgot that Mick¡¯s presence here seemed to be a hindrance now. Like most crafters, she couldn¡¯t resist an opportunity to show off her work.


    ¡°Put your finger on the bottom of the page, and look around. Don¡¯t gawp at me like that. Just do it.¡±


    Mick placed his index finger right at the bottom of the first blank page. Then after sweeping his gaze across the room, he glanced back down at the notepad.


    Nothing happened for a moment, Then, words began to appear on the notepad.


    A notewright¡¯s workshop. Messy, but not through lack of care. This is the workshop of someone invested in their work ¨C not the appearance of it. There¡¯s a coatstand with three coats hanging on it. The air smells like glue.


    <u>Points of interest:</u>


    The windowsill is damp ¨C the window was open until recently.


    The notewright herself hasn¡¯t slept much lately, bags under her eyes the size of burlap sacks. Short nails not clipped but chewed. Stressed?


    ¡°What am I looking at here?¡± said Mick. ¡°It describes what I¡¯m seeing?¡±


    ¡°The lady who commissioned it, she said she was a writer. Wanted a way to capture inspiration in the moment.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s incredible. But it seems to have insights. Points of interest. It sure ain¡¯t just describing things.¡±


    ¡°Well, don¡¯t trust them fully. Like I said, I half ruined the damned thing.¡±


    Comparing the notepad¡¯s description and insights, it seemed like everything it had written was accurate. Jessie really did seem to bite her nails ¨C a detail he would have missed. The thing about the damp windowsill was true, as well. Any would-be sleuth knew that the smallest details could be important.


    On a third re-read, a sentence stuck out to him. There¡¯s a coatstand with three coats hanging on it. Unless Mick had forgotten how to count, there was only one coat on the stand.


    If he used this notepad, he¡¯d have to use it carefully. It could lie to him. Then again, it might show him details he would never have otherwise come close to noticing.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take it,¡± he said.


    ¡°Sold and sold. Hand me your voucher, would you?¡± she said. Tearing off half the voucher, she handed part of it back. ¡°There¡¯s your receipt, though everything¡¯s sold as seen. Go easy on that thing, now. It used to have two hundred pages, but I ruined a hundred and two of them.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 11

    <h2>11</h2>


    It was a chill morning, and the sun hadn¡¯t even woken up yet as Mick moved through his house quiet as a burglar. He performed his routine with barely a sound, showering, brushing his teeth, dressing into the shirt he¡¯d steam pressed the night before, and then gathering his stuff into his knapsack. He conducted this in the dark, not wanting any stray lamp light to spill under Ma¡¯s bedroom door.


    Only in the living room did he light a single glow lamp to ward away the early morning darkness. Sitting on the couch and tugging his boot onto his right foot, he mentally checked off everything needed for the journey ahead.


    ¡®Fingerprinting Techniques for the Would-Be Sleuth¡¯ to read on the way there?


    Check.


    Turkey and mustard sandwiches for lunch?


    Got ¡®em.


    Jar of oat milk in case the Full Striding guard office doesn¡¯t have anything non-dairy?


    In you go, my oaty friend.


    A creaking sound made him freeze in the act, as if he really was a burglar. It¡¯ll just be Ma turning over in bed or something, he thought.


    When no further sounds came, he guessed his luck was in. The last thing he¡¯d wanted to do was wake her. Mick had called Healer Brown out to see about Ma¡¯s insomnia, and the old quack had listed off a ream of things to try. Janey Morgan, up at Jack Cooper¡¯s craftstead, was going to brew a sleeping draught that he¡¯d prescribed. Until then, Ma just had to go to bed at the same time every night, do her meditations and her full body relaxation stuff, and hope the saints of sleep took pity.


    The whole thing wasn¡¯t his fault, of course, but Mick really didn¡¯t want to be the one responsible for ruining what precious sleep she managed to get, though. Sitting on the couch, his boot in his hand, he listened intently for another moment or two, then allowed himself a sigh of relief. He hadn¡¯t woken her up.


    Then, footsteps told him that he¡¯d hoped in vain. They stomped across the adjoining bedroom, before Ma¡¯s door opened. A few steps later, this being a small, one-floor house, Ma appeared in the living room doorway.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± said Mick. ¡°Tried being quiet.¡±


    ¡°S¡¯good thing you¡¯re going for your sleuth token, Micky. You chose the right side. You¡¯d make a lousy thief.¡±


    Sleuth was one name for the class that Mick was hoping to earn, though not all people with the token called themselves sleuths. When you started on the token program, you had to choose whether to be a sleuth, detective, or inspector. We were talking oranges, clementines, and tangerines here. Pretty much the same fruit, but each with its own advantages and drawbacks. Mick still hadn¡¯t made up his mind what he¡¯d choose. He guessed he would go with his gut when the time came. For sake of ease, however, a lot of people in Easterly referred to anyone who solved mysteries as a sleuth.


    ¡°Do you want a coffee, Ma?¡± he asked.


    ¡°Might as well, since I¡¯m up,¡± she replied. ¡°I¡¯ll make it though, chuck. You finish getting ready.¡±


    Ma got busy brewing up a pot on the glow stone in the kitchen, humming a tune that she¡¯d made up herself. It didn¡¯t have words, but the melody was as familiar to Mick as a drunken rendition of The Necromancer¡¯s Funeral, which folks in the King¡¯s Head liked to belt out every so often.


    ¡°How¡¯s that coffee going, Ma?¡± he said.


    ¡°Quicker, now you¡¯ve asked me about it.¡±


    The stone took a while to heat up these days. Like lots of things around here, it needed replacing. It had been hard to do that on the wages he got working for Mr. Leabrook, fetching and carrying and running errands all damned day.


    Maybe he could ask old Jack Cooper if he had any used glow stones going cheap when he went to the craftstead for the sleeping draught. Then again, it¡¯d be much more pleasant to visit young Lewis on Coiner¡¯s Way. He might have a smart mouth sometimes, but at least he was never grouchy with his customers.


    Mick tied the drawstrings on his knapsack and then crossed the room, standing in front of the mirror to see if he looked like a sleuth. The man staring back at him was tall, with a runner¡¯s leanness and a well-groomed moustache. He was wearing his best shirt, the burgundy one he¡¯d bought for Sal Steven¡¯s wedding a couple of months back. He¡¯d opted for his denims instead of trousers, though. He¡¯d checked the regulations through and through, and although trousers were preferred for sleuths, there was no real dress code. He was already nervous enough about today, and it felt like wearing clothes that were comfortable to him would take the edge off things a little.


    Looking in the mirror, he couldn¡¯t help thinking back now to a time, almost thirty years ago, when he¡¯d watched his dad stand in that exact spot, wearing a suit he¡¯d had tailored by Mr Flueitt, who used to own a tailor store on Coiner¡¯s Way.


    Dad had been so proud that night, standing there adjusting his tie, tightening it and then loosening it, struggling to get the knot right. He¡¯d been sweating buckets about going to Full Striding. Even a young Mick could see that. But it wasn¡¯t every night you got honored by the Guard Commission, was it? Forty years of service. It didn¡¯t matter that he¡¯d done it as a guard in Sunhampton, where even the rats asked permission before they broke into your larder. Mick¡¯s dad was getting commemorated, and that was all that mattered.


    That night, Ma had a meeting with a fellow solicitor, so Mick had gone with Dad and met all the guards and inspectors that came from all across Easterly. Then he¡¯d watched his dad climb up onto a huge stage and shake the mayor of Striding¡¯s hand. Mick remembered feeling such a flush of pride, watching Big Mick up there getting his commemorative guard coin.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    His eyes registered movement in the mirror, breaking him from happy memories. Looking into the glass, he could see the living room wall reflected back, where his dad¡¯s commemorative coin was framed. Mick caught his Ma staring at him from over in the kitchen. She was leaning on a counter, chin resting on her hands, a big smile on her face.


    ¡°Ma!¡±


    ¡°If your father could see you now¡­¡± she said.


    ¡°That¡¯d be a trick, all the way from ¡®hampton cemetery.¡±


    ¡°Mick¡­¡± said Ma in her warning tone of voice, though she wasn¡¯t mad. Mick had inherited his sense of humor from Ma. Not a dark sense of humor, but certainly gray. Her attitude was that you could laugh or cry at the bad things in life ¨C sometimes both at once - but she¡¯d rather laugh.


    ¡°Dad would think it was silly,¡± said Mick. ¡°Going all the way out to Striding, just to get turned away. Everyone knows they recruit kids from colleges and the like. Most of the places on the program are filled already, they just don¡¯t admit it. I¡¯m too old.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re too old,¡± said Ma, ¡°what does that make me?¡±


    ¡°You, mother, are aging in reverse. You¡¯ll look younger than me soon.¡±


    ¡°Flatterers are doing the seven devils¡¯ work,¡± she said with a grin. Then, ¡°Your father stood where you¡¯re standing once, you know.¡±


    ¡°Well, sure. He lived here.¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°I mean he went to Full Striding for an exam, too. Tried to get on the sleuth class program.¡±


    Mick turned around to face his Ma. ¡°He did?¡±


    She nodded. ¡°Didn¡¯t happen, of course. Must have been something he said in the interview.¡±


    Yeah, and Dad¡¯s weight, thought Mick. His father had been called Big Mick, and in that instance, the nickname was physically accurate. The sleuth class program was one place where that would really count against a person. There was a physical exam you had to pass as well as everything else, since you had to be in decent shape to become a sleuth.


    ¡°I think it would have meant a lot to him if he could have seen you get accepted,¡± said Ma. ¡°He always used to love taking you on his rounds with him. He¡¯d look forward to it all week. Always had a little extra pep those mornings.¡±


    Rounds, for the head of guards in a place like Sunhampton, basically meant taking a walk down Coiner¡¯s Way and saying good morning to the merchants. Mick had loved making rounds with his dad, too. No point skirting around it; the only reason Skinny Mick was the head of Sunhampton guards now was because Big Mick used to be.


    ¡°I better get going,¡± he said.


    Ma approached him, reaching up to straighten his collar. It was already straight, but mothers needed to do that kind of thing, so Mick let her unstraighten it and then make it neat again.


    ¡°Good luck, Micky. Just take a deep breath whenever you get nervous. You¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Ma. Take it easy while I¡¯m gone. And don¡¯t nap ¨C you know what Healer Brown said about trying to set a sleep routine.¡±


    ¡°Get going, will you? It¡¯d be just like you to miss the commuter cart.¡±


    It wouldn¡¯t be just like him, of course. They both knew how punctual he was. Mick took one last look in the mirror, then hefted his knapsack over his shoulder and headed toward the door. He¡¯d only touched the handle when his mother spoke.


    ¡°Oh! What did you get for Zip¡¯s birthday?¡±


    ¡°Her birthday?¡±


    ¡°Micky, for saints sake. I have to remind you your niece is turning thirteen? That¡¯s an important age. Don¡¯t tell me you didn¡¯t get her anything.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll pick something up in Full Striding. But I¡¯ve really got to go. Bye, Ma. Love you.¡±


    Mick left his and Ma¡¯s little house, then cut down an alley that took him onto Coiner¡¯s Way in less than two minutes. Even some seasoned ¡®hamptoners weren¡¯t aware of that alley shortcut, but Mick knew his hometown like the back of his hand. Better, in fact. The whole ¡®back of the hand¡¯ thing made no sense to Mick; who spent time staring at their own hands?


    Coiner¡¯s Way was dark, this still being a couple of hours before even the most enthusiastic merchants would start getting their stores ready for the day. Only two stores had lights in the windows, both of them next to each other. There was Lewis Cooper¡¯s store, and Paisley Porter¡¯s, right next door.


    Mick¡¯s guard senses started working, and he thought he better just make sure everything was alright. It wasn¡¯t so unusual to see Ms. Porter in her store so early, since she was as dedicated a merchant as you could ever meet. But Lewis? By all accounts a hard worker, but not an early riser.


    Mick pressed his hands against the window of Cooper and Cooper ¨C Artificers of Renown. The lamp glow came not from the storefront but Lewis¡¯s workshop at the back. Mick kept his vigilance for another second or two, then, seeing no movement, put it down to the artificer forgetting to turn his lamp off the evening before.


    ¡°You¡¯re up early.¡±


    The voice made him jump. Mick turned around to see Mr. Leabrook standing there. Today, as ever, Mr. Leabrook was wearing an impeccably ironed shirt, a tie that couldn¡¯t have been fastened neater if a tailor had done it, and shoes that almost blinded you with polish. He¡¯d never been spotted around ¡®hampton in casual clothes. Not once. Mick suspected Mr. Leabrook had been born wearing clothes that made him look like a bank manager. He could imagine him now, a grouchy little baby wearing a shirt and a tiny tie.


    ¡°Mornin¡¯, Mr. Leabrook,¡± said Mick, polite yet not bothering to hide a certain coolness.


    ¡°Surprised to see you up and about. Good timing, though. I need you to get to Perentee Publications as early as you can. If you¡¯re on their doorstep when they open, so much the better. I need fliers for a meeting for the merchants to discuss-¡±


    This was incredible. Had he forgotten what had happened the other week?


    ¡°I don¡¯t work for you, Mr. Leabrook.¡±


    ¡°Oh, come on. Let bygones be bygones, I always say.¡±


    Mick had never once heard Mr. Leabrook say that. The man could hold a grudge like his palm was coated in glue.


    ¡°Don¡¯t have anything against you personally,¡± said Mick, ¡°But I said what I said.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re off to Striding then, I presume?¡±


    ¡°I am.¡±


    ¡°Overheard your mother telling Martha Peters.¡±


    Here it comes, thought Mick, bracing himself for whatever disparaging things that Mr. Leabrook had to say. He didn¡¯t yet know whether he would react angrily, or take the high road. He guessed it depended on how much of an ass Mr. Leabrook felt like being today.


    Instead of saying anything, Mr. Leabrook took something out of his coat pocket. It was a slim, rectangular box with a blue bow on it. ¡°Look, as it happens, I didn¡¯t run into you accidentally. If you won¡¯t come back to work for me, then I at least hope you find your way onto the sleuth program. You were always a hard worker, Michael. And, I daresay, capable of much bigger things. It was a certain¡­well¡­.perhaps¡­selfishness, that¡­¡±


    Mick would almost have preferred that Mr. Leabrook be his usual belligerent self, because he found this new side of him hard to comprehend.


    ¡°Oh. Well, don¡¯t worry about it,¡± he said, just wanting this strange niceness to stop.


    ¡°Open it,¡± said Mr. Leabrook.


    Inside the box was a pen. Not an artificed pen or anything like that, but a very fancy one. Must have cost a pretty penny.


    ¡°I thought, being how thrifty you are, this is perhaps the kind of thing you want but wouldn¡¯t spend out for.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a beaut, Mr. Leabrook. It really is.¡±


    Mr. Leabrook offered his hand. Mick took it, feeling like he was talking to a complete stranger now, yet one who perhaps it might be worth actually getting to know.


    ¡°Good luck, Michael.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 12

    <h2>12</h2>


    On the commuter cart, Mick found himself squeezed between Percy Tattersall, who was heading to the city to meet with a book supplier of his, and Potter Peters.


    ¡°How¡¯s it going, Percy?¡± asked Mick.


    ¡°I¡¯d be fine, if it weren¡¯t for the birds.¡±


    ¡°Birds?¡±


    ¡°Damned bird keeps flying into my house somehow and crapping everywhere. Haven¡¯t caught it yet. But when I do¡­¡±


    Potter Peters was a builder who worked for Stacey Morgan, and he always used to make a trip to Little Flitwick to see his old mother. She¡¯d moved into a retirement complex in Full Striding now, though, so Mick deduced that Potter was trying to go visit her and then get back in time for work. He was cutting it fine, though. Getting back to Sunhampton in time to start his daily labors wouldn¡¯t leave him a lot of leeway.


    Mick took out his book on fingerprinting and tried to read it. He wasn¡¯t worried about being unsociable; on such an early commuter cart, the last thing folks wanted was to chat. Percy Tattersall was reading a book of his own, while Potter was resting his head back on the chair, snoozing with his mouth wide open. He¡¯s got a filling on a tooth on his lower right, Mick noted, practicing his eye for detail. The other folks on the benches across from Mick were sleeping, too. He had never been in an enclosed space with so many snorers before.


    Try as he might to concentrate on the chapter about taking fingerprints from reluctant suspects, Mick found his thoughts getting away from him. Mainly about the upcoming interview, but also about his niece, Zip. All he kept thinking was, I¡¯m a lousy uncle, forgetting her birthday like that. And I never have time to go see her. Or do I never make the time? Not the same thing, but which is it?


    He turned his attention back to the book, but it wasn¡¯t working. Mick might have been a lot of things, but above all else, he was a man who knew when to give up a pointless exercise. Closing the book, he put it back in his knapsack and sat with his thoughts as the cart made its morning journey along the Easterly roads.


    Full Striding had eight guard stations, but according to his invitation letter, the one Mick needed was called Elmshore. A problem there, though ¨C there was Elmshore West and Elmshore East. Even worse, they were on opposite sides of the city. If Mick chose the wrong one, he¡¯d be late.


    Why didn¡¯t they make it clearer in the damned letter? he thought.


    Taking the invitation letter out again, he read it for the twentieth time.


    Dear Mr. Mulroon,


    The Full Striding Guardship is pleased to invite you to attend interviews for the Sleuth Class program. Please arrive at the Elmshore guard station at eight o¡¯clock prompt, ensuring that¡­¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Damn them, it was almost like they were setting him up to fail. Mick knew there were limited spaces on the program, and that some folks already had an advantage. If you had a guard or a sleuth in your family, then you were likely to get on the program. If your father was a politician or your mother was a rich merchant, for example, then guess what? It wasn¡¯t crazy to assume you¡¯d get a place.


    Mick had never been a conspiracy theorist. He didn¡¯t, for instance, believe Jack Cooper when he claimed that chili farmers were growing their chilies to be less spicy, hoping to appeal to a wider market. No, forget all that nonsense. Mick preferred dealing with facts, and if a conspiracy had facts to back it up, then it wasn¡¯t a conspiracy at all. Today, however, he couldn¡¯t help wondering if some people got an invitation letter with the full station name written on it, and others, people like him, received a vaguer version.


    Well, it was no good standing around. He walked away from the cart station, letter in hand, and headed through the Full Striding gates and into the city. Almost immediately, he felt like he was about to be swallowed up. The roads were so wide here, the buildings so tall. He couldn¡¯t think of a single place in Sunhampton that had four floors, yet in Striding they seemed to be everywhere. Just there for instance, a stone¡¯s throw away to his left, was a carpet tile store with four floors. Who in Easterly needed so much choice for carpet tiles that they had to have four floors worth? No, Mick didn¡¯t like it. Not one bit.


    It wasn¡¯t just the size of the place. What about the noise? What a racket everyone was making, especially for this time in the morning! There were horses pulling carts along the side of the street, their feet clomping like anvils and the drivers yelling every second or two. The apartments on his left and right must have had artificed windows to make them quiet. Mick had heard Lewis Cooper chatting about that with Connor Perry. Connor was similar to Ma, with his poor sleep problems, only the postmaster¡¯s issue was sunlight getting into his house. Lewis had made him some magic curtains, or something, and Connor was thinking of getting the window frames artificed to drown out sounds.


    Breaking him from his thoughts, a big procession of workers streamed past, chatting and joking with each other as they headed in the direction of the Striding Tinkerworks factory that loomed at the end of the road. Their voices joined into one loud, continuous buzz like that of a beehive.


    Give me the peace and quiet of Coiner¡¯s Way any day, he thought. He wanted to become a fully-classed sleuth, yes. He wanted the class token and to get a salary for guard work, but he wouldn¡¯t have wanted to work in a city. No, sir.


    Deciding to seek a quieter street to figure this out, Mick took a left turn onto an avenue called Saxon, then took a right onto Folder¡¯s Pass. This led him to a dead end wall where someone had drawn a rude picture in waterproof chalk.


    Such navigational errors weren¡¯t usual for him. Back in ¡®hampton, he could have walked around town blindfolded and not taken a single misstep. This was the city, though, a labyrinth of streets almost designed to get people lost.


    Going back the way he came so that he was on Saxon Avenue again, he stood under a streetlamp and took out his letter. When he looked at it this time, he was surprised to see that it had changed. Not a lot, mind. It was so subtle an alteration that someone less attentive might have missed it.


    Sure enough, when he was standing under the glow of a streetlamp, the word ¡®East¡¯ had been added to the, ¡®Please arrive at the Elmshore guard station at eight o¡¯clock prompt.¡± When he stepped away from under lamp, the word disappeared.


    Must have been some kind of test, he reflected. They used streetlight-activated ink as a test. Weed out the weak folks from the program. After all, if you couldn¡¯t even get to the right station, then should you become a detective? Then again, it was a fifty-fifty choice between Elmshore East and West. You could just as easily get to the right place by luck. Not a bad metaphor for life, actually, he reckoned.

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 13

    <h2>13</h2>


    The Elmshore East guard station in Full Striding wasn¡¯t as impressive as he¡¯d expected. He guessed that meant it wasn¡¯t as foreboding, either, which was a relief. If it was a cart horse, it¡¯d be time to take off its reins and let it enjoy the last year or two of its life. Peeling paint, mold patches in the upper corners of rooms. In the reception area, near the wooden benches where visitors were supposed to sit, rain dripped through a hole in the ceiling and into a bucket, which was almost full to the brim. There was a smell in the air that Mick couldn¡¯t quite make out at first, pitched somewhere between pleasant and unwholesome.


    To try and discern what it was, he tried a technique he¡¯d been practicing. Sleuths needed to have highly developed senses. It wasn¡¯t just about what you saw or the things you deduced. To get some clues, you had to tug your ear and listen carefully, or take a big sniff of air and experience what smells were around.


    This particular technique was called Five and One, and involved him sniffing quickly five times, then closing his eyes and taking one huge nostrilful of air. When he did this twice, his nostrils seemed to take in more of the aromas present, and he got a definite sense of freshly-brewed hazelnut coffee.


    Mick took his place in the queue to see the desk sergeant. The sergeant behind the reception counter had a moustache so bushy you could have swept a floor with it. He was busy taking details from a man who¡¯d lost his cat. The poor old fella with the missing moggy had the kind of stature some people get as they age, where they seem to get shorter. Only, really, it was just because they were losing muscle mass in their backs or something like that. Or maybe not stretching enough. Mick¡¯s mother was heavily into stretching, so her posture was great for a lady her age.


    ¡°Name?¡± said the sergeant to the old man.


    ¡°Misty. Misty-Bell.¡±


    ¡°Not your cat¡¯s name, sir.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± said the man, cheeks reddening. ¡°Tim Ritson.¡±


    ¡°Where do you live, Tim?¡±


    ¡°Bishop¡¯s Garth, just past¡­¡±


    This¡¯ll take a while, Mick thought. Noticing that the ceiling leak bucket was maybe a drop away from filling now, he took it upon himself to carry it out of the reception and onto the street, where he poured it down a sewer grate. When he headed back into the station, the old man was still talking.


    ¡°¡­and last time I saw Misty was Thursday morning, right after she had her tuna. She¡¯s not been back since. I¡¯ve left a bowl out every morning and every night.¡±


    The sergeant scribbled in a big ledger that almost took up the whole of his desk. ¡°We can¡¯t spare a guard to look for Misty at present, I¡¯m afraid, sir.¡±


    ¡°Wha¡­then where¡¯re my taxes goin¡¯? Tell me that!¡±


    Mick didn¡¯t see the sergeant reacting well to this. Everyone knew how stretched the Striding guard force was, and if you asked Mick, the fella had already shown a great deal of patience in taking the old man¡¯s cat problem seriously. Some guards would have told him to get lost. Missing pets cases just weren¡¯t in the remit of the guard force, unfortunately.


    The sergeant fully opened the glass window separating him from the reception room, and leaned forward. He spoke in a soft voice. ¡°Listen, there¡¯s a dozen rescue centers in Striding, and my wife works for Claws and Paws Sanctuary. They¡¯re the biggest. She knows almost everyone in the rescue game, does Lisa. I¡¯ll have her see what she can find out, okay?¡±


    The old man wiped his forehead with a white and blue spotted handkerchief. ¡°You don¡¯t know how grateful I¡¯d be.¡±


    ¡°No promises. But I¡¯ll speak to Lisa, see what she says. In the meantime, if you come back here then do it late night or early morning so it¡¯s me on the counter. If I¡¯m away, I¡¯ll only be getting a brew or something. You just make sure to ask for Desk Sergeant Nichols. Got it?¡±


    Mick felt sorry for the old man as he watched him toddle out of the guard station and onto the street. He quickly took out his notepad and added a line to where he had made a note of mysteries to solve once he was earning his tokens.


    Mysteries to take a look at:


    If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    1) Tim Ritson¡¯s Missing Moggy


    Help the old man find his missing cat


    His sympathetic feeling was soon replaced by a more selfish one, however. Now that he was at the front of the queue, it was as though all his nerves came back to him at full force. He felt queasy, like the time he¡¯d accidentally eaten cheddar and his stomach hadn¡¯t been right for a week.


    ¡°Saints alive,¡± said the sergeant, seeing Mick. ¡°What happened to you, sir? You look a state! Look how pale you are. A mugging was it?¡±


    Mick caught a glance at his own reflection in the glass panel near the sergeant. His hair could use a comb, perhaps, and his pallor had paled somewhat, no doubting it. But he didn¡¯t look that bad, surely?


    He cleared his throat. ¡°Here for the sleuth token program. The interview and the rest of it, that is.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Very well. Name?¡±


    ¡°Skinny Mick.¡±


    Desk Sergeant Nichols frowned. ¡°Your real name, sir.¡±


    ¡°Oh, sorry. Skinny Michael.¡±


    ¡°Did the saints see fit to give you a surname, Michael?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s Mulroon, sir. Mick Mulroon.¡±


    The sergeant took a different ledger book down from a shelf to his right, flicked through a page or two, and then ran his index finger down a list of names. ¡°Ah. Mulroon. Take a seat, please, and Inspector Longwaite will collect you shortly.¡±


    The hands on the clock above the waiting room door moved too quickly for Mick¡¯s liking, and Inspector Longwaite showed no signs of arriving to collect him. This all began to feel strange. Where were the other candidates? He¡¯d have thought a few of them would be here by now. They couldn¡¯t all be running late, surely?


    He waited as patiently as he could for another minute, but his nerves began to get the better of him. Standing up, he approached the glass panel. Desk Sergeant Nichols had gone off duty now. His replacement was an already-tired-looking lady with pink hair, who looked like she¡¯d rather be anywhere else in Easterly this morning.


    ¡°Excuse me,¡± said Mick. ¡°I¡¯m waiting for Inspector Longwaite.¡±


    The desk sergeant¡¯s grin was enough to clue Mick in that a jest was going on. Mick had read a book called ¡®A Face Tells a Thousand Lies¡¯ by a retired Hattersdale sleuth, and he knew that every smile had a different meaning. This one, where the smile was thinner than a wood shaving and the sergeant¡¯s lips were tremoring as though she was trying to hold the smile back, meant a joke was being played. What was it, though? What could be so funny? Was it Mick¡¯s clothes? The way he looked? Did his small town-ness shine through?


    Then a flash of inspiration - something a fully-classed sleuth would call an aha moment, an insight, or perhaps a deduction - hit him.


    Inspector Longwaite.


    Longwaite was a common name in this part of Easterly, which was why it hadn¡¯t started ringing church bells in his head. But it was a name that you could snap in half, wasn¡¯t it? Long¡­Wait.


    Mick was disappointed in Sergeant Nichols. It was completely unprofessional for a sergeant in the city guards to act that way. Where was his sense of duty? Where was the idea of leading by example, of respecting the badge? When Mick was a fully-classed sleuth, he¡¯d never act so flippantly while on duty.


    He could only assume that the sergeant had decided to play the prank on Mick because he came from Sunhampton, a tiny town by Striding¡¯s standards. He must have figured that he could have a joke with a small-town bumpkin ¨C as some people called town dwellers -with no consequences. He certainly wouldn¡¯t have done it to another candidate, say the son or daughter of a sleuth in the force, would he? Mick would bet his last pear drop that he wouldn¡¯t.


    Even worse was that this new sergeant was playing along with it. Mick knew how to deal with jokers, though. There was a knack to it.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± said the sergeant, ¡°Can you repeat that name?¡±


    Mick said in his most serious voice, ¡°I¡¯m looking for Inspector Longwaite.¡±


    The sergeant tried to hold in a laugh but failed, and the sound came out as an exhalation of air. Behind her, two guards who were standing by some open filing cabinets couldn¡¯t help themselves, and they burst into laughter.


    Mick kept his face straight. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I don¡¯t understand what¡¯s so funny.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just a joke, sir. Someone¡¯s played a joke on you.¡±


    ¡°You mean the fella who was here before? The one who told me to ask for Inspector Longwaite?¡±


    Saying the name again made the two guards almost crease over with laughter. One of them excused herself, leaving the reception room and exiting by a door to her left.


    The sergeant nodded, her stern look completely gone now. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but Nichols must have been having a jest with you. A little joke, that¡¯s all.¡±


    Again, Mick made sure his expression was serious. ¡°I don¡¯t understand. What¡¯s the joke?¡±


    ¡°You know? Inspector Longwaite?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s who the fella told me to ask for.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like long wait? And then he left you sitting there waiting?¡±


    Still, Mick didn¡¯t betray anything but perfect seriousness. ¡°You¡¯ll have to explain this joke again. I don¡¯t get it.¡±


    At this, the sergeant¡¯s smile dropped, the change in her attitude almost instantaneous. Mick smiled inwardly. The trick never failed; if someone made a joke at your expense, one that you weren¡¯t involved in or playing along with ¨C a bad sport joke, in other words ¨C all you had to do was repeatedly ask them to explain why it was funny. Put under scrutiny like that, even the best joke folded like a tent without a support pole.


    It wasn¡¯t as if Mick didn¡¯t like a joke. He laughed like a drain at the King¡¯s Head standup comedy nights, especially when Alec, the owner, booked a bard from Pearle to perform. He¡¯d laughed so much he thought he might pass out.


    Mick¡¯s idea of comedy was that it shouldn¡¯t be mean-spirited, though. You could laugh with someone, but not at them. As for pranks? Well, if you asked him, a good prank was one where the pranker and prankee were both laughing at the end. Besides, he was really stressed out and nervous today. He didn¡¯t need this kind of messing around.


    The sergeant treated him with a little more respect now, telling him, ¡°I¡¯m sorry, sir. What was it that you actually needed?¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 14

    <h2>14</h2>


    The desk sergeant directed Mick to go outside from the reception area and back onto the street, loop clockwise around the station, and then head through an entrance in the back yard, just past the guard dog kennels. The city guards used Striding Shepherd dogs, if Mick remembered correctly, which he reckoned he did. Bred for obedience, intelligence, and for their legendary sniffing ability. The mutts were all out somewhere this morning, their kennels lying empty, their doggy beds crumpled. He wondered where they were. Maybe their handlers took them on walks before they started their guard duties.


    Mick would have loved to have a dog, if only he wasn¡¯t so allergic. Dairy, dogs, cats, peanuts. The four horsemen of Mick¡¯s allergy apocalypse. Nature had really decided to stick it to him when he was a kid. These things wouldn¡¯t kill him, his allergies weren¡¯t that bad, but spending too much time stroking a pooch would make his skin feel itchy and puff up his eyes. Milk, though? Different story. A thimble of the stuff would see him booking a daylong stay in his bathroom. He would sometimes risk prodding his allergies for the simple pleasure of stroking a pooch, but he¡¯d never tested fate with a sip of anything from an udder.


    Across the yard, three mechanics were working on one of the huge wagons that were used to transport people from the station and to Striding jail. They¡¯d taken off the wheels and they had the vehicle propped up on stone blocks, while they messed around underneath it with their spanners and their wrenches. From somewhere outside of the yard, a shrill whistle blew. Start-of-the-day whistle for the tinkerer factory? He wondered. Or is there a school nearby, maybe? A seasoned sleuth would have been able to pinpoint the source without much trouble, if the stuff that was written about their skill trees could be believed. Mick listened carefully, but the whistle didn¡¯t blow again.


    ¡°Oi, you!¡± called a voice. It was one of the wagon mechanics. She was pointing a wrench at him. ¡°This ain¡¯t Regent¡¯s plaza. You need something?¡±


    Heading into the station¡¯s rear entrance, Mick had to duck so he didn¡¯t bang his head on the doorway. Inside, he found his way to a meeting room which had twenty or so fold-out chairs all pointed in the direction of a chalk board at one end of the room. Lining the east wall was a table with coffee, orange juice, and a range of sweet rolls, doughnuts, and other sugary treats on it.


    Lot of people here, thought Mick, sweeping his gaze over the other candidates. Some sleuths, they¡¯d be able to take one look at all those faces and commit them to memory. Maybe even draw out a deduction or two while they were at it.


    Chief Inspector Glass was already about to begin proceedings, standing at the front of the room and facing a much bigger group of recruits than Mick had expected. He located an empty chair on the third from the back row, and bore the stares of the other would-be sleuths as he shuffled along, giving hurried apologies as he took his seat.


    ¡°Good morning, everyone,¡± said Chief Inspector Glass.


    She was roughly Mick¡¯s age, he guessed, which just went to show what happened when you made the right choices early in your life. If Mick had known he wanted to be a sleuth back when he was thirteen or fourteen, where would he be right now? Standing right where Glass was?


    Then again, that whole line of thinking was something he was trying to get away from. The idea that you had to choose an apprenticeship when you were a kid, when you didn¡¯t even know what life was like. How were you supposed to direct your future without a nick of life experience? It was like blindfolding someone and then telling them to draw a map of Full Moon forest, and then making them actually use the map to find their way home. Ludicrous.


    Mick had someone he admired in this whole area. Flo Anderson, who worked for Jack and Lewis Cooper, was older than him, and she was an apprentice artificer. A gnat¡¯s breath away from getting her class token, too, by all accounts. If she could do that, then there was no reason in Easterly why Mick couldn¡¯t become a sleuth.


    That knowledge was enough to make him feel a little more comfortable in a room filled with people who looked younger than his moustache. He purposefully let a smile form on his lips now, acting as a barrier to his nerves.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    ¡°So, welcome then, all of you,¡± said Glass. ¡°Half of you will leave here with your blank sleuth tokens, an assignment with a mentor inspector, and a training schedule to see you through to your class earning day. The other half will be invited to reapply in two years¡¯ time if you so wish. Not a second sooner.¡±


    Mick gulped at this and resisted the urge to fidget in his seat.


    Glass continued, ¡°I¡¯m sure you will all know how the test is structured. If not, then maybe you ought to question your suitability for the program, no? This is a standardized test. We¡¯re all here on equal footing, and we judge this whole thing fairer than a Larking dog show.¡±


    Immediately after saying this, Glass gave a slight nod to one of the would-be sleuths sitting two rows in front of Mick. It was directed at a young lady, who gave an almost imperceptible nod in return. Mick could only see the back of her head, but he noticed that her neck was red. Only part of it, though. A strange, thin strip of stark purple. He tried to deduce what it might mean. An allergy to silver, maybe? Or had she worn a coat that was a little rough around the collar and had rubbed her skin?


    He added it to his list of mysteries in his head, committing it to his memory palace with the intention of writing it down later.


    Mysteries to take a look at:


    1) Tim Ritson¡¯s Missing Moggy


    Help the old man find his missing cat


    2) The Lady with the Red Neck


    Why¡¯s the sleuth recruit¡¯s neck so purple? Find out¡­without being weird about it.


    He wasn¡¯t going to go asking her about it, of course. It was just a mental exercise. This was one of the main ways a sleuth earned experience ¨C by solving mysteries. The skill trees and abilities that you used in order to do so leveled up depending on how you employed them in a case, but cracking the overall mystery gave an experience bonus to all your trees. Not that Mick had any of his skill trees yet, but still, any sleuth worth their wits would build up a backlog of riddles to solve.


    Barely a second after Inspector Glass was done addressing them, a uniformed guard ducked her head into the room and asked, in a hushed voice, if Glass could come and look at something. This left the other would-be sleuths and Mick to their own devices. They quickly formed groups and started chatting with each other, most of them with a familiarity that suggested they knew each other from before today.


    Mick stood there, feeling all too aware he was older than everyone else, and knowing that as Sunhampton-born, small-town guy, he stood out like a pigeon at a dove¡¯s birthday party. One thing he¡¯d always been good at, though, was making friends. His amiability compass was so strong he could find common ground with almost anyone, even people like Jack Cooper.


    Sizing up the other sleuths, Mick approached a group of them and listened to them joking and bantering. This group wasn¡¯t for him. He loved a good joke, but not today. This wasn¡¯t happy hour at the King¡¯s Head, after all. Today was important. So he ducked out and drifted towards a different gathering. One that looked just a touch more serious. This one, four ladies and two fellas, were talking about the upcoming tests. Perfect.


    Mick readied his memory palace to receive some useful tidbits, then waited for an opening to insert himself into the conversation. When it came, he gave his new friends a big smile.


    ¡°¡­and I¡¯ve stayed up late for three weeks straight revising,¡± said a young guy with a shaved head. ¡°I¡¯m so damned tired, and I messed my sleeping pattern up now.¡±


    ¡°Here¡¯s a tip for you,¡± said Mick. ¡°Running. Go for a nice, long run, and I guarantee that you¡¯ll soon be sleeping the second your head hits the pillow. There¡¯s nothing like it.¡±


    ¡°Running?¡±


    ¡°That thing you do with your legs. It¡¯ll get you sleeping better than a shut-eye potion, I¡¯m telling you.¡±


    After a while, Mick felt like he¡¯d extracted all the useful information he could from these folks who were not much older than half his age. Feeling a slight rumble in his stomach, he felt he¡¯d better check the buffet situation. The last thing he wanted was to be sitting in a silent examination room and have his stomach making gurgles.


    There was a long table set against the wall, with a range of pastries on it, as well as two huge urns for tea and coffee. Mick¡¯s ma would have blown a vein in her temple if she¡¯d seen the urns ¨C they were a century overdue a good descaling. As Mick had suspected, the milk they provided was of the cow kind, which meant his poor stomach couldn¡¯t take it. Similarly, all of the sweet rolls and doughnuts they¡¯d dished out most likely had dairy in ¡®em. Mick was used to it, but it still made him wish he was in ¡®hampton right now. Mrs. Grant always made sure Rolls and Dough catered for just about every dietary preference you could think of.


    Mick caught a curious stare from a recruit or two as he poured coffee into a cup, then took his vial of oat milk out of his pocket and transformed the coffee into a more pleasing, light brown hue.


    Not content to stop there, he opened his bag and took out an empty container that, until recently, had held cookies inside. He picked two sweet rolls and a jam twist from the buffet table and put them in the container to take home for Ma. Even if he couldn¡¯t eat them, he reasoned, he might as well get his money¡¯s worth. Then, brew in hand, he took it over to his chair and sat there, practicing his observational skills by watching the others.

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 15

    <h2>15</h2>


    The rest of the day had the paradoxical effect of both dragging on and flying by. Inspector Glass gave them all a talk on the standards that Full Striding expected of graduates from its program, which nearly made Mick laugh, remembering the whole Inspector Longwaite thing. He didn¡¯t much care about this part of the talk, anyway. You couldn¡¯t pay him enough coins to move away from his beloved Sunhampton. No, that wasn¡¯t for him. Leave the grime of the city to folks who liked getting dirty. Even when Mick was a fully-classed sleuth, he¡¯d still live in Sunhampton.


    Finished preaching about standards, Glass warned them again that half the folks here wouldn¡¯t get a place on the program. Despite her repeated cautions, it looked to Mick like some of the people here didn¡¯t seem worried. Like they had a reason to be sure they¡¯d pass. Maybe he was being paranoid, though.


    With that done, Inspector Glass led them outside, where six Striding guard carts were waiting. The would-be sleuths rode in the back, where the criminals would usually be, and took a trip to a field just outside of the city that was owned by the city council and leased out to the guards for training exercises.


    Away from Striding¡¯s tall buildings and mazes of brickwork, Mick felt like he could breathe again. His heart needed greenery. It needed fields where ryegrass blew in the wind. Heck, it needed Sunhampton and all the pastures that surrounded it. Even the stone cobbles of Coiner¡¯s Way had their charm, not like the dull bricks that Striding masons built everything with. This field wasn¡¯t quite any of those things, but it¡¯d do.


    Once everyone had climbed off their carts and gathered in an informal group, Glass and the other inspectors, who seemed like they were loving spending a day away from the station, made the recruits run rings around a track marked with white paint. This was an endurance thing, apparently. Seeing how many of the recruits could keep going through exhaustion, how many couldn¡¯t manage more than a few laps.


    Mick almost laughed with surprise. They couldn¡¯t have picked an easier task for him unless they designed the whole damn thing around him and named it, ¡®The Mick Mulroon Sleuth Exam¡¯. He could have stayed running until sunset. He ran until he was the only person not sitting down, and then he completed another lap for good measure just to show off. Inspector Glass caught Mick¡¯s gaze as he finished his final lap, giving him the slightest of nods.


    Next came a test of speed, where they were separated into groups and had to run short races against each other. Mick felt a tinge of nerves now, but it wasn¡¯t too bad. Not like the time he was best man at Pik Flitter¡¯s wedding and had to give a speech. Still, this next task promised to be a toughie. Endurance? Great. Speed? He wasn¡¯t the fastest runner out there, and besides, all the others were younger than him.Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    Time, you crafty son of an axe. You¡¯re stabbing me in the back again.


    Lee Hunter, one of Mick¡¯s best friends, had a theory about aging. He didn¡¯t like how nature gave the best fruits to the people who hadn¡¯t even grown them. How was it fair, Lee asked Mick over a beer in the King¡¯s Head, that when you were younger and hadn¡¯t done anything worthwhile, you were stronger, faster, and more agile than you¡¯d ever be? Then, as you collected life experience and maybe accomplished things and did a good deed here and there, you got punished for it by getting lashed by the whip of time. How was that right?


    What Lee proposed to Mick that afternoon in the King¡¯s Head beer garden was that they switched things around. The older you got, the stronger and fitter your body became. Mick told him it¡¯d be interesting to see in principle. You know, at least give it an airing out and see how it went. But how exactly did Lee propose to do it? His pal couldn¡¯t answer that.


    It wasn¡¯t Mick¡¯s style to complain, though, and he wouldn¡¯t do it now. I only have to place in the top half, he thought to himself as he limbered up.


    Later, after they finished their races and Mick placed third in his group, they headed back to the station. There, they were marched back to the same meeting room they¡¯d been in that morning. The other guards and inspectors in Elmshore station whooped and whistled at them as they walked past, their faces perfect pictures of mockery. It reminded Mick once again that the idea he¡¯d built up in his head about professional standards and a sense of pride were pure horsecrap. This place was more like a damned zoo. He wouldn¡¯t be like them, he vowed. When he got his class token, he¡¯d take it seriously.


    In the meeting room, where a bunch of desks had now been set up, Mick and the others submitted to three separate written exams. The first was a narrative of a fictional burglary, and he had to write down his deductions.


    The next exam involved reading the transcript of an interview ¨C Mick assumed it was also fictional ¨C and trying to figure out the truth from the bullcrap.


    Finally, there was a paper with a bunch of questions relating to morals and ethical values. This one was a toughie. To Mick, ethics was one of the most important things about being a sleuth. If there was any exam he wanted to score well on most of all, it was this.


    With twenty minutes remaining he agonized over each question, reading the whole paper three times over before he committed to even a single answer. There are just so many ways you can answer each one, he thought. Too many gray areas.


    Finally, he decided to just answer each in a way that felt true. If he failed because he was true to himself, that would sting just a little bit less. Question by question he worked his way down the paper, and he was rechecking his answers for the third time when the supervising inspector spoke.


    ¡°Pencils down, please, ladies and gents.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 16

    <h2>16</h2>


    It was evening by the time Mick left Elmshore East station. Inspector Glass had gone home by now, and Deputy Chief Inspector Ray Moonlight had taken over. He was a short guy, and he had what Mick perceived to be a deceptively earnest face. He just had this look about him that was so incredibly honest that his real personality couldn¡¯t be anything but the opposite. He suspected many a criminal had fallen victim to Ray Moonlight¡¯s frankness in an interrogation room.


    Ray thanked them all for their time, then told them, ¡°Go grab yourselves a beer. Unwind a little. But not too much, mind. We want to see you here bright and early tomorrow. That is, if you want to know which of you have made it.¡±


    The pavements outside were stained dark by a once-heavy rainfall that had slowed into a drizzle. Mick buttoned his coat and put his hood over his head. Shoving his hands deep into his pockets, he left Elmshore and headed toward the city center.


    He had studied the Striding map earlier that morning in the reception area and used his memory techniques to remember some of it, so he was a little more familiar with the place than before. There were some deductions a person could make about most towns and cities, too, if they thought about it.


    Like many cities, the stores in Striding tended to group together by type. Not unlike people, actually. Mick had tried reading a book called ¡®Maskill on Human Nature.¡¯ It was a little wordy for him, and the author thought he was some kind of genius, but he¡¯d gleaned a few treasures of knowledge. For example, like attracted like. People sought in others what they either saw in themselves, or wanted to see.


    Same thing with Full Striding shops. Take Regent¡¯s Plaza, for example. Mick only had to glance into one or two of the clothes store windows there to know his coin pouch couldn¡¯t take the strain. They weren¡¯t even called stores, he reminded himself. You were supposed to say establishments. What was the difference between a shirt bought in a store or an establishment? One of them made your coin purse much lighter. They were probably made in the same damned place.


    Still, Mick was a stickler for using the right words. Some people would have said, ¡®who cares whether you say store or establishment?¡¯ This kind of distinction was important. As a sleuth, he was going to run into all kinds of folks. Some of them would respond better to a sleuth who spoke like them, used the same kinds of lingo.


    A quick walk along Honeyford Street took him to a place where he felt much more at home. There, in a mercantile square called Trader¡¯s Row, Mick stood for a moment and tried to form a plan. Only, it was busier than a beehive here. He could barely hear himself think. Breathing in a deep, calming breath, he was treated to the smell of horse chestnuts that a nearby vendor was roasting on a glow stone. Laughter came thick and heavy from a tavern called the Golden Goose, just across the plaza.


    Mick eyed the plethora of stores dotted all around the square¡¯s boundary, and he asked himself one question: Just what in the name of all the saints did you buy a thirteen year old girl for her birthday?


    He¡¯d always had a deep fondness for his niece. When she decided that she hated being called Zipsolera and wanted to be called Zip, he was the first in the family to do that. He didn¡¯t know what his sister was thinking anyhow, naming her kid that. The fact was, Mick saw a lot of himself whenever he talked to his niece. She¡¯d always been a lonely kind of kid, despite all her uncles, her aunts, her many cousins. She was quiet, too, in her way. Not shy, exactly, but choosy with what she said, and who she said it to.


    She could also be a handful, sure enough. His sister, Kiera, told him once that she sometimes regretted even having kids. Mick had been shocked when she said it, but Kiera said, ¡°All parents feel like that from time to time, Mick. Trust me. Our ma definitely did. Just most of ¡®em don¡¯t say it.¡±


    A plan formed in his mind as he stood there. Buy a present for Zip, find a tavern to stay at, then get something to eat. After that, a quick beer or two, and then bed. Not a bad evening at all.


    The first few stores he tried in Trader¡¯s Row sold clothes, but Mick would rather have walked barefoot through a pine forest than attempt to buy her something from there. It was hard enough shopping for his own clothes. So, he tried an interesting-looking store that sold all kinds of tinkered animal models and monster puppets. A little monkey made from tinkered parts that could be made to complete a simple task, like fetching your slippers. Intricate models of mailcarts, forts, even a circus. Any model you could think of. That fella with all the tattoos, Phil Brownhill, would have loved it here. But would Zip want anything from its shelves? Mick reckoned not.


    Led by his gut, Mick tried a candle store, a hurtleball shop, an apothecary, and a handful more places on Trader¡¯s Row, only to leave all of them with nothing. The stores were fine, but he just really wanted to get her something she¡¯d love, and nothing grabbed him.


    He took a room at a tavern not far from the station. The Hand and Cuff, the sign outside named it. Bed and breakfast for twenty-five gold. Twenty-two if you were a token-carrying guard or inspector. Not a bad deal. His room wasn¡¯t quite as nice as his back in ¡®hampton, but it was cozy, in its own way. It had a little desk, a glow lamp, and the window view looked out onto a small plaza called Hearth¡¯s Way. The tavern had a bunch of outdoor tables and heaters set up on the plaza.


    Mick decided he liked the Hand and Cuff so much he¡¯d eat here tonight. So, he ordered cod and fried potatoes and a glass of Striding Crown from the bar, and then took a table outside. While he waited for his food and drink he watched the folks milling around the plaza, studying their faces, trying to glean something from them that most people would miss. Insights, in other words. Little nuggets of information that were like coal for a sleuth¡¯s forge.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    After a while, the barlad brought out his glass of Crown, but his cod still hadn¡¯t arrived. This didn¡¯t bother him. The opposite, in fact; he was always suspicious when his food arrived too quickly. Made him think it had been cooked hours earlier and then had sat under a glow lamp.


    He took a sip of Crown and turned his attention away from the strangers in the plaza and inward, to the exam. He¡¯d resisted trying to evaluate how he¡¯d done today, since he usually tended toward the negative about his own abilities. Now, he allowed himself just a little bit of optimism. If he really thought about it, he reckoned he¡¯d done okay. Certainly not the worst of the group. Especially with the running ¨C nobody else had come close to him for endurance.


    Turning his thoughts away from the evaluations led him on to something else: Zip. He really needed to get her something before he left Striding. Why was this so difficult? If he really puzzled it out, the answer was easy. Mick simply didn¡¯t know his niece well enough. Sounded bad to say it even in his own head, but he didn¡¯t.


    ¡°Mick?¡±


    It all happened so quickly. One second he was alone, the next there was a lady sitting at his table. He thought he recognized her, but couldn¡¯t quite close the deal in his mind. Red hair tied back, thick glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose, the lenses making her eyes look huge. Where¡¯d he know this lady from? The answer was just out of reach, but waving at him and goading him to remember.


    ¡°You are Mick, aren¡¯t you? I haven¡¯t just sat at a stranger¡¯s table have I? That happened to me once before, thought it was someone I knew from school. We¡¯d shared a seafood platter before I realized they were playing along, too awkward to tell me they didn¡¯t know me.¡±


    ¡°Well, I am Mick, and you have sat at a stranger¡¯s table. But that¡¯s fine by me.¡±


    His eyes fell on a detail that gave him a bridge to cross toward the answer. This lady had a thin, purple line that went all around her neck. Until now, he¡¯d only seen the back of her head, when they were in Elmshore East station.


    ¡°You don¡¯t mind if I sit for a bit do you? Only, this place. The city. You know? It¡¯s weird coming from a village where you know everyone, to a place like this,¡± she said. ¡°Makes me feel like I¡¯m lost.¡±


    ¡°Know the feeling exactly,¡± said Mick. ¡°Drink?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get them. You stay there.¡±


    Her name was Lillian Gill, but she told Mick to just call her Lill. Lillian was for forms and job interviews, nothing else. From a few bits she told him about her education and her work history, he guessed she was maybe in her mid-twenties. Older than most of the other recruits on the program, but still younger than him. Even so, it was nice to share a beer with someone who he wasn¡¯t almost old enough to be their father.


    Besides, Lill came from a village called Lundy, and Mick always felt a kinship with anyone who lived in a place with fewer than a thousand people living in it. He told her so.


    ¡°Really?¡± said Lill. ¡°I felt like a sore thumb when I got to the station this morning. Like, as soon as I got to the city I sprouted a second head, or something. I could feel everyone looking at me, thinking here¡¯s the country bumpkin.¡±


    ¡°If the commuter cart only stops at your town twice per day and one postmaster can cover the whole place in an afternoon, then it¡¯s my kind of town. You ever been to Sunhampton?¡±


    ¡°Yeah! Coin Way? Love that place. My uncle used to take us there in the run up to Yulthor. We¡¯d have lunch at the tavern. King¡¯s Something.¡±


    ¡°The King¡¯s Head on Coiner¡¯s Way,¡± said Mick. ¡°No better steak and ale pie in Easterly.¡±


    ¡°You think so? Then clearly you haven¡¯t been to the Star and Garter. Lundy¡¯s famous for its pies.¡±


    Some folks happen to live in a place, and some of them are from a place. Lill¡¯s love for Lundy came through like an ink stain on a white shirt. It was famous for the Lundy Caves, supposedly. You could go on tours inside them, though Mick had never heard of them, and he told her so.


    ¡°Can¡¯t be that famous if nobody¡¯s heard their name. Whereas Sunhampton, well we don¡¯t need to pretend we¡¯re famous. Folks still flock there anyhow.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah?¡±


    ¡°Yeah.¡±


    ¡°Visit Lundy one day, and you¡¯ll be singing a different tune. Trust me.¡±


    His food came halfway through their beer. Lill ordered herself cod and fried potatoes, and after chatting throughout their meal, they had another beer before they left. Their conversation took them through all the kinds of small talk topics expected of two strangers sitting at a table, though one subject was placed off bounds, albeit in an unspoken way. Neither of them even uttered a single breath about the sleuth exam.


    In fact, the only vaguely related thing they discussed was Mick telling her about the whole Inspector Longwaite thing in the waiting room. When he finished explaining the prank they¡¯d pulled, Lill laughed her arse off.


    ¡°You don¡¯t think that was a little too much?¡± he said.


    ¡°Mick¡­you¡¯ve really gotta lighten up. Stuff like that, hazing the new recruits¡­it¡¯s all part of it. Every single craft in the world has some form of it.¡±


    ¡°I just expected them to be a little more serious.¡±


    ¡°Put expectations on other people, and all you¡¯re gonna be is disappointed. If you want to take it seriously, then you¡¯re free to do that. How other folks act, it¡¯s not in your control. Some of the guards in the city, they don¡¯t care. It¡¯s just a means to get coin. If they play a joke or two, best thing to do is to join in. It doesn¡¯t devalue how you feel about being a sleuth, does it? Joining in on a little joke?¡±


    ¡°I guess not. Maybe I built this place up a little too much.¡±


    ¡°There you go, then.¡±


    ¡°Anyhow, this has been nice, but I better be heading off,¡± Mick told her. ¡°Gotta buy a present for my niece. Say¡­you wouldn¡¯t happen to know what I should buy a thirteen year old girl, would you?¡±


    Lill shook her head. ¡°Not a damned clue. I¡¯m awful at buying gifts. My tip, drop the girl part from your thinking. Buy a present for a thirteen year old. Girl or boy ¨C that¡¯s an irrelevance. It¡¯s way more important what your niece actually likes.¡±


    Mick found himself tapping his beer glass with his finger. ¡°Well¡­¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know? Have you even met this girl before?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a busy guy,¡± he said. ¡°I try to be a good uncle¡­¡±


    ¡°Hey, your family, your problem. I¡¯m not here to judge. I¡¯m here to sleuth. All I¡¯m saying is¡­what was I saying?¡±


    ¡°Asking what kinds of things Zip likes.¡±


    ¡°Well saints alive, if you don¡¯t know, then how am I going to help? I¡¯ve never met the girl. I¡¯ve even forgotten her name. Pip? Just get her a voucher or something. That¡¯s what I do. Makes Yulthor shopping easy.¡±


    They said their goodbyes, and Mick once again headed into the mercantile tundra of the trading plaza, his inner engine fueled by cod, fried potatoes, and beer. It hadn¡¯t been a bad evening. Not at all. He¡¯d even enjoyed sharing his dinner with a stranger, which was something that would normally have annoyed him.


    This second time in the plaza, he perused the shelves of various stores looking for a present without trying too hard for it, forcing himself to follow the lead of his gut. When he was done, he left one store with a brown paper parcel in his pocket, which he promptly took to his room at the Hand and Cuff.

 Small-Town Sleuth - Chapter 17

    <h2></a>17</h2>


    The next morning, Mick got to Elmshore East guard station twenty minutes before he and the other would-be sleuths had been told to arrive. He¡¯d always been like this. Not just punctual, but maybe overly so. The way he saw it, he¡¯d rather be thirty minutes early than a minute late. There was just something about running behind schedule that stressed him out. Other people, like Lee Hunter, could turn up to something an hour behind schedule and not even sweat it. Sometimes, he wished he could be so carefree.


    He didn¡¯t bother going into the waiting area this morning, knowing he needed to head through the back yard of the station. No point having a repeat of the previous morning, after all. As he passed the open doorway, a fella came dashing out.


    ¡°Mr. Mulroon?¡±


    Sergeant Nichols was standing there, a lot shorter when he wasn¡¯t behind his desk. Barely over five feet tall. He must have had to stand on a crate when he was working on reception. Just ten or so years earlier, this would have been unthinkable, but the guards had relaxed their old height restrictions. These days, if you were fit enough and had a few wits about you, then you had a chance regardless of how tall you stood.


    ¡°Just you, is it?¡± said Mick. ¡°Thought you¡¯d have Inspector Longwaite with you. Or maybe Constable Holdonaminute.¡±


    Nichols smirked. ¡°Came to say sorry about yesterday. I don¡¯t normally haze greeners,¡± he said. Mick had heard the term a few times in the station, and had already pieced together that he, Lill and the others were ¡®greeners¡¯.


    Thinking back to Lill¡¯s advice, Mick said, ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. I once sent little Billy Sharp to the store for some checkered paint.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a good one. You ever tried the old left handed screwdriver trick?¡±


    ¡°Billy¡¯s too old to get tricked by that now. I think. But don¡¯t worry about it, anyhow. I was just nervous yesterday.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, well, just wanted to say, like. It¡¯s not me, playing those jokes. S¡¯pose I was just trying to fit in. New to this station, y¡¯see. Got posted here because-¡± he waved his hand dismissively now. ¡°Well, not important. Just if you¡¯d accept my apologies, that¡¯d be grand.¡±


    ¡°Consider ¡®em accepted.¡±


    ¡°Great. Best get back to it, I¡¯ve got a stack of paperwork bigger than an ogre¡¯s¡­well, it¡¯s a big stack. Good luck today.¡±


    Mick joined the other recruits in the same room as they¡¯d met in the previous morning. Since he¡¯d used up his oat milk, he took his coffee black. The selection of pastries all looked like they had butter or cream in them again, but that was okay. He put two sweet rolls and a jam twist in his artificed food container for Ma. He caught a look or two from the other recruits, but he didn¡¯t pay them any mind.You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    ¡°Mick,¡± said Lill.


    She was sitting right in the middle of the rows of chairs. She patted the chair next to hers. Mick would have preferred a seat at the back, like yesterday, but didn¡¯t want to be rude.


    ¡°You know pastry theft is still theft, don¡¯t you?¡± she said as he sat down.


    ¡°They¡¯re for my Ma. I can¡¯t eat dairy, but I figured I¡¯m still owed a sweet roll or two.¡±


    ¡°Dairy, huh? If I eat walnuts, my throat swells up like a bullfrog¡¯s. Put it there, my new intolerance and allergy pal.¡±


    Mick laughed as she high-fived his palm. Leaning back into his seat, he realized he was a lot more relaxed today. He guessed that with the exam over, he¡¯d done all he could. Now it was just a matter of waiting.


    This didn¡¯t take long. Soon, the door opened and Inspector Glass walked in. She looked like she¡¯d had a late night ¨C you could have put a week¡¯s worth of groceries in the bags under her eyes. Maybe a late evening working on a case, Mick guessed. In the city, you probably got asked to go look into a crime at any hour of the day. Yet another way in which Sunhampton beat Full Striding ¨C and beat Lundy, for that matter. The only things awake in ¡®hampton after midnight were the bats.


    ¡°Morning, ladies and gents,¡± said Inspector Glass. ¡°First of all, I¡¯d like to congratulate you all on-¡±


    She began a little speech that none of the recruits were really listening to. They all wanted to get to the part where they learned who¡¯d made the program and was going to start studying towards their sleuth tokens. A handful of the greeners looked relaxed, like the forthcoming news was novel as telling them the sky was blue. Mick figured his earlier guess was right; some of the ladies and gents here knew they were on the program before they¡¯d walked through the door.


    ¡°Without further ado, the following have been accepted onto the program. If your name isn¡¯t called out, thank you for your time, and please feel free to reapply in two years.¡± She cleared her throat. ¡°Abrahams, Leeroy. Andale, Claire.¡±


    Mick felt himself slowly sit up straighter in his seat as Glass worked through the As, Bs, and all the way to ¡®Luton, Phillip.¡¯ Lill¡¯s name had already been called, but rather than enjoy it, she seemed to only get tenser as they waited for Mick¡¯s.


    ¡°Magway, Nick,¡± said Glass. ¡°Nathans, Helen.¡±


    It took a moment for the fact to sink in. When it did, he tried to think what had happened, and how this was a mistake. Maybe Glass had misread the list, perhaps. Maybe there was some kind of screw up and someone had forgotten to add Mick¡¯s name.


    ¡°It¡¯s okay,¡± said Lill. ¡°Two years will fly by.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t get it. The physical, I¡¯d bet my last copper I was in the top third. And on the written paper, almost everything I studied came up. There just ain¡¯t no how.¡±


    ¡®Ain¡¯t no how¡¯ was the kind of lapse into slang he made when he got flustered. ¡®Old ¡®Hampton¡¯, they called it. He hadn¡¯t wanted to talk that way in Full Striding, where it¡¯d mark him out as a country guy in a kingdom of city dwellers. Never speak Old ¡®Hampton in the city, that was the rule. Getting heard speaking Old ¡®Hampton, which was actually a catch all term for the country slang used in a maybe twenty mile radius of his town, was a sure way to getting marked as a potential mugging target in a city like this.


    Lill leaned closer and whispered, ¡°You know what this place is like. It¡¯s a joke. Some of us, we knew we were getting in no matter what.¡±


    ¡°You did?¡± said Mick.


    Lill bit her lip. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. My Ma works here. She¡¯s fairly high up. Don¡¯t hate me.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t Lill¡¯s fault who her family was, and he had only met her yesterday, so she didn¡¯t owe him squat. This was why he was surprised at the sense of betrayal he felt. Maybe it was because she was from Lundy. He had kind of felt like they had a small-town, us-against-the-city kinship. Well, he supposed you couldn¡¯t trust your first impressions. That was the lesson.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 18

    <h2>18</h2>


    After Mick left the meeting room and exited the station by the yard and headed out onto the street, he bumped into Sergeant Nichols, who was just leaving after his shift. Kneeling down, Nichols was unlocking the chain from his bicycle parked out front. He waved at Mick, who wasn¡¯t much in the mood for talking.


    ¡°Oh. Won¡¯t ask how it went, then,¡± said Nichols.


    There was one thing in the world Mick didn¡¯t want to be, and that was a self-pitying guy. Not to say he wasn¡¯t allowed to feel disappointment ¨C he¡¯d worked hard for this. But he just didn¡¯t see the use for wallowing. No, all he wanted right now was to get the commuter cart home, see Ma, and then go for a beer with Lee, Spruce, and Nell and spend a pleasant evening insulting Full Striding.


    ¡°Let¡¯s just say Inspector Longwaite and I won¡¯t be getting to know each other.¡±


    ¡°You know,¡± said Nichols, ¡°I failed the exam first time. I was nineteen back then. Could barely grow a beard. Two years dragged like a ball of iron on a chain, but here¡¯s the thing: time¡¯s gonna pass regardless. Come back here in a couple of years, and see how you get on. Maybe I¡¯ll even be chief inspector by then, eh? I¡¯ll put a word in for you.¡±


    It was easier to wait a couple of years when you were nineteen, Mick thought. When you had all the time in the world, and things like middle age and getting old were just mirages shimmering on the horizon.


    Mick was on the wrong end of the seesaw. If he waited two years and failed again, then he¡¯d be a fella in his forties, still no class to his name. Nothing wrong with not earning tokens, of course. Plenty of people didn¡¯t. But he had told himself he wanted it, that was the thing. The things you reached for, the prizes you set your mind on getting, those were the ones that hurt when they collapsed. Turned out, Mick had built his ambitions on quicksand.


    Oh, this wasn¡¯t good. He was getting dangerously close to wallowing, and Mulroons didn¡¯t wallow. Remember Flo Anderson, he reminded himself. She was testament to the fact it didn¡¯t matter even a jot how gray your hair was when you started something. Just that you started. That perked him up a little.


    Cheer up, head back to ¡®hampton, have a beer. That¡¯s what I¡¯ll do. Figure things out in the morning.


    Lill caught up to him just as he was cutting through Saxon Square to get to the commuter station. She was holding a black box made from felt in her hand. Her blank sleuth class tokens would be inside it, no doubt. Reaching Mick, she stuffed the box in her pocket. Wasting no time, she got right into it.


    ¡°Look, let¡¯s go have a word with my mum,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m not saying there¡¯s been a mix up, but if there has been, she can tell us.¡±


    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s time to stop grasping at straws.¡±


    ¡°Just five minutes, that¡¯s all,¡± said Lill. ¡°Come speak to Mum. Even if there¡¯s no mistake, she might be able to recommend something. I don¡¯t know, maybe there¡¯s another training program somewhere, or a way you won¡¯t have to wait two years. You know bureaucracy ¨C there¡¯s a million ways around it if you just know how. Speak to her for a few minutes. What can it hurt?¡±


    Mick glanced at his watch. It was cutting it fine for the commuter cart. It used to be that a cart would run four times per day from Sunhampton to Striding, but like with everything, budget cuts had forced a rethink. Nowadays, the weekday carts were planned around people commuting here for work. During the run up to Yulthor, when the shopping season was at its peak, they put on an extra evening cart, but that was a while away. If he missed this next cart, he was going to have to stay in Striding one whole extra night.


    This little chat will cost me forty gold at the Hand and Cuff. Not to mention I¡¯ll have to have dinner. Throw another twenty in for that.


    ¡°Sorry. I ¡®preciate you trying, but you¡¯ve got to know when to stop mending the cart and just get a new one.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re really going to just go?¡± said Lill.


    He couldn¡¯t help but think that Lill was trying to assuage her own guilt just a little. Maybe because she knew she was getting on the program no matter what. A day earlier, that would really have annoyed him, but then he¡¯d made the mistake of getting to know her. She was nice, she had brains to spare, and if there was something about Striding guard regulations she didn¡¯t know, then the regulators didn¡¯t know either. It wasn¡¯t her fault her Ma worked here, was it? By assuming she got on the program through her connections, Mick was doing her a disservice.


    He¡¯d had his fill of the city, no doubting that. He was sick of its big streets and the number of people crowding them. Sunhampton was calling to him. But given that he didn¡¯t plan on coming back here for a while, ought he not at least speak to Lill¡¯s mother?


    ¡°All right,¡± he said.


    Lill put her arm around his shoulder and guided him back toward the guard station. ¡°That¡¯s the spirit!¡±


    Inspector Brenda Glass was in her office on the third floor, sitting behind her desk. When Lill guided him there and he read the name on the door, he thought there must be a mistake. Glass was Lill¡¯s ma? Wasn¡¯t Lill¡¯s surname Gill?


    Then again, mistaking your own mother¡¯s identity was hardly the kind of slip up you expect a person to make. Clearly Lill knew who her own mother was. But what was with the different surnames? And didn¡¯t Lill live in Lundy? There was no way Glass commuted all the way here from Lundy every day.


    It seemed pointless, but he nevertheless tried to do some deducing. The different surname thing was explainable. Families didn¡¯t come in a one-size-fits-all package. Maybe she was Lill¡¯s step mother. Maybe Lill¡¯s dad¡¯s surname was Gill, her mother¡¯s maiden name was Glass. Divorce was hardly unheard of. Perhaps Lill did live in Lundy, while Brenda Glass lived here in Striding. See, he told himself. That wasn¡¯t so difficult to work out. Most things were simple once you peeled back the layers.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    Besides, surnames and towns meant nothing. What was important here was that Lill¡¯s mother was the head of the damned station. He reckoned he ought to be annoyed with her. She wasn¡¯t just one of the recruits who¡¯d been assured a place on the program ¨C she was the worst of the lot. Her mother was the one who decided everything!


    Then again, what right did he have to be angry? He didn¡¯t know her. They¡¯d shared a cod and fried potatoes, and she¡¯d saved him a seat in the examination room. That was the extent of it. Mick didn¡¯t like being angry at the best of times, especially not with folks he¡¯d never see again and who owed him nothing.


    No, he was done being irritated. Lill was a nice lady, clearly a capable would-be sleuth. Whether her mother was the chief inspector or one of the saints themselves, it didn¡¯t matter. She¡¯d gotten on the program, and she deserved it.


    ¡°Lillian,¡± said Brenda Glass, clearly surprised to see her daughter in her office, and even more surprised that Mick was with her. ¡°Mr. Mulroon.¡±


    Lill took a seat in front of her mother¡¯s desk. ¡°My client would like to chat about his examination results.¡±


    ¡°Your client¡­¡± Glass gave a long, deep sigh. ¡°Lillian, I don¡¯t have time for this.¡±


    ¡°We just wondered if maybe there¡¯d been a mistake, Mother. That¡¯s all. Couldn¡¯t you just check?¡±


    Inspector Glass eyed Mick as if questioning whether he wanted to back up Lill¡¯s statement. Truth was, now that they were in Glass¡¯s office, the whole thing felt silly.


    He rose from his chair. ¡°I need to be heading back. Might just make the commuter cart, if I run.¡±


    Rather than just accepting his goodbyes and ridding herself of the interruption, Glass surprised Mick by saying, ¡°I know how this looks, Mr. Mulroon. I want you to know that every candidate was marked fairly.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure they were.¡±


    ¡°My Questioning skill tree is master-ranked, Mr. Mulroon. Do you really not think I can detect sarcasm when I hear it?¡±


    Mick was caught between getting into it right here, or just heading back home. His stubborn, argumentative side won out.


    ¡°It looks mighty suspicious that your own daughter is in the group that you were assessing. That¡¯s just a fact. I happen to think Lill got in on merit, but you can see how it looks.¡±


    Lill didn¡¯t say anything to this, but a glance at her was enough for Mick to register a look of hurt. He inwardly winced, knowing some things were best left unsaid.


    ¡°I didn¡¯t even so much as glance at Ms. Gill¡¯s examination results. Inspector Kenwright handled her marking to avoid such a conflict.¡±


    ¡°What about everyone else? What about the lad who couldn¡¯t even finish a lap around the track? Ben¡­Ben something. You¡¯re telling me that everyone out there got into the program on merit?¡±


    ¡°This is beginning to sound like sour grapes, Mr. Mulroon, and the only time I like sour grapes is in a good chutney. I can sympathize with your disappointment, but this wasn¡¯t a fix. There¡¯s no conspiracy here. Full Striding hires the best for its sleuth training program, and the inspectors and I decide who meets this criteria fairly.¡±


    ¡°Some of the folks in that room were-¡±


    ¡°Mr. Mulroon,¡± said Glass, leaning forward. Authority projected out of her, more so than before. He wondered if she was using some kind of skill tree ability. More and more, this situation was beginning to take the feel of an interrogation room, with Glass at one side of the desk and him at another.


    She continued, ¡°Laying the blame at nepotism¡¯s door is an easy way to avoid personal responsibility. Your scores weren¡¯t bad. Not at all. But as I said, we hire only the best candidates.¡±


    ¡°You hire half of every intake group. I never  went to college, but by definition, half of a group can¡¯t all be the best.¡±


    ¡°Depends on your definition of best,¡± said Lill. ¡°If you take best to mean ¡®the better half¡¯ of a group, then¡­¡±


    ¡°Well, yeah. I¡¯ll grant you that,¡± replied Mick.


    Inspector Glass said, ¡°You¡¯re throwing stones at the moon, Mick. I sympathize with you, but take a few days to reflect on your own performance and I promise you¡¯ll feel differently.¡±


    She half got him doubting himself now. Could there be something to it? When his name hadn¡¯t been called, he had instantly dismissed the idea that his own performance might be responsible. Maybe Glass was right; it was much easier to blame an unfair system than yourself.


    Then again, systems were unfair. Nobody in Easterly could deny that. It was just a fact of things. It wasn¡¯t like he was spouting wild theories here. He wasn¡¯t claiming to have seen werewolves in Full Moon forest, or hinting that Striding¡¯s mayor was a lizard person.


    Something in Glass¡¯s expression stuck out to him then. He couldn¡¯t pinpoint it. Not exactly. Her eyes, perhaps. He thought maybe he could read something in them, some kind of hesitancy.


    That was all he needed in order to decide to take a risk. ¡°I want my scores to be reviewed. There must be some kind of examination review board, no? I want mine rechecked and compared to the rest of the greeners.¡±


    Glass said nothing, just looked down at her desk and tapped her pen against it. Lifting her head, she glanced at the door and then at Mick. ¡°You were in the top half of the group. Top third, actually.¡±


    ¡°Then I was right. This place is as crooked as a Perentee cobble.¡±


    Glass gave a sigh that sounded to Mick like some internal dam had burst open. ¡°The fact is, Mr. Mulroon, we barely have the budget to buy new notepads. Every single recruit we accept into the sleuth program must have an inspector assigned to them as a mentor, and you can only imagine how much that costs. Every hour an inspector spends training a recruit is an hour they aren¡¯t doing their actual work. Then we must factor in the cost of getting skill tree tokens made¡­¡±


    ¡°The folks whose parents offer a donation, then. Take it they got accepted?¡±


    ¡°Not all of them,¡± said Glass. ¡°Before you get any ideas, it¡¯s in our guard charter that we can recruit this way. There¡¯s a copy in the archive room. If you insist on taking this further, I¡¯ll even issue you a visitor¡¯s pass so you can read our regulations yourself.¡±


    ¡°Why are you telling me this, if it¡¯s all above board and there¡¯s nothing I can do?¡±


    ¡°I know this must stick in your craw, but-¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s a craw, anyway?¡± said Lill.


    Glass continued, ¡°Lillian brought you here, and that must count for something. It¡¯s only fair that you know how well you scored. If only we had an inspector free to assign to you as a mentor, we would love to have you on the program. Alas, not everything works the way it should.¡±


    ¡°Wait,¡± said Lill. ¡°So if Mick can find an inspector to agree to mentor him, he can still be on the program, right?¡±


    Inspector Glass gave her daughter a shut up look, but nevertheless, she nodded. ¡°We have a few blank tokens still available.¡±


    ¡°Then that¡¯s what we¡¯ll do. Come on, Mick.¡±


    Outside the station, Mick checked his watch and saw that he¡¯d missed the commuter cart. One more evening in Striding it was, then. And it seemed he¡¯d be spending most of it with Lill, from the way she was talking about going to see some inspector or other who she knew as a family friend.


    Mick couldn¡¯t help feeling bad, though. There was something they needed to address before they took another step.


    ¡°Sorry if I was an ass in there,¡± he said. ¡°Didn¡¯t mean to imply you didn¡¯t earn your place. You deserved one more than me if scores are anything to go by. I¡¯m sure plenty of the others did, too. Maybe I am just talking sour grapes.¡±


    ¡°I get it. I¡¯d be frustrated too.¡±


    ¡°Let me buy you a drink later to say sorry.¡±


    ¡°Deal,¡± replied Lill.


    ¡°So, who¡¯s this family friend we¡¯re going to go and see?¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 19

    <h2></a>19</h2>


    Sammy Lee had retired from inspector duties five years ago after a long and decorated career, and it looked like she¡¯d kept herself busy ever since. She lived in a townhouse on Huskin¡¯s Street, but she was never home. Instead, Lill took Mick to an old scrapyard on the east side of town, where Sammy kept her collection of carts.


    There were probably more carts here than at Striding cart station. Old, decommissioned commuter carts. Bank carts with artificed safes on the back. Merchant carts with space for them to display their wares. The vehicles¡¯ conditions ranged from ¡®is that a cart or a pile of scrap wood?¡¯ to gleaming and practically new.


    ¡°Aunt Sammy might be able to help,¡± Lill told him as they walked through the maze of carts. ¡°No promises, though.¡±


    ¡°Is there anyone in your family who isn¡¯t an inspector?¡±


    Lill laughed. ¡°Sammy¡¯s not my real aunt. She¡¯s old friends with my mother. They got their tokens together.¡±


    As Mick and Lill crossed the yard, she elbowed him and whispered, ¡°Watch this.¡± When they reached Sammy, Lill smiled brightly. ¡°Hey, Sammy! Ooh, is that a new carriage? Looks great.¡±


    Sammy, who was sitting on a barrel laid on its side and adjusting something on a cart wheel, said, ¡°This isn¡¯t a carriage, you brat.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, I meant wagon.¡±


    Sammy pointed her wrench at Lill. ¡°Not a damned wagon, either. Toil and thunder, girl, how many times have I explained it? Carts and wagons are as different as apples and pears. That should be obvious even to¡­oh. Getting my heckles up, aren¡¯t you? Is that what this is?¡±


    ¡°Aunt Sammy, this is Mick Mulroon.¡±


    Sammy looked like she was maybe a few years younger than Ma. Like Ma, she clearly hadn¡¯t sat back and let old age walk into her home and kick its boots off. Her only concession to her advancing years was her gray hair tied into a ponytail, and the wrinkles around her eyes gave her a dollop of gravitas.


    Sammy studied Mick like he was a criminal on the wrong side of an interrogation desk. He fought the urge to look away.


    ¡°See my toolbox over there? Can you pass me a left handed screwdriver?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Sure. Want a tin of checkered paint while I¡¯m at it?¡±


    He evidently passed her little test, because she smiled and said, ¡°Pleased to meet you, Mick. I won¡¯t shake your hand, unless you want to get covered in oil.¡±


    They headed towards a small tin shack situated at the yard boundary, near a stack of wooden crates someone had piled perilously high. As they walked, Sammy told Mick how she rented the yard from a merchant she¡¯d once arrested and jailed for insurance fraud. A conflict of interest, to be sure, but the man had served his time in Striding jail now. Besides, Sammy hadn¡¯t been a working inspector for seven and a half years. There was no law in Easterly that said she couldn¡¯t rent space from a former criminal.


    ¡°Former being the key word there,¡± Sammy said. ¡°Always believed in a person paying their dues. You know, depending on their particular¡­hobbies. But insurance fraud? That¡¯s the kind of crime a person can learn from.¡±


    ¡°Insurers are the biggest thieves around, if you ask me,¡± said Mick.


    Sammy seemed to enjoy this. ¡°Well said! Although, if any of my carriages ever get stolen, I¡¯ll be thankful for my premiums. Watch your step there. Apologies, shouldn¡¯t have left that wheel lying around.¡±


    More interesting than her rental situation was the information she fed him about her various carts, wagons, and carriages. There were so many, if she¡¯d said there was less than a hundred of them here in the yard, Mick would have asked for a recount.


    Sammy pointed at one black and blue vehicle with the Tarrin wreath painted on the side. ¡°That there¡¯s a mail wagon from Tarrin. Used to have a sorting office there, they did, until they centralized. Only a few of those carts around these days.¡±


    Mick had never realized there were so many different carts. Nor that there was such a difference between carts, carriages, and wagons. He had never really thought about it before, using the words interchangeably as he saw fit. Well, not anymore. Sammy had changed the way he thought about things with wheels. He eagerly devoured everything she had to say, filing as much of it as he could in his head for later use. One of the keys to being a good inspector was having a healthy pantry of general knowledge. You never knew when you¡¯d need it.


    ¡°Just through here in my parlor,¡± said Sammy. She gave Mick a grin. ¡°That¡¯s what I call it because it makes it sound posh, when it¡¯s just an old shack.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I got that.¡±


    The tin shack was surprisingly inviting once they stepped inside. Sammy had spread a huge, orange rug on the floor to cover up most of the cold metal. Set against one wall was a wooden counter for refreshments easily big enough to house a glow stone, jars filled with tea leaves, and a small artificed box for keeping sandwiches and snacks fresh. The counter itself looked like it was the driver¡¯s compartment from a carriage, ripped out and installed here for a new life purpose. Its gleam of varnish spoke of the care Sammy must have put into fixing it up.


    ¡°Folks just don¡¯t understand,¡± said Sammy, putting her kettle on a glow stone and setting it to start heating up. ¡°They call everything a cart. But carts usually have two wheels and an open top. No surprises there. Sometimes they have four ¨C I¡¯ll grant you that. Whereas a wagon? Well, four wheels as standard, for a start. The back¡¯s usually covered with tarpaulin. When we talk about a ¡®commuter cart,¡¯ we should actually say ¡®commuter wagon.¡¯¡±


    Mick made a mental note of this. ¡°And a carriage?¡±


    ¡°A carriage is a fancy wagon, in layperson¡¯s terms, as much as I hate laypeople. The difference is in quality and aesthetics. If you want to travel cheaply, take a wagon. If you want style, get a carriage.¡±


    ¡°Aunt Sammy used to take me to auctions when I was younger,¡± said Lill. ¡°I bet I know enough about them to become a cartwright.¡±


    ¡°You, my girl, could become anything you set your bloody mind to. Here you go, Mick. Careful, it¡¯s hot.¡±


    Sammy handed him his peppermint tea, and passed a cup of mixed berry and turmeric tea to Lill.


    ¡°She¡¯s got an eye for a bargain, has Lill. And what attention to detail! Like a hawk, she is. Many a time she pointed out faults on a wagon that I missed on my first pass. Saved me spending plenty of coins on junk over the years. I always said, they¡¯ll hold you in good stead, those eyes of yours, girl. Some sleuths, they miss the wood for the trees.¡±


    So Sammy calls us ¡®sleuths¡¯,  thought Mick. You could never tell whether someone would say inspector, detective, or sleuth. He supposed it was a bit like how people used cart, wagon, and carriage interchangeably. And like the differences between vehicles, the three names for a ¡®solver of clues¡¯ had subtleties, too. A sleuth and a detective were not quite the same thing.


    ¡°So, we found out about the inspector program today,¡± said Lill.


    ¡°Oh? I didn¡¯t know you were trying to get on the program.¡±


    ¡°Huh? Sure you did.¡±


    ¡°News to me, girl.¡±


    ¡°I must have told you a thousand¡­¡± began Lill, then paused. ¡°Oh.¡±


    Sammy grinned. ¡°You¡¯re not the only one who can get people¡¯s hackles up. Wait a second.¡±


    She rummaged around in a filing cabinet set against the wall, near the coatstand which had an oil-covered apron hung on it. After opening one drawer, then another, then searching through the first one again, she took out a box roughly the same size as a briefcase. On its lid was an etching of a gloved hand holding a magnifying glass. The carving was masterfully done, but Mick was more impressed by the way the box was joined at each corner. Whoever did it had used dovetail joints made up of two different hues of wood, giving it a pleasing effect. Carpentry was one of many things he wished he¡¯d taken up when he was younger.


    Lill opened up the box to reveal a magnifying glass and fingerprinting set resting on a bed of green felt. The fingerprint set included powder for revealing prints on surfaces, lifting tape, and a variety of brushes. The magnifying glass came with three different lenses, as well as artificed polarizing filters. The implements were all kept in place with little loops so they wouldn¡¯t jumble around when Lill was on the move.Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    Mick couldn¡¯t help looking at the equipment and feeling like it¡¯d look mighty fine in his own hands. He found his envy difficult to resist. Gadgets had always had that effect on him, even for stuff he wasn¡¯t interested in. When Lee Hunter had bought a fancy new crossbow from a store in Hattersdale and showed it to him, Nell, and Spruce in the tavern, Mick had come down with serious bow jealousy despite never firing one in his life.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t have to do this!¡± said Lill.


    ¡°That¡¯s the set my father gave me when I got a place on a token program,¡± said Sammy. ¡°Take care of it. Don¡¯t let the lenses get smudged.¡±


    ¡°Of course I¡¯ll look after it. Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Proud of you, girl.¡±


    Lill looked at Mick, smiling, and showed off the lenses and powder vials to him. ¡°Would you look at that?¡±


    ¡°A fine piece of kit.¡±


    Closing the box and setting it gently on her lap, she said, ¡°Now, Aunty, about the favor we came to ask you about¡­¡±


    ¡°Ever heard of looking a gift horse in the mouth?¡± said Sammy.


    ¡°Sometimes gift horses need their teeth inspecting. You know, to check for fillings and that kind of thing.¡±


    ¡°Smart arse.¡±


    ¡°So the thing is, Mick was on the program, too,¡± said Lill. ¡°And-¡±


    ¡°Oh? Congratulations,¡± said Sammy.


    ¡°He didn¡¯t pass.¡±


    ¡°Commiserations, then.¡±


    ¡°Mick scored in the top third on the physical and the exam, but Mother said it¡¯s a resource thing. There just aren¡¯t enough inspectors to go around. And without a mentor, you can¡¯t be on the program.¡±


    Sammy nodded. ¡°Yup. Always been like that, girl. At one point, I was mentoring three greeners at once while trying to solve the Striding Bank robbery of ¡®67. Barely got a wink of sleep that year. Can¡¯t imagine things have improved any since then.¡±


    ¡°We were wondering if maybe you¡¯d consider putting yourself forward as Mick¡¯s mentor. You know, so he can get on the program.¡±


    ¡°We were?¡± said Mick.


    Lill gave him the same shut up look as her mother had given her back at the station. He felt uncomfortable now, sitting there in the shack having ¨C even if by proxy ¨C just asked a perfect stranger for a favor. Asking for help was a sour medicine at the best of times. He¡¯d happily give help away, no problem there. If Lee, Nell, or Spruce knocked on his door at midnight and asked him to walk to Perentee to pick up a potato, he¡¯d tell them no problem, let me get my coat and a flask of tea. When it came to the other way around, though, he¡¯d rather pluck his nose hairs than ask for assistance.


    Luckily, Sammy made this easy for him. ¡°Nope. Don¡¯t have time,¡± she said.


    Mick took a sip of his tea. He couldn¡¯t say he was surprised. Lill, the saints bless her, had taken a long shot asking a retired person to help with the very thing they retired from. If you took a long shot, you couldn¡¯t moan when the wind swept your arrow off course.


    Despite his misgivings, he couldn¡¯t deny feeling just a tiny bit disappointed. He was beginning to like Sammy already. One thing he enjoyed was when people got themselves interested in something and then really dived into the details. The more niche the interest, the better. Like Phil Brownhill with his boats. She would have been a great person to learn from.


    Actually, the more he thought about it, the more he detected within himself a sense of disappointment that was close, if not equal to, his self-sufficiency. It surprised him to find it there in his core. Did part of me actually want her to say yes?


    It was true. No denying it. Putting his feelings under the magnifying glass, he saw that, actually, he might have liked Sammy to be his mentor. He understood why she had refused, but still.


    ¡°But you¡¯re retired,¡± said Lill. ¡°You have all the time in Easterly.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s okay, really. If I retired, the last thing I¡¯d want to do is start working again,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°This isn¡¯t work, it¡¯s just putting your name on a form.¡±


    Sammy leaned back against the counter. ¡°It¡¯s nothing against you, Mick. You seem like a nice bloke.¡±


    Right there and then, Mick decided to heck with it. He never asked folks for anything, and that hadn¡¯t gotten him very far up to now. Sure, still only a small part of him was comfortable asking for help, but a huge chunk of his inner being wanted to be a sleuth, an inspector, a detective. Which one, he didn¡¯t know yet, but certainly one of them. He wanted his own little box with a magnifying glass, fingerprinting set, and a few other trinkets inside. And if he wanted that, he was just going to have to swallow his pride. That was the choice ¨C get over his distaste for help, or forget being a sleuth.


    He held up his hands. ¡°Really, I get it. You put your time in, and now you want to fix your carts and carriages. Only, thing is, I think there¡¯s a way you can do that, and still help me out.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    Mick nodded, feeling optimistic now that she hadn¡¯t dismissed him outright. ¡°All I need is for you to submit your name as my mentor. Even retired inspectors can do that, can¡¯t they, Lill?¡±


    ¡°They can.¡±


    ¡°So put your name down on a form, that¡¯s all. You don¡¯t have to teach me nothing. All the skill trees, I¡¯ll earn them myself. All you have to do is give me twenty minutes or so when I earn a skill tree. You know, sign off that you¡¯ve seen me earn it, or whatever.¡±


    Sammy made a clicking sound with her tongue as she considered it. Absentmindedly, she put her hand in the biscuit jar, pulled out a gingernut, and ate it whole. After chewing, she shook her head.


    ¡°Still sounds like work. Sorry, Mick. I really am, but I¡¯ve done my time. All I want these days is a wrench in my hand and a cart that needs fixing.¡±


    Well, that was that, then. He supposed he could tour Striding looking for other retired inspectors who might sign their name to a form, but he couldn¡¯t imagine he¡¯d have much luck. This was the kind of career where you worked hard and put up with all the stress while keeping your eyes focused on the pension at the end. He guessed that most people, when they closed their fingerprint box for the last time, didn¡¯t even want to hear the word inspector ever again.


    Shame, because this arrangement would have worked. He was more than happy to do his studying and all the work by himself. Maybe he¡¯d prefer it, in fact. He¡¯d always been self-motivated. But, he guessed it wasn¡¯t to be.


    Or was it? What he needed was some bait for Sammy, and he thought he might have the perfect little worm.


    ¡°I don¡¯t suppose something called a ¡®Clarington Carriage¡¯ means anything to you, does it?¡±


    The look Sammy gave him wasn¡¯t merely suspicious. It was the kind he imagined she¡¯d use on someone who told her that the stolen diamonds in their house weren¡¯t theirs ¨C they were looking after them for a friend.


    ¡°Go on.¡±


    Mick deduced from the way she feigned disinterest while also fixing him with a steely gaze that a Clarington was rare, then. Or at least, it was something a carriage collector would be interested in.


    ¡°Maybe I know where you can pick one up cheap. Not dirt cheap, mind; the fella who owns it is a friend. But he¡¯ll be fair to you. I¡¯ve gotta say up front, if I¡¯m keeping my honor, that the thing is a wreck.¡±


    ¡°Let me get this straight,¡± said Sammy. ¡°What you¡¯re proposing is that I put my name down as your mentor, evaluate your work, fill in forms when needed and all that nonsense. If I do that, you¡¯ll tell me where I can get the Clarington?¡±


    ¡°Sounds like a fair deal, no?¡± said Mick.


    ¡°It does,¡± said Sammy, beginning to pace around the small shack, her right hand cupped around her cheek as she thought. ¡°However, I couldn¡¯t help noticing that you said ¡®he¡¯. So I know this friend of yours is a male. Typically, people stick within a certain range of their own age when making pals, and I¡¯d put you between thirty and forty.¡±


    ¡°What are you-¡±


    Sammy continued. ¡°Your accent. I¡¯d place it in the sticks somewhere. Not too far from here¡­maybe somewhere like Perentee. Or better yet, Sunhampton.¡±


    Mick didn¡¯t like where this was going. Not one bit.


    ¡°I haven¡¯t been to Sunhampton in years, but if there are more than five hundred people living there, then you can blow me over with a feather. Narrows our options a little, doesn¡¯t it? Places like that, all you have to do is buy the barman at the local tavern a drink, and you¡¯ll learn almost anything you want. Figure it would take me a trip on the commuter wagon and a few gold for a beer, and I¡¯d know where I can buy this Clarington.¡±


    It had happened so quickly that Mick felt he¡¯d just got caught in a windstorm. One minute he thought he had something, an advantage, bait wriggling on a hook, and the next, it was gone.


    Sammy leaned back against the counter. ¡°Of course, I could be wrong. I might go all that way and learn nothing.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not asking for much. Give me the bare minimum of administration. I¡¯ll do all the learning, everything else, myself.¡±


    She fixed him with a look she must have used a lot over the years. Mick felt his outer appearance being peeled back. Layer upon layer of himself seemed to fall away under her glare, until he couldn¡¯t shake the feeling that she was staring right at his inner being, at what comprised Mick Mulroon when you threw away all the debris accumulated over the years in the place of a personality.


    ¡°Put my name down as your mentor. When you earn a skill tree, come show me. I¡¯ll give your work a look over and sign it off. But that¡¯s all, mind. I¡¯m not going to teach you a damned thing. Unless it¡¯s about carts, wagons, and carriages, of course ¨C you¡¯re welcome to talk to me about those until the cows come home. How does that sound?¡±


    ¡°Earn the trees, bring them here for signing off. Got it. What about my class earning project?¡±


    ¡°Sleuths don¡¯t have those.¡±


    ¡°Every class has them. You earn five skill trees, then you have one more project to bring ¡®em all together.¡±


    Sammy shook her head. ¡°Never worked that way with us. There used to be, going back some, but you ever read about the Powder Plots?¡±


    Mick might not be as book learned as some, but he¡¯d been to school. He knew about the wave of plots ¨C some foiled, some unfortunately not - that spread through Easterly like crimson fever about two hundred and some change years ago. Some of the groups caught making explosive powder were revolutionaries, some of them just didn¡¯t like missing out on a trend.


    ¡°Queen Helena, she had her Grand Tokenmaker alter what it took to have inspectors and sleuths and the like fully classed and out on the streets. Needed as many of them as possible infiltrating groups and what have you. Quickest way to do that was to do away with class-earning projects.¡±


    ¡°So I can earn my five skill trees, then I¡¯m an inspector?¡±


    ¡°These days they have a graduation ceremony, but that¡¯s about the fit of it. Now, can we quit gabbing? You sort out the carriage for me, and I¡¯ll be a mentor. At least, on paper.¡±


    Mick only had to think about it for a second or two. ¡°About my pal with the carriage¡­I¡¯m not promising that he¡¯ll sell it. I¡¯d need to talk to him.¡±


    Sammy smiled. ¡°I think he will, Mick. Spruce Wilkinson wrote to me a week ago. Asked for my help restoring it. When I told him about the work involved, he wanted rid of it like it was a lump of toxic azterfelt.¡±


    ¡°You knew about the carriage all along?¡±


    ¡°This obviously means something to you,¡± said Sammy. ¡°And if Lill¡¯s sticking up for you, you must be a sound bloke. I didn¡¯t exactly soar my way into the program back when I was a greener, either. Not saying it¡¯s a fair system, but budgets are budgets, and we can only take the world as it comes, and if I can help out a little, then I¡¯ll do it. But remember what I said - I¡¯m not your damned mentor. I¡¯m a name that you write on a form. Got it?¡±


    ¡°Got it.¡±


    ¡°Oh. There is one thing I can give you, actually. Don¡¯t worry about dogearing the pages ¨C I don¡¯t want it back.¡±


    Item received: Starter Sleuthing, by S H Watson.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 20

    <h2>20</h2>


    Mick and Lill celebrated their success by going to Bennington Food Court, home to her favorite kebab shop in the whole of the city. Though it was the kind of chilly day that merited buttoning up your coat, the open plaza was still a nice place to be what with its generous number of artificed heaters and its paper-thin, transparent wind repellent barriers keeping the place nice and toasty.


    There were six different eateries surrounding the inner food court, all competing for the custom of hungry Full Striding folk. At the same time, they were fighting a different battle, too. The kebab shop ¨C Pete¡¯s Pittas ¨C had a sign that read, ¡®Please be nice to the cats.¡¯ They even left out saucers of milk for the strays to drink from. Whereas the adjoining grilled cheese eatery boasted an even bigger sign warning customers not to feed the stray felines.


    Mick didn¡¯t much like politics, but he sided with the grilled cheese folks on this issue. Striding had a stray moggy problem centered around its eateries. The damned things were breeding like they were trying to build an army, and they were always begging for scraps. It got so when you were ordering food, you practically had to factor in a portion for the cats, too, just so they¡¯d leave you alone.


    ¡°Sorry, Lill. Can¡¯t eat here. Need somewhere with fewer furballs hanging around.¡±


    ¡°They won¡¯t bother us once we shoo ¡®em away.¡±


    ¡°Maybe not, but give me another five minutes and the hives will start breaking out.¡±


    ¡°Dairy and cats?¡± said Lill. ¡°Saints above, you got dealt a rough hand.¡±


    Mick nodded. ¡°Sorry. Looks a nice place, but if we can find somewhere else¡­¡±


    ¡°Relax. I¡¯m exactly the same as you with grass and flowers. Do you know how much I hate people who don¡¯t have to worry about waking up on a sunny day with their eyes on fire? Sometimes, I walk past General Peter¡¯s Park and see people lounging on the grass, and I wish they¡¯d get set on by a bunch of bees or something. Oh ¨C bees. That¡¯s another on my list. You?¡±


    ¡°Not sure,¡± said Mick. ¡°Never been stung.¡±


    ¡°Anyhow, I can help,¡± she said, while sticking her hand in her pocket. She pulled out a vial half-filled with some purple powder inside it.


    Mick took out a vial of his own, only his powder was orange. ¡°Snap,¡± he said. ¡°But we¡¯re only meant to take this stuff if we trigger things off, you know, accidentally. It¡¯s not some kind of life jacket that lets you go swimming in fur and pollen.¡±


    ¡°No, no. Mine¡¯s a preventative. Take a pinch, and the moggies won¡¯t bother you one bit. Trust me.¡±


    Mick did want to eat here. The food smelled so delicious, and it¡¯d be great to just sit down outside somewhere without worrying and his throat starting to itch. It was funny, he supposed, how some people might just take it for granted. He always yearned to stroke a cat or pet a dog like any regular person would. The idea of being so carefree, it was a dream to him. Most people didn¡¯t think twice about it, but Mick would have given a kidney to be able to walk down a street, see a friendly pooch, and just kneel down and stroke it without thinking twice. Lill¡¯s offer was tempting. Real tempting. And that was what made him dubious.


    ¡°This stuff works?¡± he said.


    ¡°Mother got me an appointment with a healer who works with the guards sometimes. Everett Kieler. She¡¯s one of the best.¡±


    ¡°Is it prescription?¡±


    ¡°Nope. Anyone can use it.¡±


    ¡°Surprised I haven¡¯t heard of the stuff,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Healer Kieler¡¯s traveled some, and she does things a little differently than most of the quacks you find ¡®round here. Uses a lot of medicines you don¡¯t see in Easterly at all, come to that. Sit down, try it. Oh, come on, live a little! Oh, wait ¨C actually, exactly how bad is your allergy?¡±


    ¡°Sore eyes, that kind of thing.¡±


    ¡°Not really severe, then?¡±


    ¡°On the low end of the scale, I¡¯d say. There are people who have it worse.¡±


    ¡°Okay, good, this¡¯ll be fine then. If you had a really bad one, I wouldn¡¯t risk it. Not worth it. But if we¡¯re talking red eyes and a scratchy throat, this¡¯ll work a treat.¡±Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    ¡°Any side effects?¡± asked Mick.


    ¡°No. Just don¡¯t use it on the regular. Loses its effect.¡±


    What the heck, he thought. Maybe this was a time for doing things he wouldn¡¯t ordinarily do. A new chapter in a book where the tale was growing stale. Ever since he got back from traveling all those years ago, he¡¯d barely strayed even an inch from the routines that guided his daily life. Running twice per day. Eating meals at set times. There was safety in them, those habits, but also a hefty amount of finger twiddling. Not that he¡¯d actually felt bored, but now that he was changing things, he was more and more beginning to realize that the drudgery had been there.


    ¡°You¡¯re sure this stuff works?¡±


    ¡°On my honor,¡± said Lill. ¡°Trust me. The last thing I would ever do is lead my allergy buddy astray. If you had a headache and I offered some relief powder, would you take it?¡±


    ¡°Well, sure.¡±


    ¡°This is no different.¡±


    Lill handed the vial to him, and he took a pinch of the powder. It tasted chalky. She told him it¡¯d take fifteen or twenty minutes to start working, and that Pete served his kebabs up quicker than you¡¯d expect. Rather than order food straight away and have their food go cold, they took a quick walk around the block before heading back to the court.


    Fifteen or so minutes later, sitting at a table just off from the center of the court, Mick didn¡¯t feel different at all. Then, he realized that a cat was right behind him, perched on a flower pot. He didn¡¯t know how long it had been there, but his throat wasn¡¯t scratchy or anything.


    ¡°This stuff is amazing,¡± he said.


    ¡°Like I said, don¡¯t get used to it. Use it too often, and it stops working. Save it for when you, you know, need to go visit Uncle Stan at Yulthor or something, and he lives with twelve cats.¡±


    ¡°Does it work with dairy?¡±


    ¡°No, different kind of thing. Sorry. Now, this is on me. My treat.¡±


    ¡°You kidding? I owe you for introducing me to Mistress Lee.¡±


    ¡°Mistress Lee? She¡¯s Sammy. Or Aunt Sammy, if you really insist on being polite.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s my mentor now,¡± said Mick. ¡°Custom dictates I have to call her ¡®mistress.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Wonder who I¡¯ll get allocated to?¡±


    ¡°Your ma didn¡¯t fix it for you in advance?¡± said Mick.


    Lill shook her head. ¡°She said I¡¯m on my own. When I¡¯m in the station, she doesn¡¯t even know my name. I¡¯m just another greener looking for a token. I¡¯m Trainee Gill.¡±


    Two waiters made a beeline for their table at the same time, and only when the taller one reached them first did the other admit defeat and head back to the bar to await new diners.


    ¡°Are you ready to order?¡± asked the waiter.


    ¡°Four beers, my friend,¡± said Lill. ¡°It is happy hour, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right, madam.¡±


    ¡°Okay. We¡¯ll have four of your finest, coldest, brews, and I¡¯ll take the chili beef wrap.¡±


    ¡°Sir?¡±


    Mick ordered grilled chicken pieces served on a flatbread and layered with olive oil, onions, peppers, pomegranate, and generous helpings of spiced non-dairy yoghurt. It was so delicious he could have inhaled it within a second, but since he had company, he forced himself to eat slower. That used to be a problem  for him, finishing his meal before the person he was dining with and then having to sit there fidgeting awkwardly and sipping on his water.


    ¡°Why are you eating like that?¡± said Lill, taking a huge bite out of her burger.


    ¡°Like what?¡±


    ¡°Little mouthfuls, like you¡¯re a bird feeding its chicks.¡±


    ¡°You know what? You¡¯re right,¡± said Mick. He cut off a giant portion of his flatbread, piled it with chicken, peppers, and onions, and stuffed it in his mouth.


    As they ate, Lill told him a little more about what it was like growing up with a high ranking city guard inspector as a mother. The late callouts, the long hours. Sometimes, she wouldn¡¯t see her mother for two or three days at a time. Since her father had skipped out long ago, that meant Lill had to look after herself on the odd occasion.


    Mick had wanted to learn more about her pa, but didn¡¯t want to ask. Maybe she could read that in his expression or maybe she was just feeling talkative, but she told him anyhow. Turned out that her father got caught fudging the numbers in some of the books he looked after as an accountant. Brenda Glass hadn¡¯t wanted to divorce him even then, after what he did, but it was either do that or lose her career. After all, a high ranking inspector married to a fraudster? Didn¡¯t really work out, did it?


    Lucas Gill served his time in Striding jail. He went in as a greedy accountant who got caught because he was a bad criminal and got careless, and he came out as the appointed ¡®numbers man¡¯ for a group of brigands called the Lovely Lads, whose name was drenched in irony. Assessing targets, pricing up loot, dealing with fences who¡¯d get rid of it for them ¨C that was the purview of the new Lucas Gill. And why not? It wasn¡¯t like he could work as a legit accountant anymore.


    Lill hadn¡¯t seen him since visiting him in jail one afternoon. That had been an experience she didn¡¯t want to repeat, and so she hadn¡¯t. Since then, the man had been a phantom. She was thinking of changing her name, getting rid of the ¡®Gill¡¯ and replacing it with ¡®Glass¡¯.


    She took a glug of beer. ¡°But anyway, forget him. I want to get something straight. All that stuff about me being home alone. Before you go thinking Mother was neglectful, she always had our neighbor, Linda Carlisle, look in on me. And she left plenty of gold for me to go order food. Also, we had our two wolfhounds, Shep and Mep, the saints rest their slobbering souls.¡±


    ¡°Wolfhounds, huh? A fella I know keeps a bunch of them.¡±


    ¡°Lovely animals. They could tear a person¡¯s head clean off if they wanted to, but if they like you, then that¡¯s that. You¡¯re in their pack for life. So, it wasn¡¯t all that bad. Aunt Sammy always checked in on me, too. Even if she was working.¡±


    ¡°Sounds like inspectors, sleuths, detectives, they¡¯re always working. What are we getting ourselves into?¡±


    Lill stabbed a fried potato with her fork. ¡°You¡¯ll be okay. Can¡¯t imagine much happening in a place like Sunhampton except maybe a loaf of bread going missing.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d be surprised. I had to solve a kidnapping recently.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± said Lill.


    ¡°Well, it was of a pig. A pignapping. But still¡­¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 21

    <h2>21</h2>


    After lunch, they took a meandering route through the city to walk off their food. When they reached Elmshore East station, Lill said they had to part ways, since she was hardly going to walk into the station and risk seeing her mother after drinking four beers. Mick was thankful he¡¯d stuck to lemon and lime cordial.


    ¡°Thanks for everything today,¡± he said, offering his hand.


    Rather than shake it, Lill gave him a hug. When they separated, she said, ¡°Sorry. I get overly familiar after a beer or two. Tell me when it gets too much.¡±


    Mick laughed. ¡°You alright getting home?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a teenager. Besides, I know the city miles better than you do. I¡¯m getting a cart to the Thatch and Thistle, meeting my pals there.¡±


    ¡°Alright then,¡± he said, feeling uncomfortable with goodbyes and not really knowing what to say. ¡°Well¡­stay safe.¡±


    ¡°You too. Don¡¯t let my mother give you one of her stares. And if she tries it, just remember that she¡¯s all bluster. She can glare all she wants, but there¡¯s not much else she can do. I was six years old when I realized that fact, and I still remember the look of fear in mother¡¯s eyes.¡±


    If Mick was expecting some kind of ceremony now that he had a mentor signed up, then he was mistaken. Striding guard budgets being what they were, he was lucky that Chief Inspector Glass could spare him any time at all. As it was, she made him wait for twenty-three minutes outside her office while she finished a meeting she was having with two other inspectors named Fargill and Gurt.


    ¡°Check in with Alan Barley at the Grape Stem,¡± she said to the departing inspectors. ¡°Get back to me when you have. If anyone¡¯s heard a whisper about the cart, then it¡¯s Barley.¡±


    ¡°Righto, boss.¡±


    ¡°And do your damned paperwork when you get back to the station, when it¡¯s fresh, Gurt. I¡¯m sick to my back teeth of your fuzzy reports.¡±


    ¡°Yes, boss.¡±


    Glass smiled at Mick, but it was more of a I¡¯m trying my best to be polite, but I can¡¯t keep up the veneer for long kind of smile. ¡°So?¡±


    Once settled in her chair behind her desk in her office, Glass half listened to him whilst scribbling something down in a ledger. Forms, forms, forms, she said. That was her life these days. Mick explained how they¡¯d gone to see Sammy Lee and she¡¯d agreed to act as his mentor for the token program. He didn¡¯t feel any need to go into particulars, so didn¡¯t mention the carriage incentive he¡¯d had to dangle to earn her cooperation, nor the fact that Sammy was his mentor in name only.


    When he was finished telling her, he wasn¡¯t actually sure if Glass had been listening. It was possible she hadn¡¯t heard a word from how she still scribbled away in her book. After writing one more word ¨C CLOSED - and then drawing a line underneath whatever she¡¯d been writing, she looked up.


    ¡°Sammy is retired.¡±


    ¡°Aye, I know. That doesn¡¯t stop her being a mentor.¡±


    ¡°You do know that Sammy and I go way back?¡± said Glass.


    ¡°Lill told me.¡±


    ¡°Ah, well, you don¡¯t want to let that one lead you astray, trust me. Trainee Gill may have overstepped her mark somewhat here, but nevertheless, I did tell you that we had spare tokens, didn¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°You did.¡±


    ¡°Then I¡¯ll honor my word. Michael Mulroon ¨C you are now a trainee in the Full Striding, Elmshore East station token program. Congratulations, well done, and all of that.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    ¡°Tell me, how did you get Sammy to agree? No, don¡¯t say it. Let me think¡­something to do with a cart, no doubt. They¡¯re the only bloody things she¡¯s interested in these days. What was it? Did you¡­no, no, don¡¯t tell me¡­.I wonder, did you tell her where she could locate another damned cart to buy and store in the old scrap yard?¡±You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Mick made a mental note to remember, when dealing with fellow sleuths, inspectors, and detectives, how perceptive they were. All you had to tell them was a single ingredient and they could figure out what you had for dinner.


    ¡°We came to an arrangement,¡± he said.


    ¡°Instigated by Trainee Gill, no doubt. Well, let¡¯s get down to it. I ought to send you to see Sergeant Nichols to do this, but I find him infuriating. Since you¡¯re here, we¡¯ll just get it done. Lucky you, eh? The chief inspector of the station filling in a form for you.¡±


    ¡°The saints have truly blessed me.¡±


    Glass eyed him like he¡¯d just confessed to stealing biscuits from the station lounge, then turned her attention back to the form. ¡°Name? Well, we know that. Michael Mulroon.¡±


    ¡°Michael James Mulroon.¡±


    ¡°Address?¡±


    ¡°Fifty Six Hilda¡¯s Hill Road, Sunhampton, PO: 63662.¡±


    ¡°Next of kin?¡±


    ¡°Ma,¡± said Mick.


    Glass fixed him a look of contempt. ¡°I¡¯ve had very little sleep, Mick.¡±


    ¡°Sorry. Sheila Mulroon.¡±


    On and on they went, working their way through the labyrinth that called itself a form. Mick thought it would never end. All he wanted to do was get his tokens and get the heck out of there, go back to Sunhampton where you could walk the streets without feeling overwhelmed, and where you didn¡¯t have to take a pinch of allergy powder before you ate somewhere.


    Brenda Glass forged ahead, asking him about allergies, health conditions, and that sort of thing. Those questions were fair enough. Then there were ones that hardly seemed relevant to him at all ¨C names of childhood friends, how many cousins he had. That sort of thing. He answered purely to get it over with.


    ¡°Right,¡± said Glass, jabbing the clicker end of her pen on the form as if to punctuate reaching its conclusion. ¡°Just one more question, Trainee Mulroon. Sleuth, detective, or inspector?¡±


    He¡¯d discussed this with Sammy in the scrap yard, and he¡¯d talked it over with Lill at the kebab caf¨¦. Lots of lip flapping, and he was still nowhere close to an answer.


    The way he saw it, there was no right choice, but no wrong choice either. All three options had the same skill trees to earn before you got the class ¨C Observation, Deduction, Interrogation, Forensics, and Stealth & Tracking. At the core of things, there was no difference. You had to earn all five trees before the class was yours.


    The choice came with the subtleties within the skill trees. A sleuth was better at skill tree abilities that involved empathy, such as detecting lies, and judging the best way to question a witness. They carried much less authority, however, and couldn¡¯t count on taking charge of an investigation or interrogation through sheer presence alone.


    An inspector was the opposite ¨C when they walked into a room, folks paid attention. But if the job required getting along with people, then inspectors were already starting the race five paces behind.


    Then there was the detective choice. Forensics was where they excelled. Extracting information from fingerprints, that kind of thing. Sleuths and inspectors could still do this, but detectives did it better. This gave them a slight disadvantage in their empathy and authority, though.


    ¡°Are you allowed to give me advice?¡± asked Mick.


    ¡°I¡¯m allowed to do anything I want, this is my station,¡± said Glass. ¡°But it¡¯s a personal decision. Any advice I gave would be useless the minute the words left my mouth.¡±


    ¡°How did you choose?¡±


    ¡°I was rash, I just said the first thing that came to mind.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡±


    Glass nodded. ¡°Back then, yes. A certain hesitancy has set into my bones as I¡¯ve aged, and I take a more measured view of things. But once upon a time¡­well, let¡¯s say Lill ¨C Trainee Gill ¨C gets her impulsivity from somewhere.¡±


    Mick didn¡¯t want to just blurt out his choice and be stuck with it. Nor did he want to sit here all day. Sunhampton was calling to him, and he was aching to go home. But how could he decide? He thought he¡¯d already decided this a while ago. Detective ¨C that was what he¡¯d told himself he would pick. Only now, something about that didn¡¯t feel right.


    Maybe the best way to decide was to think about how he was actually going to use the skill trees that he gained. Where would he be working, for example? The normal process was that when someone earned their class, they would get assigned to a station to start their career. That seemed like a way away yet, but Mick was confident he¡¯d find a means to get them to let him keep working as Sunhampton¡¯s head of guards, albeit with an actual salary.


    So, clearly, he needed to remember that the cases he got, the crimes he¡¯d investigate, the mysteries he would solve, would be nothing like what inspectors in Striding had to deal with. Stolen pigs, missing garden gnomes. Those were the kinds of cases that would land on his desk, assuming they gave him an expense budget to buy a desk. Which of the three choices fit best with that?


    Empathy. That was the way of it. Sunhampton as a town was all about the people, and a good guard had to build a solid network of relationships to get anywhere in a place like that.


    ¡°Sleuth,¡± he said.


    ¡°You¡¯re sure?¡±


    ¡°Yup. I make a decision, and that¡¯s that. You can build a house on it, it¡¯s so set in stone.¡±


    Glass scribbled on her paper, set the pen down, and then offered him her hand. ¡°Trainee Mulroon, on behalf of the Full Striding guard force, I would like to welcome you to our token training program.¡±


    Mick didn¡¯t bother trying to hide the smile forming on his lips. Why should he? Better to just enjoy the moment. He couldn¡¯t resist adding, however, ¡°Thank you very much, Chief Inspector Glass. Now, who do I talk to about expenses?¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 22

    <h2>22  </h2>


    Brenda Glass scribbled a few words on a small slip of card, signed it at the bottom with an illegible swirl, and told Mick to present it to Sergeant Smallhands over at the station inventory. Better be quick, she told him, Luke Smallhands closed shop at four o¡¯clock for his daily stock take.


    The inventory was on the other side of the building, meaning Mick had to navigate his way through a series of corridors and walk by offices where constables, sergeants, and inspectors were busy keeping this district of Full Striding safe. Some of the inspectors were sitting alone at desks battling their way through piles of paperwork, while others gathered in groups in front of chalkboards. He caught stray words as he passed open doorways.


    ¡°Hindle, Butcher - need you to door knock on Crease Street, see if we can¡¯t find out who our mystery tavern man was.¡±


    ¡°No. Sorry, Bill. Just don¡¯t see it. Why would anyone possibly-¡±


    ¡°What? Are you telling me you let him take a carriage to-¡±


    Mick knew he must have looked a bit stupid, smiling as he walked through the station. If there had been any more of a spring in his step, he¡¯d probably have smashed right through the roof. He didn¡¯t even mind when he walked past the break room and heard someone say ¡°Come here, Greener, got a case for you. The Riddle of the Missing Biscuits,¡± prompting a laugh from the other constables they were with.


    Mick swatted their mockery like summer midgeflies. Today, nothing could pour water on his campfire. Not when he was clutching a letter in his hand that entitled him to five blank skill tokens. I¡¯m officially on the sleuth token training program. Give it a year, maybe less, and I¡¯ll be a fully classed sleuth.


    Mick couldn¡¯t wait to show Ma his own five blank skill tokens. And Spruce, Nell, and Lee, of course. They¡¯d want to see them, even though they all had tokens of their own. Hell, he felt like he wanted to show the whole town.


    No, need to be more discreet, he told himself. Folks will know I¡¯m earning the class, no hiding it in a town like ours. But they might start acting weird around me if I go around singing about it.


    He got to the inventory two minutes before Sergeant Smallhands was closing it for the day. Smallhands wasn¡¯t just one person, though; the inventory was actually operated by Sergeant Small and Sergeant Hands, and everyone called them Smallhands because they were never separated, not even after work.


    ¡°Can I see your slip?¡± asked Sergeant Small.


    Mick handed him the card that Glass had given him.


    ¡°No, no, no. This won¡¯t do. You¡¯re in the wrong place.¡±


    ¡°I am?¡± said Mick.


    ¡°You want Sergeant Hands. He deals with issuing equipment. I deal with evidence.¡±


    ¡°But you¡¯re sharing the same counter.¡±


    ¡°Sorry. I don¡¯t make the rules.¡±


    Mick took one step to the right and handed his card to the short, bald-headed man standing right next to Sergeant Small. He studied the card.


    ¡°A three-slot token bracelet, five blank skill tokens, and a poor-rated sleuth kit. Hold on a moment.¡±


    ¡°Poor-rated?¡± said Mick.


    ¡°You¡¯re lucky you get that. Our budget¡¯s tighter than a mage¡¯s arse when it¡®s his turn to buy a round. Greeners ¨C if you¡¯ll forgive the expression ¨C get the poor-rated kit. A promotion or two in rank and you¡¯ll get something better. Of course, you could always buy your own. No law against that, is there, Sergeant Small?¡±


    ¡°No, Sergeant Hands. There isn¡¯t.¡±


    Mick thought about taking a few gold coins out of his pouch and asking if Hands could take another look, see if maybe there was a better rated piece of kit that he¡¯d overlooked. But then, bribing a superior in a guard station, on his first day? Not a good look.


    Hands was gone for a few minutes, lost amidst the rows upon rows of various pieces of equipment and tat. Mick caught sight of boxes filled with uniforms, handcuffs, and lots and lots of notepads.


    ¡°Going anywhere nice this summer?¡± asked Sergeant Small.


    ¡°Don¡¯t think so. I reckon I¡¯ll be busy trying to get my tokens. You?¡±


    ¡°Oh, well, I¡¯ve been saving up my leave, and I¡¯m just going to go to Striding station and jump on a wagon for the Cove. Spend a few days there and then see where life takes me.¡±


    Mick couldn¡¯t help noticing that Sergeant Small had used the correct term for the commuter wagon. Until a day ago, Mick ¨C like most of Easterly ¨C would have just said cart. From this, he could deduce that either Small knew a thing or two about wagons, or had just learned the correct parlance somewhere. This insight probably meant nothing, but this was the thing with sleuthing ¨C the more knowledge you amassed, the more connections you made. You never knew when one would be the hammer blow that cracked the case open.


    Hands returned with a small, rectangular box with five blank skill tokens inside, a bigger box that contained a poor-rated sleuth kit, and a leather strapped token bracelet that bore scuffs and scratches, suggesting Mick wasn¡¯t its first owner.


    ¡°Don¡¯t lose ¡®em,¡± said Hands. ¡°You lose ¡®em, then I¡¯m sorry, my friend, but you¡¯re playing Hangjack Twist with a deck of ones. Don¡¯t come crying to me about wanting replacements, because our budget¡¯s shut tighter than a clam¡¯s arse.¡±This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The bracelet didn¡¯t fit around his wrist that well. Seemed to have been made for a much bigger-wristed person. Mick had to use a pen to jab an extra hole through the leather to get it tight enough. Hands was clearly unhappy watching Mick do this, but he wasn¡¯t going to wear a token bracelet that hung off his wrist.


    The tokens, each only slightly bigger than a copper coin, were where all his earned experience would go. Each of his skill trees had a different requirement in order for him to earn them, and if Mick did the work, his tokens would soak it all in and eventually become proper skill tree tokens.


    ¡°The hard work starts now,¡± Sergeant Small said as he watched Mick strap on his bracelet. ¡°Getting enrolled on the program is one thing, but now you¡¯ve got to earn your supper.¡±


    And how would Mick do that? Well, the same way as every sleuth, inspector, or detective. By earning experience through solving mysteries. The techniques he employed to solve the mysteries would decide which of his skill trees leveled up. Bit by bit, puzzle by puzzle, he¡¯d earn all the skills he needed to be a sleuth, good and proper.


    From where he was in the station now, the only way to leave it was by circling back clockwise and going through the reception area. Mick found his way there, and was just crossing through reception and toward the street-facing door, when he overheard something that made him pause.


    Sergeant Nichols wasn¡¯t on shift now. It was the pink-haired lady standing behind the desk. She was talking to a young girl, maybe a teenager, though he could only see the back of her, and she was wearing a cap that covered most of her head. Standing next to the girl was a guard constable.


    It seemed like they were in the middle of booking the girl in for something. He wondered what kind of crime she could possibly have committed. Whatever it was, his instincts were flaring now. There was something about that girl¡­.


    ¡°Any health conditions we should be aware of?¡± asked the sergeant.


    ¡°I get tired easily,¡± she said, yawning loudly. The yawn stretched on for much longer than its natural lifespan.


    The sergeant was silent for a moment, before grunting and saying, ¡°Do you realize the trouble you¡¯re in? This isn¡¯t a game.¡±


    ¡°It was a cone of fried potatoes, that¡¯s all,¡± said the girl.


    A cold shiver ran through Mick. He knew that voice!


    ¡°Zip?¡± he said.


    The girl turned around, and sure enough, it was Zip, his thirteen year old niece. She was taller than a lot of kids her age, but that height came with an awkward teenage gangliness. Her thick, horse chestnut brown hair was hidden under her cap, as always, and Mick couldn¡¯t help noticing that she wasn¡¯t wearing her Sunhampton school uniform. The constable standing beside her was holding her school rucksack, which was covered in black ink shapes Zip had drawn all over it.


    The rucksack looks like it''s so full it was hard to even close it, thought Mick. It doesn¡¯t just have her school books in there; her uniform¡¯s stuffed inside it as well. She must have left home this morning and then changed into her regular clothes.


    ¡°Uncle Mick?¡± Zip said. ¡°You¡¯ve got to help me. They¡¯re saying I¡¯m a thief.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s ¡®cos you are,¡± said the constable. ¡°I saw you with my own eyes.¡±


    ¡°Well, yeah. But you¡¯re forgetting the circumstances. There were circumstances.¡±


    ¡°Such as?¡±


    Zip thought about it, drumming her fingers on the counter. ¡°Well, the way the economy is going. Employment in this part of Easterly is falling. How do you think that looks to us kids? Not knowing what we¡¯ll do when we¡¯re older?¡±


    ¡°Book her in, please, Sergeant Wiles.¡±


    ¡°Can someone explain what¡¯s going on here?¡± asked Mick.


    The constable eyed him. ¡°Solicitor, are you?¡±


    Mick held up his right arm to show his token bracelet. His tokens were blank, of course, so the gesture was mostly symbolic. ¡°Mick Mulroon, Head of Sunhampton guards, trainee on the sleuth program.¡±


    ¡°Really?¡± said Zip. ¡°Congratulations, Uncle Mick!¡±


    ¡°Shut it, you.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t talk to her like that,¡± said Mick. ¡°Whatever¡¯s going on here we can straighten it out.¡±


    The constable, clearly irked at Mick¡¯s interference, said, ¡°If we were in Suncrapton, I¡¯d listen. But Striding market¡¯s my beat, and I caught Quick Hands here pinching a cone of fried potatoes. Book her in, please, sergeant. Throw away the key.¡±


    Mick wished he could say it was a surprise. Zip had never been caught shoplifting before, but if there was any other trouble a kid could get into, then she¡¯d sought it out. Mick blamed her ancestry; when he was doing the family tree for Ma, he¡¯d discovered a theme among the Mulroons, whereby every other generation spawned a troublemaker. There was Old Fell Mary, who¡¯d burned down a church. Tulip Mulroon, who¡¯d spent her whole life conning the state by claiming benefits for five children that didn¡¯t exist. The list went back hundreds of years.


    So far, Zip¡¯s hijinks were mostly playing truant from school, chalking rude pictures on the side of Percy Tattersall¡¯s store, and throwing eggs at Spruce Wilkinson¡¯s window. Stuff that didn¡¯t leave lasting damage, but could be a slippery slope. Was Zip this generation¡¯s rogue Mulroon? Well, she was actually a Lade, given her father¡¯s surname, but still, there was Mulroon blood in her.


    With her father gone, it was Mick who was going to have to step up. He¡¯d been too lax, he realized. Too wrapped up in his own life. He needed to be a better uncle.


    ¡°Look, don¡¯t book her in,¡± he said. ¡°She lives in Sunhampton, and as I said, I¡¯m the head of guards there. Let me take her back to her ma.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s a thief. She needs booking.¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s a first-time offender under the age of sixteen, and we¡¯ve discretion in how we deal with her. Come on, now. Are we really going to go through the trouble of putting her in a cell and getting her poor, hardworking single mother to come all the way here to collect her?¡±


    ¡°No skin off my nose.¡±


    The constable was clearly having a bad day. Mick didn¡¯t blame him; working the Striding market was probably a tough assignment, and it didn¡¯t help that Zip could be a real pain in the arse sometimes. If only his niece would look just a little bit contrite, it might ease matters. He guessed it also didn¡¯t help that he¡¯d stepped in and put the constable¡¯s nose out of joint. Had he undermined the fella¡¯s authority? That was a sure way to get things off on the wrong foot.


    Mick took a step back, both metaphorically and physically. ¡°Look, you know best. All I¡¯m saying is, book her in for this, and you¡¯re staying behind an extra thirty minutes after your shift to write her up.¡±


    ¡°It is beef casserole night. And Graham makes the best casserole in Easterly,¡± he said.


    ¡°Exactly. If I escort her to Sunhampton and have a word with her mother, then we¡¯re acting to the letter of the law, aren¡¯t we? If a minor with no priors is caught in the act of a minor-ranked crime, we have discretion in how we deal with it, which includes a conversation with a parent or guardian.¡±


    ¡°Ooh, someone¡¯s been reading up,¡± said the sergeant.


    It would have been ridiculous to Mick that a guard knowing their own regulations was seen as novel, but nothing about the Striding guards surprised him anymore. Whatever ideals he¡¯d had of them just a couple of days ago were long gone.


    ¡°What do you say? You go home and have casserole with Graham, and I take this brat back to Sunhampton.¡±


    The constable thought about it, then answered, ¡°Fine, but if I see her on my market on a school day again, I¡¯ll make sure she spends the rest of her sorry life-¡±


    Mick could see Zip rolling her eyes in his peripheral vision, so he tapped her shoulder and gestured toward the exit. Before she could find a way to make things any worse, the pair of them made their way out of the station and headed toward the commuter cart station.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 23

    <h2>23</h2>


    ¡°Well? Got anything to say?¡± he asked, as they sat opposite one another on the cart.


    Zip was sitting with her school knapsack on her lap. At least, he assumed it was her school knapsack. Could have been filled to the brim with stolen diamonds, for all he knew. This being the late afternoon cart, every seat but two was filled with workers heading back to Sunhampton after a hard day in the city. There was Bertie Russel, who worked at Striding Central Bank maintaining the vault and safety deposit boxes. Lucy Sanders-Walker, a trainee scribe who was earning her token at the Striding Star, a salacious newspaper that was usually filled front to back with rumors and tattle. Other faces that Mick had seen around town, but couldn¡¯t put a name to.


    ¡°I¡¯m very proud of you, Uncle Mick. Getting on the program. Just think, you¡¯ll be a fully classed inspector someday soon.¡±


    ¡°Sleuth,¡± he said, ¡°Good, ain¡¯t it? But don¡¯t change the subject. What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°I was just hungry, and the fried potato vendor probably throws lots of unsold potatoes out at the end of the day. All that food going to waste, day after day. It¡¯s terrible, don¡¯t you think?¡±


    ¡°Not something I particularly like,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°It¡¯s a crime. They ought to be arresting him, not me.¡±


    ¡°I hate throwing perfectly good food away as much as the next person, believe me, but that wasn¡¯t your choice to make. What¡¯re you doing all the way here in Striding on a school day, anyhow? Where¡¯s your uniform?¡±


    ¡°School trip. We¡¯re allowed casual clothes on trip days.¡±


    That caught him off guard. It was almost plausible. When he went to Sunhampton School, they¡¯d gone on all sorts of trips. Hardcastle Textile Museum, the Hattersdale Gardens. He distinctly remembered never having to wear his uniform on those days. This made him worry, though. Was Zip¡¯s teacher in the city right now, frantically searching for her after doing a headcount and coming up one pupil short?


    Something about his niece¡¯s expression made him shove those doubts away. He leaned forward and said, ¡°Look your uncle in the eyes and tell him that you were on a class trip today.¡±


    Zip stared at him with her big, brown eyes and said, ¡°I was on a class trip today.¡±


    Incredible. She can lie right to my face like that, and not even blink.


    ¡°Then your Ma will remember signing a permission slip for it, won¡¯t she?¡± he said.


    ¡°She¡¯s busy¡­¡±


    Mick¡¯s sister, Kiera, was certainly busy. No doubting that. She worked at a farmer¡¯s agricultural store in Perentee during the day, and she was studying towards her solicitor¡¯s tokens at night. Sometimes, she covered a shift or two at the King¡¯s Head, as well. The poor woman barely got a chance to sit down. Mick had bought her an artificed lounge chair from Lewis Cooper for her last birthday. It was supposed to mold itself around her to be as comfy as possible. He''d be surprised if she¡¯d let herself sit down on it even once.


    School trips, a busy mother. It was possible. This was what made Zip so dangerous, he realized. She didn¡¯t just tell lies; she layered them with the truth. Master that skill, and you could get away with anything. Unless she applied her lying ability in a job where it was accepted if not expected, like politics or journalism, she was going down a dark road.


    ¡°Your ma isn¡¯t so busy she¡¯d forget where you¡¯re supposed to be,¡± he said. ¡°Especially if it was a school trip. You know how I know?¡±


    ¡°Because you know everything?¡±


    ¡°Your ma and me went on a trip to Fullridge Park with school, and she got too close to a nest of bees and got stung all over. There¡¯s no way in heck she¡¯d just sign away a permission slip for a trip without looking carefully at where you were going.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Well¡­¡±


    ¡°Zip, come on. Just tell me. You¡¯re already caught. Lying hardly makes it better, does it?¡±


    She crossed her arms. ¡°I didn¡¯t go to school this morning. I paid for a seat on the commuter cart. Happy?¡±


    ¡°Wagon.¡±


    ¡°Whatever. I came here and messed around a bit. Okay? Is that a crime?¡±


    ¡°Truanting might not be illegal, Zip, but stealing fried potatoes is, yeah. That¡¯s why I bumped into you at Elmshore East station.¡±


    Just then, something strange happened. A flash of yellow light caught his gaze, and words started to drift out from his token bracelet, knitting themselves into the air before his very eyes. He was caught off guard for only a moment, though; he knew about token text and how people saw it when they got new ranking and what not. It was just that he¡¯d never seen it for himself except for in an illustration in a school text book.


    Experience towards Simple Interrogation skill tree


    You have learned information from a witness or perpetrator [1/20]


    Mick pushed up his sleeve and stared at his token bracelet in wonder. Incredible how these tokens see what I do and tell me what experience I get. All I need to do is coax information out of nineteen more people, and I¡¯ll get the Simple Interrogation skill tree.


    He suddenly had the desire to talk to everyone on the wagon, even though commuters generally wanted to be left alone to destress after a hard day¡¯s work, or to just snooze until they got home. Maybe their reluctance to talk would help him satisfy his skill tree requirements.


    Then again, the token text said he needed to get information from a reluctant witness or perpetrator. Nothing had been witnessed or perpetrated here on the wagon, had it?


    Besides, there was still Zip to deal with. He wanted to be a good uncle. He wanted her to be able to come to him when she needed something. Saints knew she needed a role model. Kiera was who Zip really ought to look up to, of course, but she was really busy, and Mick felt a kid needed a role model besides their parent. For him, it had been his geography teacher, Mrs. Clyde. When Mick was struggling at school, she¡¯d pushed him. Maybe that was what Zip was lacking.


    Thing was, as much as Mick wanted to be on Zip¡¯s side, he also had a duty to tell his sister about this. No getting around that.


    ¡°Uncle Mick,¡± she said, leaning forward. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I know it was wrong.¡±


    He couldn¡¯t tell if she meant it, or if she was playing him. That was the problem with Zip. She could be a lovely kid, an absolute diamond sometimes. But you never knew when to trust her.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°I suggest you save all this for your mother. She¡¯s gonna want an explanation.¡±


    ¡°Only if you tell her.¡±


    ¡°It ain¡¯t my decision to tell her or not. I have to, it¡¯d be irresponsible otherwise. That¡¯s that.¡±


    ¡°Call yourself an uncle?¡± she said.


    Mick couldn¡¯t help feeling like some unseen assassin had slipped a dagger between his ribs and really wiggled it around to get it wedged in all nice and tight. Part of him knew you shouldn¡¯t give credence to the words of a kid who was lashing out, but even stray arrows accidentally hit the right mark sometimes. His thoughts strayed to his bag by his feet, to the birthday present in there that was already late.


    Then, a different part of him, somewhere along the path of his sleuth¡¯s logical side, waved a hand and got his attention. She¡¯s playing you again, it told him.


    ¡°You¡¯re not sorry at all, are you?¡± he said.


    Caught in her lies, Zip folded her arms to form a barrier around herself. ¡°Have you been to school lately, Uncle Mick? It¡¯s ridiculous. Concentrate in class, don¡¯t swear. They ask too much. And the teachers are lazy. They don¡¯t care. They ought to pay me to go there.¡±


    ¡°Saints alive. You¡¯re going down the wrong path, girl, and your mother¡­¡±


    ¡°She won¡¯t notice.¡±


    ¡°Now, that¡¯s not fair. She works hard.¡±


    Zip said nothing, and Mick found himself with not a word further to say, either. They sat there in a state of impasse as the wagon rolled along the travelers¡¯ roads toward Sunhampton.


    The wagon stopped abruptly, and with the absence of the sound of the wagon wheels turning came the yelling of an extremely loud curse. Fearing road bandits ¨C a rare but not completely inexistent threat ¨C Mick told Zip to stay there and climbed through the gap in the tarpaulin and out of the wagon.


    Outside in the brisk, evening air, he saw that there were no road bandits around. The problem was that the carriage¡¯s front-left wheel had broken. It had split in two near the top, rendering it completely useless.


    He was about to ask the driver what had happened, when something gave him pause. He remembered the token text he¡¯d gotten after getting Zip to tell the truth, and wondered if maybe this was an opportunity to boost one of his other tokens.


    Time for some deduction and observation, he thought. What¡¯s happened here, then? Let¡¯s see. Wheel¡¯s split in two. Only one wheel looks damaged, though. The others are fine. It¡¯s either mechanical failure, or it ran over something on the road.


    Mick had never heard of a mechanical failure that would cause a wheel to split in half. That made no sense. Thing was, there was nothing in the road that he could see that might have caused such damage, either.


    Ahead of him, the driver hopped down from his seat. He was on the older side of things but looked sprightly enough for it, and he supplemented his long, gray-brown hair with a beard like an untamed shrub. Hanging out of the back pocket of his dungarees was a handkerchief covered in black stains. It had his initials embroidered in the corner ¨C B.D. After a quick check in with his horses, he attended to the wheel, kneeling beside it with the look of a man who¡¯d already had a long day, and by the saints¡¯ beards, he really didn¡¯t need this.


    ¡°What do you know, busted to heck and back,¡± he said.


    ¡°Wagons always have a spare, don¡¯t they?¡± asked Mick.


    ¡°This is the spare. Had to change a wheel on the way to Striding. Shoulda bought a new one there, but they charge a fortune, an¡¯ I thought I¡¯d make it back to ¡®hampton. Got half a dozen spares in my workshop ¨C don¡¯t see why I should fork out. Just my luck. Ever heard of a fella getting struck by lightning twice in one day?¡±


    ¡°My cousin Scott stood in two cow pats in one morning. And that was in the Hattersdale Museum of Fine Art. To this day we have no idea what happened.¡±


    ¡°Well, say a prayer and call the priest - this wheel¡¯s seen its last.¡±


    Mick joined him by the wheel, standing over his shoulder. Gaining no further information from his current stance, he knelt down beside the wheel just like the driver was doing. Everyone knew that if something was broken and you knelt by it, your odds of diagnosing the fault were instantly doubled. Just one of those magical, unexplainable facts of life.


    He was no crafter, but up close, even he could see that the spare wheel¡¯s wood looked completely different to the other wheels. It was a duller color, even green from the spread of moss in places, and it was as brittle as a cracker. This thing would have been better served as a rustic garden ornament, rather than supporting a commuter cart.


    This didn¡¯t make a lick of sense. Most carriage drivers in Easterly were self-employed. Every journey they missed was like throwing gold coins in a river. He couldn¡¯t imagine any driver using a spare wheel that was in such a terrible state.


    ¡°That spare¡­it looks like it got submerged in water then dried out,¡± he said.


    ¡°Saints damn me for trying to save a coin or two,¡± said the driver. ¡°Repairs come out of my own pocket, you know. There was this fella in Larking. He was selling wagon wheels for cheap. Bought me half a dozen of them, I did.¡±


    Mick, a veteran coin-pincher, could only shake his head. ¡°First rule of thrifting: it ain¡¯t the price that¡¯s important, it¡¯s the value. Sometimes, you have to spend more to get something that¡¯ll last longer.¡±


    ¡°Well, we ain¡¯t moving for a while yet. Not until I can get us another spare.¡±


    ¡°And now it¡¯s raining,¡± said Mick, holding his hand out to let raindrops fall on his palm.


    ¡°Perfect. There¡¯s a tavern just over yonder. Do me a favor, will ya, and help me move Old Nellie to the side of the road. Then you and the other folks can go sit in the tavern, and I¡¯ll see about a spare.¡±


    Old Nellie. Sure enough, that was the name of the carriage, painted in black letters for all to see. Mick couldn¡¯t wait to tell Nell about this later on. She¡¯d get a laugh out of it.


    The driver studied the vehicle at the side of the road. ¡°That should be alright. It¡¯s sticking out a bit, but wouldn¡¯t say it was blocking the road, would you?¡±


    ¡°People can get past,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Well, thank you kindly.¡±


    With the wagon safely off the road, there wasn¡¯t much else to be done. Robbed of anything practical, Mick could only fall back on ruminations to pass the time. That, or clamber back into the passenger compartment and try to coax conversation out of Zip. He¡¯d have more luck panning for gold in a swamp.


    All he¡¯d wanted to do was get home and tell Ma about the exam, then go for a few celebratory beers in the King¡¯s Head. This was a real pain in the arse. It wasn¡¯t a complete loss, though; he wasn¡¯t at all happy to be waylaid, but his irritation was eased a smidgeon by some more token text.


    Experience towards Simple Deduction skill tree


    You have used logic and observation to deduce something [1/25]


    Just what was it that¡¯d earned him the token text this time? Was it the stuff about the spare? All he¡¯d noticed was that it didn¡¯t seem right for a driver to use a wheel in such poor condition. Still, he¡¯d noticed it all the same, told the driver, and the man had explained about it. He supposed that the carriage breaking down was an event, and this was a deduction.


    Need to remember that. It doesn¡¯t have to be a crime that grows my experience tree. It just needs to be a mystery, a puzzle, something to work out.


    The driver walked around the wagon so he was facing the passenger compartment at the back, where the commuters were sheltering from the rain.


    ¡°Ladies and Gents, I¡¯m sorry to say we¡¯re stuck. Wheel¡¯s busted. Now, you¡¯re welcome to stay in Old Nellie, but it¡¯s getting cold, and that thing ain¡¯t artificed. There¡¯s a tavern five minutes¡¯ walk over yonder,¡± he said, pointing at a building at the end of a dirt path, not far from the road. ¡°You go warm yourselves up. Get a nice beer, a cocoa. Heck, go wild if you want. Just don¡¯t get so drunk so you¡¯re causing a disturbance when we¡¯re back on the road. Go on, you go inside that nice little tavern, and I¡¯ll find another spare and get us back on the road.¡±


    The commuters climbed down from the wagon one by one, then headed in a strangely solemn-looking procession toward the Salted Cod, a tavern not unlike many you¡¯d see on Easterly¡¯s commuting roads. Lots of taverns looked alike in this part of Easterly because they had been built on the orders of King Khaled, the same fella who¡¯d lost his head in Sunhampton and had the local drinking hole named after him.


    Khaled was fighting against the Kingdom of the Right and True back then, and he¡¯d ordered the road taverns to be built at strategic spots all across Easterly so his soldiers could grab a comfy bed every so often. They were cheap, throw-em-up-in-a-week structures, although the taverns that were still operating had most likely undergone structural renovations in the years since. Back then, though, they were cheap to make, and they served the soldiers for free under royal decree. A decent guy was Khaled, if you asked Mick. He put a lot of stock in his soldiers¡¯ welfares. Well, if you discounted the fact he called ¡®em up to war in the first place. So actually, not a good guy at all, come to think of it.


    Anyhow, the northern Easterly tavern design was famous throughout the land, and as such, lots of places looked just like the Salted Cod. If you were traveling the roads and you saw a building with a thatched roof, stables, and smoke rising from a chimney, odds were you could grab a bed, a bite, and a beer there.


    ¡°Is everything okay?¡± said Zip.


    She and Mick were at the back of the group, which meant that they¡¯d most likely struggle to get a table in the tavern. He bet the Salted Cod had never had so many visitors all at once. Whoever owned this place was about to have a very profitable evening.


    ¡°Just a break down,¡± said Mick. ¡°Wheel decided to split in two.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t he have a spare?¡±


    ¡°He did. It was the spare that broke. The thing looked older than Grandma Wells.¡±


    Zip laughed at the mention of Granny Wells. She was Mick¡¯s grandmother, which made her Zip¡¯s great grandmother. She and Zip got along like a house on fire.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 24

    <h2>24</h2>


    Providence must have been hitching a ride on Old Nellie tonight ¨C busted wheels aside - because when they got to the tavern they found three large banqueting tables set up in the middle of the room. Easily enough to accommodate a full carriage of commuters as well as the patrons already enjoying its comforts.


    ¡°I must say, your timing couldn¡¯t be better,¡± said the landlady, a woman called Polly Lloyd. She had eight children, all of them working age. Mick knew this because all the bar staff, five boys and three girls, looked just like her. ¡°We had a wedding reception here yesterday, and I hired these tables specially for the occasion.¡±


    Mick and Zip took their seats at the end of the third banqueting table, which gave them a bit of space away from the others.


    ¡°S¡¯pose since we¡¯re here, we might as well eat,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°I¡­er¡­didn¡¯t bring any gold,¡± said Zip.


    For some reason, this made him feel a little sad. He guessed it was the fact that Zip would even question whether he¡¯d pay for their food and drinks. Wasn¡¯t that what uncles were there for? To treat their nieces from time to time? Did he do that enough? Sure, he was a bit of a skinflint, but not with Zip.


    ¡°Get whatever you want,¡± he told her. ¡°Where are the menus? Oh, hang on.¡±


    The menu was a single piece of paper with just a few things written on it:


    Food:


    Food of the day ¨C 10 gold


    Drinks:


    Beer ¨C 3 gold


    Not beer ¨C 2 gold


    ¡°Now this is a pickle,¡± said Mick. ¡°Do I go for food of the day, or food of the day?¡±


    Zip laughed. ¡°Can I have a beer?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Why?¡±


    ¡°Because you¡¯re a kid,¡± he said.


    ¡°Granny Wells said you had your first beer when you were fourteen.¡±


    ¡°Well, now¡¯s a good a time as any for you to find out that what adults say and how they act are two different things. There¡¯s not a thing you can do about it except behave the same way when you¡¯re older.¡±


    He expected Zip to push it even more. She could stoke a fire for a week if she was in the mood to. Instead, she just nodded.


    ¡°I¡¯ll have the ¡®food of the day¡¯ and a ¡®not beer¡¯, please, Uncle Mick.¡±


    ¡°No problem. Any ¡®not beer¡¯ in particular, assuming there¡¯s a choice?¡±


    ¡°Whatever they have, I don¡¯t mind.¡±


    ¡°Righto, then.¡±


    ¡°I really am sorry, you know,¡± she said. ¡°For everything at the station.¡±


    ¡°Sorry you picked the wrong day to play truant, more like.¡±


    ¡°No. Well, sort of. I didn¡¯t know it was your big day, though. I wouldn¡¯t have gotten in trouble otherwise.¡±


    ¡°Zip, the point of making trouble is that you usually don¡¯t intend on getting caught. I doubt you wanted to get dragged to the station, did you?¡±


    ¡°Still.¡±


    ¡°Anyway,¡± said Mick. ¡°It¡¯s not me you should be apologizing to.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll write mother a letter and leave it on the kitchen table. She might see it at some point.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ve been over this. It ain¡¯t fair. She works damned hard.¡±


    Mick had always looked up to his twin sister. Always had, always would. Never mind that he was technically the eldest of the pair by nine minutes. Kiera was his sister, she was the wise one, the person who always had an answer for everything and would make time to give it to you. Sure, she made a mistake in her teens in picking the wrong fella, but you¡¯d be hard pressed to get her to call it as such now. She doted on Zip. It was just¡­she had this thing about gold. The security of having it, the fear of not enough. She didn¡¯t want Zip to ever have to worry.


    Feeling like maybe he was making some headway with his niece, he pressed on. ¡°You need to grow up a little. You¡¯ve got more brains than me and then some, but you¡¯re going to waste ¡®em on messing around. You¡¯re not a kid anymore.¡±


    ¡°I was a kid a second ago when I asked for a beer. Seems like my maturity changes to suit you.¡±


    ¡°Well, maybe it does. Another rule of adulting ¨C we twist things however we want. Now stay there and I¡¯ll go order.¡±


    At the bar, Mick was kept waiting while Polly Lloyd stood there chatting to the carriage driver. Laughing and joking for a good five minutes, they were. Normally a patient man, he started feeling the irritation a little.


    ¡°¡¯Scuse me.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, my love,¡± said Polly, separating from her talk with the driver like they¡¯d been caught plotting treason. Mick¡¯s instincts began to wave for his attention, but it was too noisy in here to think.


    ¡°What can I get you?¡± she said.


    ¡°This ¡®food of the day¡¯ ¨C what is it?¡±


    Polly opened the door behind her, which led to the kitchen. ¡°Bill? What¡¯s today¡¯s food of the day?¡±


    A man grunted from the kitchen, ¡°Fish.¡±


    ¡°Fish,¡± Polly told Mick.


    ¡°Okay, what fish?¡±


    Polly turned around. ¡°Bill? He says ¡®what fish¡¯?¡±


    ¡°Bream.¡±


    Mick sighed. ¡°Anything come with this bream? Veggies? Sauce? How¡¯s it cooked? Saints alive, is this the tavern of riddles?¡±


    When he returned to the table, he was surprised to see Zip sitting there with a book in front of her. He caught a glimpse of it over her shoulder. A diagram of a triangle, with ¡®X¡¯ written on one side.


    ¡°That a math book?¡± he said.


    ¡°I thought¡­you know¡­I had ¨C should have had ¨C math today.¡±


    ¡°Glad to see you catching up. You know I still need to tell your mother. It¡¯s only right.¡±


    Zip leaned forward and whispered, ¡°What about this? I get ten gold per week from Mum, fifteen from Granny Wells, and sometimes I help Percy Tattersall inventory his books. I could make you a very rich man¡­¡±Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    ¡°Bribing an officer of the law, now? You¡¯re building up quite a charge sheet.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s just, Billie Felton¡¯s having a sleepover for her birthday. I never get invited to stuff. What happens if I¡¯m grounded the one time they ask me?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t lie to your mother, Zip, and that¡¯s that,¡± said Mick. Then, to change the subject, he spoke in a whisper of his own. ¡°Something ain¡¯t right here.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°I just can¡¯t stop thinking about that wheel. Cheap or not, no driver in the world would use one as bad as that as a spare. Not with the state it was in. Might as well have a wheel made out of paper.¡±


    ¡°Maybe he¡¯s just stupid.¡±


    ¡°You have to memorize almost every road in Easterly to earn the driver class. Not to mention all the driving techniques they have to learn, the animal welfare, the stuff about load bearing. This driver of ours is a canny guy.¡±


    Mick took out his narrative notepad. He opened it to the first blank page, then pressed his finger against the bottom half of it just like he had in Jessie¡¯s workshop. It took a moment or two, but words began to appear on the page.


    ¡°What the-¡±


    ¡°Hush,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m trying to concentrate.¡±


    ¡°But the words are written down, Uncle. You aren¡¯t listening to them.¡±


    ¡°Just¡­just be quiet.¡±


    The place was nothing unusual. It was a tavern where a man could buy a dream for a coin then gamble it away in seconds. An inn where old friends met up, old enemies buried hatchets.


    The floor had seen its share of spilled beer and muddy boots, and the wind whistled a maudlin tune through the window frames. The tavern showed signs of care here and there, though. A freshly varnished bar, the liquor bottles all cleaned and lined up in size order.


    The clientele was made up of commuters sheltering from the rain, though what brought so many of them here¡­it was hard to say.


    <u>Points of interest:</u>


    The tavern lady, Polly, keeps touching the driver¡¯s hand.


    The banqueting tables don¡¯t look right.


    The roof looks new.


    ¡°What the heck is this?¡± asked Zip.


    ¡°Language!¡±


    ¡°What, heck? Heck¡¯s not a swearword. Granny Wells says it all the time. Mrs. Ladbrooke says it.¡±


    ¡°This is a notepad I bought,¡± said Mick, turning it around so she could see it better. ¡°Supposed to be useful for writers getting inspiration and all of that, but Jessie altered it a little for me.¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t that cheating, having the book tell you stuff?¡±


    ¡°Would it be cheating for someone to dig a hole with a shovel instead of their bare hands?¡±


    Zip shoved her math book to one side and leaned to get a closer look at the notepad. ¡°What¡¯s it mean?¡±


    ¡°Well, for a start, the newness of the roof is a gray weasel.¡±


    ¡°Gray¡­¡±


    ¡°You must know that,¡± said Mick. ¡°Have you never read a detective book, girl? Gray weasel- a misdirection. You know, a clue that ain¡¯t a clue, but looks like a big one.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡±


    Mick pointed at the line about Polly. ¡°This is what interests me. Now, watch Polly and the driver guy. The book¡¯s right. She keeps touching him.¡±


    ¡°Might fancy each other,¡± said Zip.


    ¡°No, this is something else. They¡¯re way too familiar. They know one another, I¡¯d bet my last gold on it. And you know what I say about gambling.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a mug¡¯s game.¡±


    ¡°Right. But this is the interesting part. Look at the tables. The tavernlady said she set ¡®em up for a wedding reception, and that we were lucky they were still here to accommodate us. Don¡¯t you see anything wrong with that?¡±


    Zip, maybe for the first time today, looked something other than bored. She stared at the long, wide tables, idly tapping the cover of her math book as she did. Her eyes widened with recognition.


    ¡°They¡¯re too wide.¡±


    Mick grinned. ¡°These tables aren¡¯t artificed, and they don¡¯t have any hinges to make them fold up. So, how¡¯d they get them in and out? Are you telling me they removed the roof or something?¡±


    ¡°They could unscrew the legs, maybe.¡±


    Mick shook his head. ¡°Put these tables on their side, even without legs, and they¡¯d be too tall for the doorway. There¡¯s just no way of getting them in or out without a heck of a hassle. You wouldn¡¯t do it for one wedding reception.¡±


    ¡°Why would she lie?¡± said Zip.


    ¡°There are two reasons why people lie, Zipsolera,¡± he said, secretly enjoying the disgusted look she gave him when he used her full name. ¡°To make money¡­or to play truant from school.¡±


    Mick got up and approached the bar, walking through a cloud of fried bream and grilled vegetables aroma that made his stomach feel like it was shriveling to the size of a pea. The kitchen door briefly opened and a barlad walked out bearing three plates of delicious-smelling bream. From behind him came the sound of a kitchen busy catering for the unexpected arrival of a bunch of stranded commuters. Or was it unexpected, after all?


    ¡°Hate to intrude,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Not at all,¡± said Polly, straightening up. She reached for a tankard. ¡°Another beer?¡±


    ¡°A word, actually. If you don¡¯t mind.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a little busy¡­¡±


    ¡°I noticed. Bit of good luck for you, ain¡¯t it? Having a wagon break down so close to your tavern?¡±


    The driver and Polly shared a look. It was a brief one, so quick it might not have meant anything. But Mick knew he was right.


    ¡°How often do you do it, then? Twice a week? A month? I reckon weekly carriages full of passengers ordering food and drinks ought to see you right. Only, I¡¯ve never heard Striding commuters complain that carriages always break down, so I¡¯m guessing you must alter your routes. You know, switch up which carriages break here. If it happened to the same passenger in the same place, it¡¯d looked damned fishy. That right?¡±


    ¡°No idea what you¡¯re talking about,¡± said the driver.


    ¡°Oh, really?¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯re going to cause trouble, I¡¯ll have to ask you to leave my tavern,¡± said Polly.


    ¡°The minute I step foot outside that door without choosing to, this stops being a friendly chat and becomes something else.¡±


    The driver shrugged. ¡°Technically¡­.technically, I¡¯ve done nothing wrong. The carriage did break down. If there¡¯s a law been broken, then slap my arse and call me the king.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s fraud.¡±


    ¡°Oh, really? My broken down carriage says otherwise.¡±


    Was he right? Mick had tried reading all the laws in Easterly in preparation for the token exams, but that was like trying to pole vault over a mountain. He guessed that yes, the carriage technically did break down. What it would come to was proving intent. Did the driver choose a poor-quality spare so it¡¯d break down on purpose, or was it just bad luck? You couldn¡¯t send a guy to jail because fate wasn¡¯t kind to him. He was pretty certain he knew the answer here, but proving it would be difficult.


    ¡°Law or no law, it ain¡¯t right,¡± he said. ¡°These folks have had a hard day. They just want to get home.¡±


    ¡°And they will get home. Polly¡¯s kindly sent one of her barlads to the Robertson farm over yonder. They¡¯ll have a spare that ought to fit my carriage. Ought to take him maybe an hour or so.¡±


    ¡°Just enough time for folks to eat some bream and have a couple of drinks,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Well, isn¡¯t that lucky. We could have been stranded in the middle of nowhere, after all, but we¡¯re not. When everyone¡¯s eaten and paid up, we¡¯ll be away, back to good old ¡®hampton.¡±


    The driver clearly wasn¡¯t going to crack, so Mick wondered if maybe Polly might be the better target. He wasn¡¯t optimistic; if anything, she looked even more hard-faced than her friend or lover or whoever the driver was.


    ¡°People have lost businesses for fraud, you know,¡± he said. ¡°If this thing went to court¡­¡±


    The driver put his hand on Polly¡¯s ¡°He can¡¯t prove a thing. The guy that does the blabbin¡¯ also needs to do the provin¡¯.¡±


    ¡°Ah. But in a civil court, the burden¡¯s not so strict, is it?¡± said Mick. ¡°All we need to do is convince a bunch of honest, working ladies and gents that it was likely you were swindling people. Balance of probabilities, they call it. I reckon I wouldn¡¯t have to do too much digging to find other folks who¡¯ve had their journeys interrupted and found themselves eating bream in this very tavern.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t always serve bream,¡± called Bill from the kitchen. ¡°Sometimes halibut.¡±


    Polly wavered. ¡°I can¡¯t afford a civil suit.¡±


    The driver crossed his arms. Big, burly arms they were. Out of proportion with his body. ¡°He can¡¯t prove a thing. Don¡¯t say another word, ¡®cos this gentleman is leaving. Him and his niece.¡±


    Polly shook her head. ¡°No, I won¡¯t send him out in the rain.¡±


    ¡°Polly¡­¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s just forget about all this, shall we?¡± said Polly to Mick. ¡°Fresh start, no harm done.¡±


    ¡°He knows nothing,¡± said the driver.


    Mick could see he was trying to mine for copper using a wooden spoon. Walking back to his table, he caught the tails of a couple of conversations between the other commuters. One of them, a man dressed in a smart suit, was getting angsty because he said he¡¯d be home for his son¡¯s school play. Mick had been to one of Zip¡¯s school plays years ago, and he reckoned the driver had done this guy a favor. Another commuter, who Mick recognized as Jules Winters, was heading back to Sunhampton with a crate full of medicines that Healer Brown had ordered from Full Striding.


    No, this wouldn¡¯t do. This scam might usually have caused no more harm than making peoples¡¯ gold pouches a little lighter and delaying them for an hour or two, but sometimes the consequences went deeper. Someone needed to put a stop to it.


    He told Zip he was just nipping outside for a minute. Putting up his hood, he stepped out into the rain. Saints alive, it¡¯s a bad one, he thought. It wasn¡¯t just rain but wind, as well. Seemed like the elements were trying to test the old tavern, see what it was really made of. The guttering system had already given up, and rain was coming down in a waterfall from a spot where it had overflowed.


    Mick circled around the tavern and to the stables, where the driver¡¯s horses were sheltered in a cozy-looking wooden structure. One was chewing on some hay, the other snorting and staring out into the night. It was nice and peaceful out here. Mick thought maybe he¡¯d rather be out here with the horses than inside.


    ¡°How are we doing, ladies and gents?¡± he said. ¡°Seen any wagon wheels around here?¡±


    Getting no answer from the horses, he started to look around. He did it slowly, methodically. Once he had earned the Forensics skill tree, he¡¯d have a quick-use ability that¡¯d instantly mark up anything that might be evidence. For now, he had to rely on his own senses. His smell, weakened as it was by his slightly bunged up nose. His hearing, dampened by the rain. His eyesight was only marginally better, given how dark it was out here.


    ¡°Now let¡¯s see what we¡¯ve got here,¡± he said, sweeping his gaze over the yard.


    It took his sight a few more minutes to adjust properly to the gloom. When it did, he noticed drag marks in the hay scattered all around the stable yard. Following the marks, he soon found a sturdy-looking wagon wheel covered by a green sheet.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 25

    <h2>25</h2>


    Back in the tavern, he told Polly and the driver what he had found.


    ¡°So I suggest you go fix the wheel right now,¡± he said, ¡°and we¡¯ll get going straight away. We both know what¡¯s in the stable, and that the carriage will magically be ready the second everyone¡¯s finished dessert.¡±


    From the kitchen, Bill called out, ¡°No dessert on the menu.¡±


    Mick continued, ¡°Moreover, I¡¯m thinking that everyone¡¯s journey home¡¯ll be free, and you aren¡¯t going to pull this kind of crap again. I¡¯ll be keeping an ear out to make sure.¡±


    ¡°Sir, be reasonable,¡± said Polly. ¡°Half the people are already eating, and Bill¡¯s still cooking up bream for the rest.¡±


    ¡°If it is bream you¡¯re serving. Wouldn¡¯t surprise me if you¡¯ve lied about that, too.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s bream,¡± said Bill.


    ¡°Look,¡± said Mick, ¡°I¡¯m not one to see all that food go to waste. That¡¯d just annoy me even more. So, I suppose we¡¯ll wait until peoples¡¯ bellies are full.  But it¡¯s only fair we all get our meals for free, considering how we ended up here, no?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just trying to run a business.¡± She looked at the driver now, screwing up her face. ¡°If this gentleman has¡­¡±


    ¡°Gentleman! That¡¯s a laugh. Stop with the pretending. A fool could see that you two are sweet on each other. No wedding band ¨C but then, that doesn¡¯t prove a thing. No law in the world says you have to get married.¡±


    ¡°How about you eat for free?¡± said Polly. ¡°You and your daughter.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s my niece.¡±


    ¡°You and her, free meals for the next¡­.month.¡±


    ¡°Nope. Everyone who got stranded here gets their bream free of charge. And Mr. Honest here,  well, you better agree that this kind of funny business won¡¯t happen again, or I¡¯ll report you to the Driver¡¯s Commission. I¡¯m sure if they get enough complaints about poor carriage maintenance, they¡¯ll investigate. After all, like you said, the carriage did break down.¡±


    ¡°Just who the heck are you?¡± said the driver.


    ¡°Name¡¯s Mick Mulroon. Apprentice sleuth and head of Sunhampton¡¯s guards.¡±


    Token text told Mick that he¡¯d earned more experience towards his Observation, Deduction, Forensics, and Interrogation skill trees. His Interrogation tree actually got a double boost, since he¡¯d gotten both Polly and the driver to admit to their scheme.


    ¡°Dismiss,¡± he said, as he reached his table.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Zip looked up. ¡°You don¡¯t say ¡®dismiss¡¯ to token text, Uncle Mick. Just ask it to go in your head.¡±


    ¡°Oh. Righto. How did you know that?¡±


    ¡°Learned it at school.¡±


    ¡°Oh, so you do go sometimes, do you?¡±


    Soon, their food arrived. Sitting in a warm, nicely lit tavern while the rain poured down outside, and eating an admittedly delicious plate of fried bream and grilled vegetables, Mick began to feel a little more charitable towards the Salted Cod tavern. Only a little, mind.


    ¡°What¡¯ll happen now?¡± said Zip.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Will the tavern have to close?¡±


    ¡°No, course not. They¡¯ll just have to find another way to bring in customers, that¡¯s all.¡±


    Zip speared a pepper with her fork. ¡°Was it so wrong, though? I bet it¡¯s hard to get customers out here. It was a clever scheme.¡±


    ¡°If they have to trick people to get here, then it¡¯s not a viable business.¡±


    ¡°Aren¡¯t all forms of advertising a trick, when you think about it?¡± said Zip. ¡°Anyhow, some of these taverns have been going for years. King Khaled ordered them built.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Math and history, now. So you do go to school sometimes, do you?¡±


    ¡°You already made that joke,¡± said Zip, smiling.


    ¡°So I did.¡±


    ¡°I go when it interests me. It just¡­hardly ever does. I don¡¯t mean for it to be boring. But the war with the Right and True was alright. ¡®Specially when you think how much of our lives today it decided. Like this tavern. It¡¯s part of history.¡±


    ¡°Well, what do you want from me, Zip? I can hardly just pretend it¡¯s not happening. Look at that guy over there. The one in the suit. He¡¯s late for his son¡¯s play. Not really fair on him getting waylaid here, is it?¡±


    ¡°I guess. I just feel bad for the tavernlady. Can¡¯t be easy, is all.¡±


    Mick pondered it while he cleared his plate. None of the sleuth or inspector books he¡¯d read prepared him for something like this, where no law was actually being broken, yet something wrong was going on all the same. Looked at objectively, the wagon really had broken down. The commuters could have walked back to Sunhampton if they wanted. Would have taken two or three hours, but it was possible. They didn¡¯t have to enter the Salted Cod. Moreover, they weren¡¯t even forced to buy anything once they were here.


    A part of him agreed with Zip, too. He did feel sort of bad for Polly and her kids. A family business, one presumably running for generations? You had to admire that.


    ¡°Listen, I¡¯ll have a word with Polly,¡± he told Zip. ¡°Few months back, someone shoplifted a bunch of vases from Paisley Porter¡¯s store, and I caught ¡®em. She owes me a favor. Could be that she¡¯ll take a carriage out here and have a word with Polly. See if she can use her merchant class abilities to help her change things, see  if maybe they can make a bit more honest coin.¡±


    Their talk drifted onto other plains after that. With his mood lightened by the delicious food, Mick was happy to drop the matter of Zip¡¯s truancy until they got home. Instead, he asked her about what was going on in her life. About her friends, the stuff they got up to. Turned out one of their hobbies was stopping by the office of Jester Hugill, the accountant who worked on Coiner¡¯s Way. Apparently he fancied himself as a dab hand in Fancy Dice, and Zip and the others could rely on winning a coin or two from him.


    ¡°Gambling¡¯s for mugs,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Only if you lose.¡±


    A bargirl came to collect plates from everyone, stacking them ten plates high on each arm. Mick wondered how she did it. It was almost like a circus act. After that, the driver told everyone to drink up, because the carriage was fixed and it was time to go.


    ¡°Thanks for dinner,¡± Zip told Mick.


    ¡°Anytime. Enjoyed it. You know, situation excepted.¡±


    ¡°About today, the whole thing with school, and me stealing fried potatoes¡­¡±


    ¡°Zip. We¡¯ve been over this. I can¡¯t let it slide.¡±


    ¡°Just let me tell mother, okay? I¡¯ll do it straight away. Tonight. You see if I don¡¯t. But please let me do it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll do it as soon as we get back, while I¡¯m there?¡±


    Zip nodded. ¡°I will.¡± She hugged him. ¡°Thank you, Uncle Mick.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 26

    <h2>26</h2>


    They got back to the wonderful town of Sunhampton just after seven o¡¯clock in the evening. When Mick looked through the opening at the front of the passenger compartment and saw the gates loom nearer, he felt the same swell of affection for the old place that he¡¯d felt all his life, and would probably carry on feeling until he was feeding the worms. The driver brought the carriage to a stop and waited as the commuters disembarked, refunding each of them their fare.


    Mick paid the man for his and Zip¡¯s seats. He hadn¡¯t been going to, but changed his mind at the last minute, just as the town gates appeared in sight. The way he saw it, the driver¡¯s horses had to eat, and they hadn¡¯t done anything wrong. He didn¡¯t give a tip, though.


    ¡°I always pay my way, scam or not,¡± he said. ¡°But mark my words; if I catch you swindling in Sunhampton, I¡¯ll see that you rot in Striding jail. You¡¯ll never see the light of day again.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s a bit harsh,¡± said the driver.


    ¡°S¡¯pose it is,¡± said Mick. He jabbed a finger at the man for emphasis and added, ¡°But you just be careful.¡±


    Mick¡¯s sister lived in a two bedroom house on Khaled Way. Just to confuse matters, this Khaled wasn¡¯t King Khaled but instead a guy named Benjamin Khaled. He wrote a bunch of poems. Mentioned ¡®hampton in them, supposedly. Mick wouldn¡¯t know; poetry went over his head. He liked good, honest language, not metaphors and similes and the like. Metaphors were a fog that led you astray, and similes were as confusing as a foreign language.


    Khaled Way was a quiet street, but the neighbors either side of Kiera didn¡¯t like her much, because while their gardens could have taken the first and second prizes in a landscaping competition, Kiera¡¯s lawn was overgrown and her path was covered with soggy fallen leaves. Her neighbors, in true Sunhampton style, were too polite to say anything, but Kiera had always been good at reading people. She¡¯d told Mick she could sense their distaste whenever she made small talk with them. She¡¯d have made a fine sleuth, he thought.


    The fact was, Kiera just didn¡¯t have the time to keep on top of the garden. She had her job, her studying, a daughter who played truant, and she and Mick also pitched in with whatever errands Ma and Granny Wells needed doing. Mick had told her plenty of times to leave it to him, but Kiera wouldn¡¯t. To her, help was a word people only used when they were stuck on a mountain. Actually, she probably wouldn¡¯t have said it even then.


    Even so, she had tried to get along with Mrs. Smythe on the left, and Mr. and Mr. Hendricks on the right. One night after work, she¡¯d even stopped by Rolls and Dough and bought two boxes of vanilla slices. It had thawed relations some, but she told Mick she still felt like an outsider, like she was the scruffy neighbor.


    ¡°Now you just tread carefully,¡± Mick told Zip as they walked toward the front door. ¡°She¡¯s gonna be stressed out as it is. If you ask me, play it nice and contrite.¡±


    ¡°She won¡¯t care.¡±


    ¡°Zip¡­¡±


    When they walked inside, they found Kiera sitting at the kitchen table with four books spread out across it, and a notebook in front of her. To her left was a cup of coffee, to her right a red wine. Interesting combination, but then again, Mick¡¯s sister had always been a weird lady. Growing up, she used to eat dessert before tea. Drove Pa mad. Mick counted six different colored pencils laid out on the table, indicating some kind of highlighting system she used on her books. They looked dull as heck; ¡®Easterly¡¯s Trade Laws ¨C A Revised Edition¡¯ and that kind of thing. Sleep fodder ¨C that explained the coffee. As they crossed the hallway and stepped into the kitchen proper, she barely looked up at them.


    ¡°Hey, Mick. Hey, Zip. Nice day at school?¡±


    Zip gave Mick a see? Kind of look.


    ¡°Mother, it¡¯s eight o¡¯clock.¡±


    ¡°Oh, sorry. You¡¯ll be wanting dinner. I picked up a steak pie from the King¡¯s Head. Cut yourself a piece. You hungry, Mick?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t you want to know where I¡¯ve been all evening?¡± said Zip.


    Kiera set down her pen and looked up at her daughter. ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been out all night, and you¡¯re not even asking me where. Billie Felton said her mother grilled her like a steak when she was an hour late home from school.¡±Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s because I trust you, Zip. You¡¯re allowed to be out with your friends. Me and Mick used to stay out so late that we had to find our way home by moonlight. Didn¡¯t we, Mick?¡±


    Ah, fond memories. Him and Kiera, thick as thieves on the streets of Sunhampton. Mick nodded. ¡°Yup.¡±


    ¡°And Grandma didn¡¯t mind?¡±


    ¡°Mind?¡± said Kiera. ¡°She didn¡¯t notice.¡±


    Zip tossed her school knapsack down, pulled out a chair at the table, and slumped into it, almost deflating as she did so. ¡°A lot of kids get punished, Mother. Especially when they¡¯re caught truanting and shoplifting.¡±


    ¡°You did what?¡± said Kiera, looking to Mick for confirmation.


    He nodded. He hadn¡¯t been looking forward to this part. ¡°Bumped into her in a station in Striding. She was getting booked in.¡±


    ¡°Shoplifting? Shoplifting what?¡±


    ¡°Fried potatoes,¡± said Mick.


    Zip added, ¡°But they were throwing ¡®em away. It¡¯s a crime, if you ask me.¡±


    Kiera ran her hands over her face and sighed through the gaps between her fingers. Mick really felt for her. He could almost see the exhaustion seeping out.


    She said, ¡°Saints¡¯ beards, girl. I¡¯m studying for my solicitor tokens. How will it look, having a felon in the family? Think people will trust me to argue in court, when I¡¯m harboring a criminal in my own home?¡±


    Looking at his niece¡¯s face, Mick noticed something. Her eyes said ¡®I¡¯m a kid and I¡¯m annoyed at getting told off.¡¯ But her smile, slight as it was, said something different.


    ¡°I know, mother. I know. I shouldn¡¯t have done it. You¡¯re right to scold me, I deserve it.¡±


    ¡°Damned right you shouldn¡¯t. Now, Mick, does Ma still need a new set of kitchen knives? Because I was thinking, for her birthday-¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± said Zip.


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°They caught me stealing from a market, Ma! There¡¯s places where a thief¡¯d lose their hand for something like that.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve told you how disappointed I am,¡± said Kiera.


    ¡°Well, am I grounded?¡±


    ¡°What?¡± said Kiera. ¡°Saints, no. You¡¯re not grounded. No sense punishing myself as well.¡±


    ¡°But I stole potatoes from a market!¡±


    ¡°Well, lesson learned, isn¡¯t it? Don¡¯t do it again.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s really it?¡± said Zip.


    ¡°What do you want, a written statement from me that the matter¡¯s settled?¡± said Kiera. Then in a softer voice, she said, ¡°Look,  come here, love. Give your mother a cuddle. I¡¯ve had a hard day.¡±


    Their one second cuddle soon over with, Zip said goodnight and went to her room. Mick stayed and chatted with Kiera for a little while. She offered him a coffee, but he could see it was one of those occasions when she was just being nice. Besides, coffee after six in the evening kept him up. So, rather than hang around, rather than tell her his own news, he said goodnight to his sister and headed home.


    Ma was practically waiting by the front door when he got back. She¡¯d been pacing around the house for hours. If Mick had the Forensics skill tree, he bet he¡¯d have seen her footprints cutting a circular route over the floorboards.


    ¡°Well?¡± she said.


    Mick put on a glum face and sighed. ¡°Didn¡¯t work out.¡±


    Ma said nothing for a moment, then smiled and playfully hit his shoulder. ¡°You think I can¡¯t tell when my Micky is lying? Come here, you big donkey!¡±


    Ma got out the celebratory whiskey from a pantry in the kitchen where they also kept their special celebration glasses she¡¯d bought from Larking Spice Museum, and they shared a whiskey or two while Mick told her everything that had happened over the last couple of days, including the stuff with Zip.


    ¡°That girl¡­sweet as sugar when she wants to be, but she needs a kick up the arse.¡±


    ¡°Thing is,¡± said Mick, ¡°I think that¡¯s what she wants. It was almost as if she wanted Kiera to lay into her.¡±


    Ma shook her head. ¡°My poor daughter, worked to the bone. I blame myself.¡±


    Mick laughed. She always said this kind of thing. ¡°For what?¡±


    ¡°For marrying your father. Should have found me a rich factory owner who¡¯d leave us a fortune when he copped it.¡±


    Later, when Ma¡¯s second whiskey made her tired, Mick said goodnight and headed toward the King¡¯s Head. Coiner¡¯s Way was lit by the streetlamps lined on either side. The tavern beckoned at the end of it, a swelling of cozy light inviting passersby in for a friendly drink and a chat. Mick had had many happy nights there.


    It was a full house that night, since Zakariya Spencer was holding one of his tasting sessions. He did it once per month to earn experience on his chef skill trees. Twenty gold would get you a dozen little tasting plates of things you ordinarily would never order in a million years. Roasted quail with juniper berries, stuffed figs, elderflower sorbet. That kind of thing. Fancy-folk food, to be sure, but absolutely delicious.


    Mick usually took an artificed container set he¡¯d bought from Lewis Cooper, and went home with plenty of leftovers. Nell, on the other hand, ate all her dishes quickly, while Lee liked to tell everyone he wasn¡¯t hungry and wouldn¡¯t pay any gold, yet he¡¯d pick at everyone else¡¯s food all the same. Spruce, meanwhile, never took part. Said he wasn¡¯t hungry, either. Mick thought it was because he maybe felt a little bit jealous at Zakariya displaying his advanced chef skills.


    Walking through the tavern, Mick accidentally bumped into a table, knocking Connor Perry¡¯s glass of beer and making some spill out over the rim.


    ¡°Sorry, pal,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°S¡¯alright. Tell your Ma I¡¯ve got a parcel for her, by the way.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll come to the post office and get it tomorrow.¡±


    Mick spotted old Jack Cooper by the bar with Janey Morgan. They were sharing a plate of breaded shrimp. Not far away, Lewis Cooper and his gang were all crowding round their usual table near the hearth, including the actress he was going out with. She was one talented lady. Almost brought Mick to tears when he went to see her perform at the Full Striding auditorium. He nodded hello to them and crossed the tavern to find Nell, Spruce, and Lee.


    ¡°Here he is, Detective Mulroon,¡± said Lee, waving. Then, he looked at Mick tentatively. ¡°At least, I hope so?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry, pal. Sit down. I¡¯ll get you a drink.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s actually Sleuth Mulroon,¡± said Mick. ¡°Or I will be.¡±


    ¡°Then my advice is the same. Sit your arse down and I¡¯ll get you a drink!¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 27

    <h2>27</h2>


    The next morning, Mick felt like someone had scraped out his head and filled it full of bees, and last night¡¯s beers and whiskeys weren¡¯t exactly forming a cordial coalition with his stomach. Even so, he forced himself to change into his joggers and ran a lap around Sunhampton. There was one point where he thought he might die, but he pushed through it and felt better by the time he got back home, covered in sweat.


    After bathing and getting dressed, he made a mug of coffee and then spent twenty minutes trying to wrap Zip¡¯s birthday present, getting it wrong twice and having to start over. He almost ran out of gift wrap, but just about avoided disaster. He even had a little bit of wrapping paper left over to reinforce the weak points in his package¡¯s armor. Then, with the present tucked under his arm, he walked through town and to Kiera and Zip¡¯s house.


    He was surprised ¨C shocked, in fact ¨C to find Zip outside in the garden, using the rolling lawnmower to tame their front lawn. She was about halfway done. The edges would need trimming, too, and if Mick was a gambling man he¡¯d bet that she would forget that detail. But she was doing a good job.  What¡¯s more, the stone path leading to the house was completely leaf free.


    ¡°Is this my niece?¡± said Mick, ¡°Or did I bring an evil mimic back from Striding? What¡¯s the rhyme you¡¯re supposed to say to banish a mimic? Actually, scratch that. Looks to be an improvement.¡±


    Zip laughed. ¡°Morning, Uncle Mick.¡±


    He nodded at the lawnmower. ¡°Isn¡¯t this¡­it is your birthday today, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    She nodded. ¡°It is indeed.¡±


    ¡°Ah. I see. I used to get chores as punishment, too. When I accidentally smashed the kitchen window with a horse chestnut, Ma made me climb onto the roof and clean the gutters. I showed her though. Fell right off. That¡¯s how I got my scar, just above my right eyebrow, see?¡±


    ¡°Mother¡¯s still in bed,¡± said Zip. ¡°She¡¯s starting work later today, so I let her sleep in. She didn¡¯t ask me to do nothing. She¡¯s probably forgotten it already. So I thought, what kind of punishment would a parent give to a kid who stole fried potatoes and skipped school? And I came up with this.¡±


    Mick had never heard of the criminal punishing themselves before, but there was a certain logic to it.


    ¡°Oh, right. Well, I¡¯ve got something for you,¡± he said.


    ¡°I¡¯ll be right in.¡±


    Zip finished mowing the lawn, then joined Mick in the kitchen where he was heating up coffee on a glow stone. Kiera always told Mick to make himself at home here, so that was what he always did. Resting on the kitchen table was a badly wrapped, oddly shaped present.


    Since Kiera was getting some well-earned sleep, Mick spoke in a hushed voice. ¡°Happy birthday, kiddo.¡±


    ¡°Thanks.¡±


    Zip struggled to find a suitable opening in the wrapping paper, since Mick had double sealed parts of it, worried his poor technique would have seen the paper splitting on his way here. Finally, giving up being neat, Zip ripped it open.


    ¡°Got it in Striding,¡± Mick said. For some reason, whenever he gave a gift, he always felt he needed to provide a line or two of explanation. Explain his reasoning, that kind of thing. ¡°Thought you might enjoy a new hobby.¡±


    ¡°A bow and arrow set?¡± said Zip, picking up the box Mick had bought in a Striding hobby store.


    ¡°Yeah. I¡¯d have loved one of them when I was your age. It¡¯s made of elm, should last you a while. Only, keep it somewhere flat so it doesn¡¯t warp, and maybe wax the string from time to time.¡±


    ¡°Uncle Mick¡­this is¡­¡± she stood up, walked over to him and gave him a hug. ¡°Thanks!¡±


    ¡°Only practice when it¡¯s safe, mind. I¡¯ll set up a little target range for you in the back garden. And you always make a sweep of where you¡¯re going to be firing, got it?¡±The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m glad you said, because I was going to walk onto Coiner¡¯s Way and put a blindfold on and start letting them loose.¡±


    ¡°Smart arse,¡± he said, with a smile. ¡°Now, how about I buy you a birthday breakfast at the Sunny Caf¨¦?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d love to, only, I still have some stuff to finish around here. I have to sweep the place before mother wakes up. Part of my punishment.¡±


    A self-imposed punishment, on her birthday of all days. He¡¯d heard it all now. He was pretty sure what was going on here, though, and when he thought about it, how could he blame her? Poor Zip. Her mother was always working or studying, and Mick hadn¡¯t exactly been the most present uncle. Maybe, when it came down to it, the only way to be heard was to play truant and go around Striding market thieving potatoes.


    Need to do something about this. Should have done it a while ago.


    ¡°Okay,  kiddo. I best be off. But how about I take you for dinner at the King¡¯s Head later?¡±


    ¡°Sounds great, Uncle Mick.¡±


    Set loose in Sunhampton on his own, Mick was unsure what to do at first. It used to be that he¡¯d be working for Mr. Leabrook on a day like today. He¡¯d probably have a bunch of scrap that needed moving from one place to another, or something equally pointless.


    As much as he had been growing to dislike those odd jobs, at least there had been a structure to his days. Now, though, he was a free man. Well, as free as a man could be when he was living on his savings. Better get a move on earning my tokens, he told himself. Start earning some decent coin.


    Heading through Coiner¡¯s Way, he nodded hello to Percy Tattersall cleaning his bookstore window, and then Mrs. Grant, who was setting up tables and chairs outside her bakery. He slipped down an alley and went toward Douggie Fernglass¡¯s supply shed, which had always doubled as Mick¡¯s town guard office.


    Halfway there, he stopped walking. He didn¡¯t work for Mr. Leabrook anymore, did he? So he couldn¡¯t expect Mr. Leabrook to let him use the Coiner¡¯s Way supply shed for guard stuff. He¡¯d need to find somewhere else to work.


    Even so, he thought he should at least see if Douggie was around. Say good morning to him, have a chat. He¡¯d always gotten along well with him.


    Reaching the supply shed, he was surprised to see an envelope with his name on it slipped halfway under the door. When he pulled it out, the envelope felt heavy.


    ¡°What the heck is this?¡±


    Inside it was a key, and a note. The note read, ¡®Our newest detective can no doubt work out where this key belongs.¡¯ The key itself was long and black, and looked like the kind you might use to open an old crypt or something. The only thing was that it looked new. The metal had this fresh gleam to it, and this meeting of old and new was strange, to say the least.


    Mick reached to his inner pocket for his notepad ¨C his normal one, not the narrative kind ¨C so he could add this mystery to his list.


    Mysteries to take a look at:


    1) Tim Ritson¡¯s Missing Moggy


    Help the old man find his missing cat


    2) The Lady with the Red Neck


    Why¡¯s her neck so red? Find out without being weird about it.


    3) The Mysterious Key


    Find out who left the key and what it unlocks


    He was hardly solving crimes or puzzles that would shake Easterly to its core, but they all counted. This was how he was going to get his tokens, after all: by finding little mysteries and riddles, and setting his noggin loose on them. This one was a pearl of a mystery, by his reckoning. Nothing like a strange key to get you thinking.


    Studying the note, Mick was sure he recognized the handwriting. There was just something familiar about it yet strange at the same time. Someone he knew trying to alter their handwriting so he didn¡¯t recognize it, perhaps? That¡¯d narrow it down, since he could count on one hand how many people wrote notes for him often enough that he¡¯d know their penmanship.


    So, who did he know who liked to scribble a letter?


    Granny Wells was a suspect. She only lived two minutes from his house, but she loved sending and receiving letters. She wrote to everyone about absolutely anything. If a bird landed on her windowsill, she¡¯d probably reach for her pen and write to her friend, Helen, about it. Mick wouldn¡¯t be surprised if the woman was keeping Connor Perry¡¯s post office afloat.


    This ain¡¯t Granny¡¯s writing, though. Not Kiera¡¯s either. Not even if they tried altering how they wrote to disguise it. And I can say for sure it isn¡¯t Ma¡¯s.


    One thing Mick was certain about was that someone had left this for him deliberately. He felt sure that whatever clues he needed to trace the origin of the key, were right here in the envelope. Otherwise, whoever left it was just playing games.


    Unhooking his knapsack from his shoulder, he took out his poor-rated sleuthing kit he¡¯d been issued at Elmshore station. Inside was a magnifying glass with an artificed lens. It was supposed to show up forensics that the naked eye might miss, but the artificery was spotty, and it didn¡¯t tell him anything about the key or the letter.


    He tried using the fingerprinting kit, sprinkling a little starch powder on the paper and then dusting it with the fine brush, but he hit a wall. Whoever had written the letter had worn gloves, and Mick couldn¡¯t even begin to check the key. He didn¡¯t have the Forensics skill tree yet, and his skills weren¡¯t good enough for him to check an awkwardly-shaped object like a key for prints. Right now, flat surfaces were all he could work with.


    With no forensics to work with, it was time for some good, old-fashioned sleuthing.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 28

    <h2>28</h2>


    A quick trip to Sunhampton library didn¡¯t bear much fruit. Chester Hugill said they didn¡¯t really have any books about keys. That was the kind of specialist subject book that someone like Percy Tattersall might stock in his store. The library, given it ran on yearly funds and donations, had to be choosy in the kinds of books they ordered, and thus went for popular ones.


    ¡°Romances, adventures, that kind of thing,¡± Chester told him. ¡°The State decides how much gold they send our way by our borrowing figures. And people round here don¡¯t want to read about keys.¡±


    So, Mick headed all the way back across town, to Tattersall¡¯s Books. Percy Tattersall had run his little shop on the corner of Coiner¡¯s Way for decades. He was especially proud of his window displays. Very creative, he was, when he set his mind to it. He and Paisley Porter had a little window display competition going on, in fact. Today, Percy¡¯s display was farm themed. There was a model plow with books balanced on it, as well as a little pumpkin patch with tomes hidden here and there. Stuck on the far left of the glass was a sticker boasting about the ¡®Tattersall Three Day guarantee¡¯.


    Inside, Mick waited patiently while Percy served Martha Peters. Martha was getting into blacksmithing as a hobby, and she wanted something that¡¯d help her start out.


    ¡°Ah, how are you today, Mr. Mulroon?¡± said Percy, when it was his turn. He was always so formal, Percy. Some folks called it stiff, others said it was a sign of good upbringing. To Mick, upbringing showed in a person¡¯s character, not in what fancy words they used.


    ¡°Good, thanks. How are you doin¡¯?¡± he said.


    ¡°I can¡¯t complain,¡± Percy said, before launching into a succession of observations that proved his initial statement false. The weather, import taxes, everything he could think of. ¡°¡­and that¡¯s why I think we shouldn¡¯t pay taxes. Anyhow, what can I do for you?¡±


    Mick took the black key out of his pocket. ¡°Need a book on keys.¡±


    ¡°What about them?¡±


    ¡°I think the making of them. If I can figure out how this particular kind of key is made, if some kind of special technique is used that you can¡¯t find everywhere¡­¡±


    ¡°I can check my catalogue and place an order,¡± said Percy. ¡°Give it a few weeks, and-¡±


    ¡°Weeks? What happened to the Tattersall Three Day Guarantee?¡±


    ¡°Ah. Yes, well. Supply issues.¡±


    ¡°Nothing you can do to speed it up?¡±


    Percy shook his head. ¡°Not unless they put me in charge of Holson¡¯s Distributors so I can get things running ship-shape. Sorry.¡±


    Leaving the store, Mick initially felt disappointed. But then he got to thinking that he was looking for a zebra, when the sound of hooves normally meant horses. Someone local had no doubt left this riddle for him, so the key was probably made locally, too. Stood to reason. And who worked with metal here in Sunhampton?


    This line of enquiry took him to Cooper and Cooper - Artificers of Renown. Lewis was in the back workshop, as usual. Mick could hear him singing, ¡®The Goblin Wants a Wife¡¯.


    His new store assistant, Casey-Louise, was behind the sales counter. Spread on the counter were a few books. She was always studying, this lady. Mick respected that in a person. Glancing at the book nearest her, he caught sight of a diagram of a lute. It was a cross section of the musical instrument, showing how its various parts fit together.


    ¡°Morning, Mr. Mulroon,¡± she said, smiling brightly as always.


    ¡°I¡¯ve told you a hundred times; Mr. Mulroon was my father,¡± he said.


    ¡°Right. Sorry! Lewis hates when I do that. What can I do for you?¡±


    ¡°Lewis around?¡±


    Casey called out, ¡°Mr. Cooper! Lewis, I mean! Mick¡¯s here to see you.¡±


    Lewis was a while in coming. Odds were he¡¯d probably forgotten Casey had even called for him. All crafters were like that, but Lewis and Jack Cooper even more so. Nice fellas, but their minds were always drifting to their projects.


    To pass the time, Casey reached for a lute she kept under the sales counter. Slinging a strap around her neck, she gave it a strum, messed with the tuning pegs, then strummed it again until the strings spoke true.


    She plucked a few exploratory notes, then nodded to herself in appreciation. Turning them into a rhythm, she studied Mick and began to sing.


    ¡°Oh, Mick Mulroon, he¡¯s the town¡¯s head guard. When crime comes calling, he¡­¡± She stopped playing abruptly, and muttered, ¡°No, not head guard. Can¡¯t rhyme it.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t the first time she¡¯d played for him. When Casey-Louise eventually went to bard college to earn her tokens, part of the way she earned experience would be by making up songs, and by improving her skills. Almost everyone in Sunhampton had had an impromptu song made up about them by now.


    ¡°Oh, hey, Mick,¡± said Lewis, walking into the store front, while wiping black grease off his hands using a handcloth.


    The lad had grown over the last few years, no doubt about that. Mick still remembered the first time he¡¯d seen Lewis. It was a Sunday, not too long after Lewis had arrived in town. He could picture the scene now; standing guard at the town gates, watching Lewis drag his sorry cart filled with screwdrivers and hammers to the market. He¡¯d been a scrawny kid, back then, and his tools looked like they¡¯d probably break after a couple of uses. Nowadays, you could place an order with him and know that whatever he made, it¡¯d last.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Mick showed him the key. ¡°Don¡¯t suppose this is your handiwork?¡±


    ¡°Anyone could have made a key like that. Doesn¡¯t take much. The Simple Craft and Forge skill would do it.¡±


    Now, Mick knew something about Lewis. The lad had a tough time lying. Whenever he tried, he got this look on his face that amounted to him wearing a sign confessing he¡¯d just told an untruth. That was why you could generally trust whatever he said, and it was why he was earning a reputation around town as a fine crafter.


    But he was a clever kid. You always had to remember that. Seemed to Mick, that rather than outright answer his question with a lie, Lewis had told a truth, while skirting around it. Because yes, anyone could have made a key like that. But they didn¡¯t, and moreover, that didn¡¯t answer Mick¡¯s query.


    ¡°I¡¯m thinking that whoever placed this order with you,¡± said Mick, ¡°Told you it was a surprise. Stop me if I¡¯m missing the wood for the trees.¡±


    ¡°There might be such a thing as artificer-client confidentiality¡±, answered Lewis.


    ¡°Is there?¡±


    ¡°A good crafter doesn¡¯t talk about his customers¡¯ projects.¡±


    ¡°Come on, Lewis. We¡¯re both busy people. Who asked you to make the key?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t say.¡±


    Mick eyed Casey-Louise, wondering if maybe he ought to focus on her. But no, she¡¯d just back up her employer. He considered if perhaps he could seize Lewis¡¯s sales ledger and see who placed orders here recently. As the town guard, he had that right. Only, there was no crime here, and it¡¯d amount to a misuse of power.


    Always know when to stop flogging a dead horse, Granny Wells had told him once, amongst many of her sayings. Mick had never seen her flog one, but he wouldn¡¯t put it past her. Still, the advice was sound.


    ¡°I better be going. I¡¯ll be seeing you later,¡± he said.


    ¡°Later, Mick,¡± replied Lewis.


    He didn¡¯t go far. Paisley Porter¡¯s store was right next door. Her window display this week was a perfect arrangement of locally-made jars, vases, candles, and gloves and scarves, amongst other things. It drew the eye here, drew the eye there, and Mick felt an almost irresistible urge to take out his coin pouch. That was one of the abilities in Ms. Porter¡¯s merchant class, he knew. Percy Tattersall had no chance in winning their display window war.


    When he opened the door, he found the proprietor herself sitting there behind the counter. Unlike Lewis Cooper, Paisley loved greeting customers and trying to sell them things. To her, it was a kind of sport. A hunt, perhaps, much in the same way that Lee Hunter enjoyed tracking things and then claiming a trophy.


    ¡°Ah, if it isn¡¯t Mick Mulroon,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯re looking dashing today. But do you know what¡¯d really complete your look? Take a look at these coats I just got in. They¡¯re right there. Exquisite tailoring. Made here in Sunhampton. Ought to warn you, though. They¡¯re selling like sweet rolls. If you umm and ahh about this, you¡¯ll be disappointed, because I can¡¯t hold one back for you. Not fair on everyone else. If you¡¯re getting one, it has to be now.¡±


    The coats were handsome. No denying that. Long, navy blue. Lots of pockets, big collars. They looked like the kind of thing a sleuth might wear, in fact. Only¡­two hundred gold? Saints alive, he wasn¡¯t going to pay that for a coat.


    ¡°Been meaning to talk to you about something,¡± he said. ¡°Remember the fella I collared who was shoplifting your scarves?¡±


    Paisley gave a look so dark it would have made a rampaging demon run for safety. ¡°He¡¯s lucky it wasn¡¯t me who caught him.¡±


    ¡°Well, you said you owe me one. There¡¯s this tavern, the Salted Cod. Lady there could use a bit of help with some merchant stuff. It¡¯s a nice place, but she¡¯s struggling to get customers.¡±


    ¡°Lots of businesses struggle,¡± said Paisley. ¡°I can¡¯t help them all.¡±


    ¡°This is a family-run kind of place. Been there decades.¡±


    ¡°Where is it?¡±


    Mick told her. Paisley wasn¡¯t happy.


    She said, ¡°Going all the way there, spending time reviewing her business, then traveling home. That¡¯s a full day¡¯s work! I know I said I owe you one, but this isn¡¯t one, it¡¯s¡­two.¡±


    ¡°You just got the journeyman merchant ranking didn¡¯t you?¡± he said. ¡°Don¡¯t you need to start teaching stuff now if you want to level up quicker?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t need to, but it helps. Fine. I can¡¯t promise when, so don¡¯t you go promising for me, okay? But I¡¯ll go visit when I have time, and when business takes me over that way. Uncle Jace will mind the store, probably.¡±


    ¡°Good. Now, I have something I wanted to ask you.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s more? Again, I said I owe you one. This isn¡¯t one, Mick. It¡¯s not even two. It¡¯s three! I ought to have just let the guy take my scarves, it would have cost me less.¡±


    ¡°This is just me wondering about something, that¡¯s all. You noticed anything strange about Lewis Cooper?¡± he said.


    ¡°Apart from the usual?¡±


    ¡°Anyone visiting his store who doesn¡¯t normally go there, perhaps.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t tell me Lewis is getting stolen from, too?¡± said Paisley. ¡°Now I¡¯m really angry.¡±


    According to a book he¡¯d read ¨C Starter Sleuthing by P. J. Blackmore ¨C everyone had a different lever you need to pull to get them talking. Usually, it was whatever lever stirred up some kind of emotion in them, because emotional people let their guards down. Seemed that the idea of her friend getting stolen from was one of Paisley Porter¡¯s levers.


    Then again, there was no suggestion Lewis¡¯s store was being stolen from. And as a sleuth, it wasn¡¯t quite on the moral high side to outright lie. Maybe he could use a leaf from Lewis¡¯s book, though.


    ¡°I¡¯d hate to see a shoplifter hit Coiner¡¯s Way again. So anything you can tell me¡­¡±


    Paisley thought about it. ¡°Well, I haven¡¯t seen anyone particularly dodgy. Mr. Leabrook visited his store a couple of days ago, which was strange. He doesn¡¯t like artificery. Doesn¡¯t like anything, in fact. Do you know what he said about the candles I was displaying last week? Said they were too waxy, whatever that means. But maybe he was there to complain about something.¡±


    Mr. Leabrook, as the manager of Coiner¡¯s Way, loved nothing more than to find some kind of rule or regulation the business owners on the Way were breaking. Mick knew this too well, because many a time Mr. Leabrook had asked him to find them. He didn¡¯t, of course. He upheld the law in town, but didn¡¯t much care for rules otherwise.


    This love of Mr. Leabrook¡¯s for picking at stuff, well, Mick didn¡¯t know where it came from. He hadn¡¯t always been like that. When Mick was a kid, he remembered walking past the tavern after picking up groceries for Ma and Pa, and seeing Mr. Leabrook sitting outside with his friends, laughing and drinking beer. These days, Mr. Leabrook was just as likely to serve the tavern a warning for people enjoying themselves too loudly outside it, than to go enjoy a beer there himself.


    Still, the clues were falling into place, nice and tidy. One: the key was left at Douggie¡¯s supply shed. Not many people would go there other than Douggie, Mick, and Mr. Leabrook. Two, the handwriting was vaguely familiar. He had seen Mr. Leabrook write so many letters of complaint that he could have forged his penmanship himself, if he wanted. Three, Mr. Leabrook had been to Lewis¡¯ Cooper¡¯s store recently. He could easily have gotten Lewis to make a key for him.


    ¡°I better go. Thanks, Paisley.¡±


    ¡°Wait a second. Try on a coat, Mr. Mulroon.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, kiddo. My gold pouch can¡¯t take the strain at the minute.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 29

    <h2>29</h2>


    It was lunchtime now, so Mick headed to the Sunny Caf¨¦. Spruce was busy cooking up eight breakfasts for some hikers who¡¯d stopped by on their way to Gregory¡¯s Gorge. They were busy planning their route on a big map they¡¯d spread across two tables. Spruce normally stopped cooking breakfast at ten o¡¯clock, but his rules were always pliable, especially if there was coin involved.


    When Spruce finally had a second to spare, he came over to Mick¡¯s table and took his order. At first he had his order book in his left hand and his pen in his right, but he put them away.


    ¡°The usual?¡±


    ¡°One Mick Special, please.¡±


    Mick¡¯s visits to the Sunny Caf¨¦ had always gone contrary to his thriftiness. For one thing, it was cheaper to make his lunch at home. A loaf of bread, some butter, some cheese, and maybe a slice of ham or two. That could save you a fortune. Then again, could he even call himself a spendthrift any longer? What kind of self-respecting spendthrift gave up his job to become a damned sleuth?


    This particular admonishment kept appearing in his thoughts from time to time lately, but he did his best to ignore it. Parts of this whole enterprise felt wrong, sure. Living on his savings went against his nature, like asking a bear to start eating salads. At the same time, he couldn¡¯t think of a single decision in his life that seemed to fit so well. The sleuthing class was his. He just knew it. People said that there was a class for everyone, and Mick didn¡¯t usually agree with such generalized statements, but maybe there was something to it.


    ¡°Here you go, my friend. One Mick Special.¡±


    After Spruce placed the burger, a side of fried potatoes, and an oat milk coffee on the table in front of him, the pair of them had a chat about the key, and how he thought Mr. Leabrook had left it. Spruce was a little distracted; rumor was that a health inspector was doing the rounds in this part of Easterly. Those people would turn up unannounced and act like a regular customer, so you always had to be alert.


    ¡°You keep your kitchen clean. What¡¯s the problem?¡± asked Mick.


    ¡°These people. Some of ¡®em, they¡¯re not here to evaluate fairly, but to look for faults. They¡¯ve got quotas, you see. They have to fail a certain number of restaurants each month.¡±


    ¡°That sounds almost like a conspiracy.¡±


    ¡°Some of those turn out to be right, though, don¡¯t they? Didn¡¯t I say that the new beer glasses Alec bought were ever so slightly smaller, but he charged the same price for a beer? And what happened when Jack Cooper got his measuring tape out?¡±


    ¡°Even so, the inspectors can¡¯t see problems that aren¡¯t there. Stop worrying.¡±


    Mick was all too aware that saying ¡®stop worrying¡¯ to a fella who was worrying was about as effective as telling someone to calm down when they were worked up. Trying to put out a fire using hot oil came to mind. Still, Spruce seemed to ease just a little.


    ¡°Maybe you¡¯re right. My kitchen counters, you can see your own reflection in them.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the spirit.¡±


    The caf¨¦ door opened, and in walked Phil Brownhill and Jester Hugill. Spruce got to his feet, reaching behind him to make sure his chef¡¯s apron was tied tight.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    ¡°Morning, gents!¡±


    ¡°I better be going,¡± Mick told him, reaching into his coin pouch and placing the price of a Mick Special plus tip on the table. Then, as he left, he nodded to Phil and Jester.


    ¡°Ahoy there, Mick¡± said Phil, holding the door open for him.


    With his belly nicely full, Mick made his way to Mr. Leabrook¡¯s office. If spendthriftiness were a class, then Mick could count himself as an apprentice in the face of Mr. Leabrook¡¯s mastery. The guy would have billed his potted plants for sunlight, if he could. As such, his office was as sparse as you could get. White walls and a white ceiling, chosen so he could buy the cheapest, simplest paint if they ever needed touching up. A desk that he¡¯d salvaged from Sunhampton school when they bought new ones. The guy even dried out his teabags and reused them. That alone ought to have been an arrestable offense, but alas, Mick didn¡¯t make the laws, only upheld them.


    Mr. Leabrook wasn¡¯t around today. On his desk, though, right next to a coffee cup, was a note addressed to Mick.


    ¡®Well done, Mr. Mulroon. Since you¡¯re here, why don¡¯t you go take a look on Bishop¡¯s Way? Perhaps at number twelve?¡¯


    Now just what the devil was going on here? Did Mr. Leabrook think Mick was still working for him? Were there crates of junk that needed moving from the address on Bishop¡¯s Way?


    No, think horses, not zebras, he told himself. This had to be about the key.


    Bishop¡¯s Way wasn¡¯t named after anything religious. It was in honor of Kelly Bishop, an artist who made a name for herself painting Sunhampton landscapes. That was perhaps a little generous; she hadn¡¯t been well known in Easterly as a whole, but in a town like this, anyone who managed to get a painting or two displayed in a gallery was something of a celebrity. Ma actually had a Bishop work hanging in her bedroom. ¡®Moonlight on the ¡®hampton Hills,¡¯ it was called. Kelly Bishop always hid her pet dog in her works, though Mick and Ma had never been able to spot it in this painting.


    Number twelve Bishop¡¯s Way looked like it used to be a store of some kind. He couldn¡¯t remember anyone ever running a shop from there, but there was a strip of timber above the storefront window that might once have been where a name would be painted. The windows were beyond dirty. If the place had been on Coiner¡¯s Way, looking like it did, Mr. Leabrook would have written up at least ten violations against the owner.


    When he tried the black key in the door lock, it resisted at first, then gave way. When he pushed it open and stepped inside, he was hit with the smell of dust. He backed away a moment, worried about his allergies. Covering his mouth and nose with his sleeve, he set about opening the windows to let some fresh air in.


    ¡°Alright. Let¡¯s see what we have here.¡±


    If it had in fact used to be a store, then any trace was long gone. No sales counter, no shelves. The only furniture in there was an oak desk and a chair. On the desk, though, was yet another note.


    To Mick,


    I thought that as a new sleuth and the town¡¯s head guard, you ought to have a proper office. This isn¡¯t much, admittedly, and I¡¯ll have to insist that you clean it up yourself; I certainly wasn¡¯t going to do it. But the rent is paid up for a full year. Call it a leaving present, for the many years of service you have given me. Frank Bullbrooke is your new landlord, though you won¡¯t see much of him, busy as he is.


    Well done, Mick, and I wish you all the luck in Easterly in your endeavors.


    Sincerely,


    Mr. Leabrook


    Mick dabbed his eyes with his sleeve. Was it his allergies making him tear up a little? Or was it an unexpected gesture coming from an even more unexpected source? Mick could get sentimental, at times. No point hiding it. When he¡¯d seen Ophelia¡¯s play, he¡¯d welled up a little when the brother and sister were reunited at the end.


    He just couldn¡¯t believe Mr. Leabrook had done this for him. All this time, had he gotten the guy all wrong? He hated the idea he¡¯d pinned a label on a person who didn¡¯t deserve it.


    He pulled out the chair and sat behind the desk. It made him feel proud, sitting there. He tapped out a happy rhythm on the desk with his fingers. My own sleuthing office. I can hardly believe it.


    Not that he¡¯d really considered it, but now, there was no backing out. He¡¯d quit his job, gotten his sleuthing tokens so he could earn his skill trees, and he had his very own place to work from.


    All he needed now was to get cracking on some mysteries.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 30

    <h2>30</h2>


    This being Sunhampton, a place where someone defacing a park bench was newsworthy, the mysteries were slow in coming. The fact was, if crime paid ¨C which Mick always said it didn¡¯t ¨C then any self-respecting criminal would look elsewhere if they wanted to keep their pantries stocked and food on the table.


    He had a few little riddles of his own to work on, but if he wanted to earn his five skill trees quickly, he¡¯d need a lot more. And meatier ones, too. Ones that really stretched him, forced him to think hard about them. Lewis Cooper had once told Mick that the tougher his crafting projects, the more experience he got from them. Surely the same applied to a sleuth solving mysteries?


    A few days went by, and not a single person crossed the threshold of his new office. It was with this in mind that he called on Paisley Porter¡¯s store again one morning. She wasn¡¯t there today, though. Instead, Jace Porter was standing behind the counter, rebinding an old book.


    Mr. Porter used to be one of the richest merchants in this part of Easterly. He could still claim that title here in Sunhampton, but his finances had taken a hit recently. Something about an iron deal that went wrong. Mick had always thought of him as a busy guy, the kind of businessperson who only concerned himself in deals that brought in thousands of gold. A couple of months back, though, he¡¯d opened a stall on the Sunhampton market. Book repairs ¨C that was what he offered. If you had a treasured tome that needed rebinding or just sprucing up, then he¡¯d do it for you.


    ¡°Michael Mulroon, as I live and breathe,¡± said Mr. Porter. He was a much cheerier fellow these days. Everyone said so. His new vocation was treating him well.


    ¡°Morning, Mr. Porter.¡±


    ¡°Oh, please. How long have we known each other?¡±


    Some folks, no matter how long you¡¯d known them, you just couldn¡¯t think of them as anything other than mister or missus. Teachers, for instance. Whenever Mick saw one of his old teachers in town, he still thought of them as Mr. Kenwright, or Ms. Marble.


    ¡°Is Paisley around?¡± he asked.


    ¡°She¡¯s at the Tillwrights¡¯ farm. Jon Tillwright¡¯s been making birdhouses. Looking to perhaps sell them here.¡± Jace looked down at a sheet of paper, as if there were instructions written down for him. ¡°You¡¯re a strapping guy, Mick. You¡¯d look top notch in one of these coats. Try one on.¡±


    Mick glanced at the paper and sure enough, he saw that Paisley had left a list of things that her uncle had to try selling in her absence.


    Ought to be careful, he thought. A master merchant like Jace Porter, he¡¯ll have me handing over all my savings if I don¡¯t keep my wits about me.


    ¡°Still got life left in this yet,¡± said Mick, pinching the collar of his tattered coat. ¡°Any idea when she¡¯s back?¡±


    ¡°Not until later.¡±


    ¡°Righto. I¡¯ll pop by tomorrow, perhaps.¡±


    ¡°Now hold on a second,¡± said Jace. ¡°If there¡¯s something you need, you came to the right place.¡±


    ¡°I wanted a bit of advice, actually,¡± said Mick. ¡°Set me up a little sleuthing office on Bishop¡¯s Way.¡±


    ¡°A sleuthing office?¡±


    He nodded. ¡°Figured people can come to me with things they need solving. I¡¯ll charge them gold, earn experience toward my tokens, and whatever¡¯s puzzling them gets straightened out. Everyone¡¯s laughing.¡±


    ¡°Your tokens? What tokens are you working on?¡± asked Jace.


    Mick explained how he was an apprentice sleuth now, hoping to earn his class so he could become an actual Easterly sleuth, with a full salary paid for by the State one day. One day soon, in fact, if he wanted to keep at least some of his savings intact.Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    Jace set the book he was binding to one side, and took out a notepad. ¡°Well, first things first, Mick. If you want to sell ice, you don¡¯t go visiting the Berg people in the northern tundra.¡±


    ¡°Yup, I know there ain¡¯t much crime here. I¡¯m open to any kind of mystery, though. The experience I get is just as good. Just last week, I found a missing pig for Alister Tillwright. Someone stole his favorite hog.¡±


    Jace looked alarmed. ¡°Someone took Rohan?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I got him back.¡±


    ¡°Phew. Well, then. Second things second. Do people know you¡¯ve set up this office of yours?¡±


    ¡°Not yet,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Golden rule of business; people need to know about it. I¡¯d suggest a sign outside your office, for one thing. I¡¯ll help you with that.¡±


    Mick knew that one ability in the merchant class was adding crowd-drawing effects to their signage. Anyone could write ¡®Boots for sale¡¯ on a sign, for instance. But if a fully-classed merchant did it, it would magically draw more peoples¡¯ attention and make them strangely aware that their current footwear was subpar.


    Jace continued, ¡°I¡¯d also suggest getting a few fliers made. Preferably with a witty slogan.¡±


    ¡°Mr. Leabrook doesn¡¯t like folks handing out fliers in the street. Says it makes Coiner¡¯s Way look cheap.¡±


    ¡°Well, what he likes and what is allowed are two different things. Coiner¡¯s Way Trading Regulations, point sixty-three: ¡®Merchants can advertise their wares by way of signage, business cards, fliers, and sales promotions.¡¯¡±


    He ought to have guessed that Jace Porter would know this kind of thing. The merchants on Coiner¡¯s Way were at war with Mr. Leabrook, the very man who was supposed to manage their interests. Mick had always tried to stay out of it, while secretly thinking that Mr. Leabrook was usually being unreasonable. Now, though, he was starting to doubt all his old thoughts. He even felt the need to defend the guy a little.


    ¡°Mr. Leabrook¡¯s only trying to keep everything looking nice. You know, he just wants Coiner¡¯s Way to stay as it is. Nice and quaint. Not like some of the places in Full Striding.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s by the by,¡± said Jace, giving a dismissive hand wave. ¡°Get some fliers made. A few business cards. If people are going to come to you with their mysteries, then they need to know that you¡¯re offering the service in the first place. What¡¯s more, they ought to know where you are.¡±


    Getting fliers made wasn¡¯t going to be free. Mick toyed with the idea of making them himself. He even made a draft flier using a sheet of notepad paper. Only, his handwriting had never been great, and when he studied his finished flier, it looked unprofessional.


    With this in mind, he went to visit a printer¡¯s shop in Perentee. It was a small workshop sandwiched between the fishmonger on one side and the Fox and Hill tavern on the other, so that the air outside was a mix of stale beer and cod.


    The printer was a lady named Jesssolu ¨C no surname ¨C and she¡¯d been in the game since the saints were young, as she liked to say. A while back, Mick had helped her out. She¡¯d been visiting Sunhampton for some Yulthor shopping, when she¡¯d had one of her epileptic fits. Mick  had taken a very basic healing course when he became the town guard, and he knew enough so he could make her safe until the fit passed, then took her to Healer Brown¡¯s clinic.


    ¡°Hey, Jess.¡±


    He caught her in the middle of messing around with her tinkered press. She was underneath it, working at something with a spanner.


    ¡°Miklaus!¡± she said.


    Where she came from, that was the equivalent of his name. He liked it. Much fancier than ¡®Michael.¡¯


    Jesssolu told him she¡¯d print a hundred fliers with a twenty-five percent discount, and she¡¯d throw in fifty business cards, too. All she needed to know was what to put on them. Mick told her the pertinent information.


    ¡°Need something at the bottom, too,¡± he said. ¡°A slogan.¡±


    He, Nell, Lee, and Spruce had talked this out over a few beers in the tavern. Given that was their choice of meeting venue, and the fact they were drinking Queen¡¯s Sorrow, which was a 12% beer, their suggestions started out helpful and became increasingly ridiculous. When Lee Hunter had suggested that Mick¡¯s slogan be ¡®criminals will be hunted¡¯, Mick had called it a night.


    Funnily enough, it was Ma who¡¯d given him the slogan he needed. ¡°Don¡¯t try to be too clever, Micky. That¡¯s when you miss something obvious. Why not just tell people what you¡¯ll do for them? ¡®Hamptoners appreciate someone who¡¯s straightforward.¡±


    And so, at the bottom of Mick¡¯s fliers and business cards, he¡¯d simply gotten printed, ¡®Mysteries, riddles, puzzles and more ¨C Mick Mulroon will solve them all.¡¯


    Jesssolu told him no problem, she could get them printed while he waited. As long as he waited somewhere else ¨C such as the tavern, for instance. The printing press needed a little tinkering with. Mick didn¡¯t want to spend money on tavern food when he wasn¡¯t all that hungry, but he respected a crafter¡¯s need for space all the same.


    ¡°Gotcha. I¡¯ll take a walk. Say, doesn¡¯t Chris Crier work around here?¡±


    ¡°The man with the bell?¡±


    ¡°The very same.¡±


    ¡°Usually in the town square. Oh, Mick?¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡± he said.


    ¡°Are you looking for a wife? My sister, you¡¯d love her. She¡¯s coming to Easterly, perhaps to stay. I can¡¯t make promises. Perhaps she¡¯d hate you. But she is around your age.¡±


    Mick cleared his throat. ¡°Uh, not looking for a wife at the minute, no.¡±


    ¡°Then a husband? My brother will be coming too.¡±


    ¡°Probably a lovely guy, but I¡¯m just not looking to get hitched. Good to have options, though, so I¡¯ll bear ¡®em both in mind.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 31

    <h2>31</h2>


    He spent that Sunday morning handing out his fliers and business cards. Zip insisted on helping him, and she didn¡¯t even ask for anything in return. As a reward, Mick said he¡¯d buy her a late lunch. Not at the tavern, though. Kids could eat in there from nine in the morning until eight in the evening, but Zip hated it. She didn¡¯t like the smell of spilled beer. So, he promised to take her to the Sunny Caf¨¦. She¡¯d always liked ¡®Uncle Spruce¡¯s¡¯ place, as she called it.


    As the morning wore on and he worked his way north giving out fliers, Mick found himself outside Mr. Leabrook¡¯s office. Glancing through the window, he saw his old employer sitting in the dark, with only pale daylight to illuminate the room. Mr. Leabrook refused to pay for artificed lamps, and he didn¡¯t use his oil ones unless absolutely necessary.


    Without really thinking too much about what he was going to do, Mick knocked on the door and walked in. Mr. Leabrook looked up and smiled. Then, as if remembering his default state of mind and public persona, he scowled.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got a list of jobs as long as my arm, and Douggie Fernglass won¡¯t do them without extra pay. Plus, I¡¯m worried about Douggie anyhow. Says he keeps hearing birdsong, when there are no birds around.¡±


    ¡°He works hard,¡± said Mick. ¡°Fella could use a rest.¡±


    ¡°Well, he¡¯s taking up your slack. Are you happy now? This is what happens when you quit on people. Even the prisoners in the revolt of ¡¯88 gave two weeks¡¯ notice.¡±


    There was no seat in front of Mr. Leabrook¡¯s reclaimed school desk. Chairs implied that visitors were welcome and encouraged them to stay. So, instead, he stood on the other side of the desk.


    ¡°Haven¡¯t seen you around to thank you, Mr. Leabrook,¡± he said. ¡°The office you got for me-¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a bit busy, Mick,¡± he said.


    Mick was a quick reader of people. It was a skill any would-be sleuth practiced, and the books he¡¯d read about body language stood him in good stead. If he was interpreting this right, then Mr. Leabrook didn¡¯t want to hear any thanks or appreciation. Maybe it embarrassed him.


    Even so, he couldn¡¯t let a good turn go unanswered. ¡°Me, Nell, and the others are meeting at the King¡¯s Head later. Quiz night. Always a spare seat at our table if you¡¯re interested?¡±


    ¡°The tavern? No. Sorry. Not my kind of place.¡±


    ¡°Have you even been there lately?¡±


    ¡°The floors are always sticky, the place smells like stale beer, and old Jack Cooper¡¯s always in there. Can¡¯t resist goading me, the old fart. No, Mick, not my place at all.¡±


    All good points, Mick thought. He happened to like the smell of stale beer, though, and he also relished a verbal jousting with Jack Cooper from time to time. Kept his wits fresh. The old artificer was the kind of guy who, if you pushed back at him, he respected you.


    If Mr. Leabrook didn¡¯t like the tavern, what kind of invite might he accept? Someplace nice and quiet, maybe? Ah ¨C maybe he had it.


    ¡°Me and my niece are having lunch at the Sunny when we¡¯re done with the fliers. Would be great if you joined us.¡±


    Mr. Leabrook looked up from the papers he was studying. ¡°Really?¡±


    ¡°I know you don¡¯t eat at the Sunny much. You¡¯d like it.¡±


    ¡°Why pay for someone to cook food when I can do it at home? That¡¯s what I say.¡±


    ¡°And I¡¯m with you, but it¡¯s also nice to treat yourself from time to time. Come on. What do you say?¡±


    Mr. Leabrook was awhile in answering, but finally, he said, ¡°Alright. Fine. But actually, now that you¡¯re here, there is something I want to talk to you about.¡±


    ¡°If it¡¯s about some kind of job¡­¡±


    ¡°It is. But a sleuthing one.¡±


    Mr. Leabrook said it was better to just show him than to tell him about it. So, he put on his coat and hat with a peacock feather in it, locked up his office, and the pair of them walked through Coiner¡¯s Way. They had just gone past Lee Hunter¡¯s store, when Mr. Leabrook spotted Leroy Macintyre in the distance. Leroy owned a store where he sold puppets, and he and Mr. Leabrook were always at loggerheads.


    The problem, according to Mr. Leabrook, was that Leroy¡¯s window displays were hideous. One day he had grown sick of seeing them, and he told Leroy so.


    ¡°But it¡¯s Scamps¡¯ Eve ¨C they¡¯re supposed to be hideous,¡± Leroy had said.


    ¡°It¡¯ll scare people away. Can¡¯t you tone it down, Mr. Macintyre? Perhaps one zombie puppet and two witches?¡±


    That had been months ago, and the pair had been locked in battle ever since. If Mr. Leabrook could spot a regulation Leroy was breaking, he¡¯d write him up quicker than he could blink. If Leroy¡¯s careful perusal of his tenancy contract mentioned a service that Mr. Leabrook was duty-bound to perform as manager of Coiner¡¯s Way, he made sure he did it, required or not.


    Leroy waved at him to get his attention. Mr. Leabrook stopped walking and tugged on Mick¡¯s sleeve, while gesturing at the alley just ahead. There, they ducked out of view.


    ¡°He¡¯s going to ask me to arrange for a gutter inspection, Michael. It¡¯s in his tenancy agreement that I have to arrange for it to happen quarterly. When the other store owners see Leroy¡¯s getting looked at, they¡¯ll all want it. Do gutters really need inspecting so often?¡±


    ¡°Likely not, but they¡¯re a pain in the arse if they get blocked. Once, maybe twice a year at a push ought to do it. Why¡¯d you write it into the contract, if you¡¯re so bothered?¡±


    ¡°I used a template contract from that damned Victor Gaskill. State funding was much more generous when he was manager. I¡¯ve got my own contracts drawn up now, but until the fixed tenancies on the old contracts run out, I¡¯m stuck to their terms. Leroy is bleeding my budget dry, Michael. The state doesn¡¯t give any extra funding these days, only the basic that is required. Taxes don¡¯t go far, you know. The town doesn¡¯t turn a profit on Coiner¡¯s Way. If this carries on, I won¡¯t be able to buy artificed grit for winter, and those cobbles can be treacherous.¡±The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Just tell him no.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s asking for things that his tenancy allows for. I can¡¯t refuse.¡±


    ¡°Maybe if you settle this little feud, he won¡¯t keep badgering you,¡± said Mick. ¡°I doubt Leroy cares a damn about you getting his gutters looked at. Be the bigger person.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d rather pluck out my eyes.¡±


    ¡°I suppose you better get the gutter people out, then, and get them checked. Not much else for it. And when winter comes, maybe you could pay for grit out of your own pocket.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d rather climb through a forest of pine needles, naked.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s one or the other, Mr. Leabrook. Sometimes, folks just need to get along. Leroy¡¯s an okay guy. You¡¯ve driven him to this.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± said Mr. Leabrook. ¡°Who do you think you¡¯re-¡± he paused then, taking on the look of a man who had something dawning on him. Must have been the knowledge that Mick didn¡¯t work for him anymore, and could say what he liked. The knowledge seemed to drain him.


    Mick pressed on, ¡°Just try apologizing. Might stick in your craw at first, but it¡¯ll be so much better than this stupid feud you¡¯ve got going on.¡±


    Leroy caught up with them. He was holding a puppet in his hand. It was a nightmarish thing, some kind of monster with long claws and a hunched back. Mick quite liked it.


    Mr. Macintyre didn¡¯t just make and sell puppets but was an accomplished puppeteer himself, and he was always practicing. Even now, speaking to him and Mr. Leabrook, Leroy was puppeteering. He set the puppet so it was standing on the cobbles, and whatever gestures Leroy made, the monster also did.


    Both man and monster pointed at Mr. Leabrook. ¡°You haven¡¯t had my gutters inspected yet. It¡¯s a week overdue.¡±


    Mr. Leabrook scowled. ¡°Your gutters are fine.¡±


    Man and monster crossed their arms. ¡°Last time I checked they weren¡¯t see through, so I¡¯d love to know how you can be so sure. How about you get someone out to take a look? I have a solicitor, you know. Kiera Mulroon. ¡±


    Mr. Leabrook looked sidelong at Mick. ¡°Your sister?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s studying for her tokens, Mr. Leabrook. She needs to get experience somehow.¡±


    The monster jabbed a claw at Mr. Leabrook, and Leroy said, ¡°How about you do what you¡¯re supposed to do?¡±


    ¡°How about you-¡° began Mr. Leabrook, stopping when Mick gently elbowed him. He cleared his throat. ¡°I suppose, looked at in a certain way, one might go as far as to say, perhaps in some light, from a particular point of view¡­¡±


    The puppet monster tipped its head to the side like a dog trying to understand what its human was saying. Leroy waited patiently, most likely surprised at Mr. Leabrook¡¯s unusually soft, maybe even conciliatory, tone.


    Mr. Leabrook continued, ¡°Perhaps I was a little harsh, with the window display. You were, uhm, only trying to sell your wares. And your puppets do have a certain workmanship to them.¡±


    It was hardly a glowing review, but Mick just hoped that Leroy was the kind of guy who could see a rose for the thorns.


    The body language of both the puppet monster and its puppeteer softened. ¡°Well, I know you¡¯re a busy man, Mr. Leabrook. I don¡¯t want to be a nag, really I don¡¯t. You¡¯ve driven me to this.¡±


    ¡°I suppose we can leave the matter there, then?¡±


    ¡°Suppose we can, for now. Shake on it?¡±


    Mr. Leabrook had the look of a man who¡¯d never been asked to shake hands in his life. He also seemed confused as to whether to grab the man¡¯s hand or the puppet¡¯s, since both had theirs extended. In the end, he shook Leroy¡¯s hand first, and then took the puppet¡¯s claw and gave that a generous shake, too.


    Their diversion over with, Mr. Leabrook led Mick to the far end of Coiner¡¯s Way, heading in the direction of the town plaza, where crafters¡¯ markets were usually held. He was the market manager as well as being in charge of Coiner¡¯s Way, meaning he considered this whole stretch from the King¡¯s Head and all the way to the town gates at the end of the plaza to be his domain. Just as one more step would have seen them leaving Coiner¡¯s Way, Mr. Leabrook stopped.


    ¡°What do you make of this?¡± he said.


    At first, Mick didn¡¯t know what Mr. Leabrook was pointing at. His finger was directed at the back wall of the last store on Coiner¡¯s Way. This was vacant, since Otis Thompson, who used to run the Full Steam Ahead clothes pressing store, had gone to Larking to live with his granddaughter and her husband.


    If there was anything untoward, then he couldn¡¯t see it. It was just a wall forming the yard outside a brick building, nothing more, nothing less. The wall was cracked in places and overdue having the mortar repointed, but there was certainly nothing unusual.


    As he looked, though, the finer details seemed to settle in his mind, and it was then that he saw it. One of the red bricks had been chipped away enough to make a crevice inside, and in that crevice was a little statuette of a monster.


    Small and squat, maybe the size of his thumb, and with gray skin and red eyes. A hideous little thing. It seemed to be staring straight at them, or maybe past them.


    ¡°Kids¡¯ toy?¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Try moving it.¡±


    He did. The monster statue was stuck fast inside its brick grotto.


    ¡°Still think it¡¯s just kids messing around. Glued their toy here as a joke,¡± he said.


    ¡°Why would they do that? What¡¯s the joke?¡±


    Mick shrugged. ¡°Me and Kiera, we used to take turns dressing up in Granny Wells¡¯ shawl and headscarf. We¡¯d grab her walking stick, then walk through town pretending we were old. The more people we fooled, the happier we were. No rhyme nor reason to it. Kids do stupid stuff.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Mick. Seems very peculiar to me, that someone would take the time to chip away the brick and then stick a statue in there.¡±


    More details began to stand out to him. The positioning of the statuette, for instance. The brick that had been carved away was near the top of the wall ¨C too high up for a kid to reach. They could have used a ladder, of course, but the more complexity you added to the prank, the more unlikely it seemed to be something innocent. Most kids were only opportunist pranksters and wouldn¡¯t go to much trouble for their japes.


    ¡°It¡¯s a puzzle, alright,¡± said Mick. ¡°Doesn¡¯t seem to be doing any harm, but my tokens aren¡¯t fussy. Experience is experience. I¡¯ll look into it.¡±


    ¡°Right you are.¡±


    ¡°Well, then. Now that¡¯s settled, how about we go find my niece, and we¡¯ll get some grub? I¡¯m as hungry as a horse.¡±


    Mick returned home that night exhausted from spending all day handing out fliers and business cards. He¡¯d spread word of his new sleuthing enterprise far and wide ¨C at least in Sunhampton terms, which didn¡¯t mean far or wide at all. At any rate, there could be no doubt now that people knew what he was doing, and where he was doing it. Some of them were even out of towners, which meant news of his enterprise might reach somewhere as exotic as Perentee, perhaps.


    Opening his front door, he called out hello to Ma, only to hear a strange sound. A sort of panicked commotion. He crossed briskly into the living room, where he saw Ma and her friend, George, standing near the sofa. George had lipstick around his mouth.


    Mick sighed. Always with the pretending. The pair of them were old enough to make their own mistakes, by his reckoning, and he wished Ma nothing but happiness. If any covering up of this relationship, affair, dalliance ¨C whatever it was ¨C were needed, then it didn¡¯t come from Mick¡¯s side. It had been so long since Pa passed now. If Ma was enjoying herself, what was the problem?


    No, this idea of keeping it a secret, it was from Ma¡¯s side. Mick half suspected she liked the idea of having to hide something. Kind of how Zip enjoyed when Keira told her off.


    So, he always kept up the pretense. Pretended he knew nothing about Ma and her old friend George. He sometimes even acted like he was a little bit suspicious, but stopping short of actually accusing them and ruining the game.


    ¡°Micky!¡± said Ma. ¡°George was just¡­returning a book.¡±


    ¡°Right you are. Hey, George.¡±


    ¡°Michael. How do you do.¡±


    This was said not as a question, but as a statement. A prerequisite greeting said out of polite obligation. George was an ex-army colonel. A stern guy, but not in a bad sort of way. He was pleasant enough, it was just that he was wound tighter than a lute string. You couldn¡¯t just shake off years and years of discipline. He was a widower like Ma, and they had met when George¡¯s veteran¡¯s club had booked the party room at the King¡¯s Head tavern to have their annual meeting.


    ¡°What book was he returning?¡± said Mick. ¡°I don¡¯t see one.¡±


    ¡°I mean we were talking about books. George was returning with his opinion on the book.¡±


    ¡°Oh, right. What book was it?¡±


    Ma raised one eyebrow at George, who coughed and said, ¡°Gaskin¡¯s account of the Easterly ¨C Turen conflict of ¡¯56, pieced together from witness accounts at the time.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know you were into military history, Ma. Never seen that book on our shelf. How was it?¡±


    George said, ¡°Very enlightening. But anyway, I heard you¡¯re getting into sleuthing, Michael.¡± Again, this was said as a statement, and not a question.


    ¡°Yup. Working for my tokens.¡±


    ¡°An honorable thing to do. Best of luck to you.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, George.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 32

    <h2>32</h2>


    The fliers and business cards worked well. Maybe too well, in fact, because over the next week, Mick had quite a few ¡®hamptoners and non-¡®hamptoners visit him. Taking down the particulars of a case took a lot longer than he¡¯d expected, since the more background knowledge he got from his clients, the better equipped he was to help them.


    The problem was if he was sitting at his desk, then he wasn¡¯t actually working on his cases. Hence his dilemma. He couldn¡¯t afford an assistant to handle his admin, nor could he stay in his office all day.


    The solution to his problem came on Monday evening, in the tavern. Mick and Nell had met up for a quick drink. Lee Hunter was in the nearby forest trailing ratbats, while Spruce had enrolled on an advanced chef course at Sunhampton school. The headteacher, Penelope Ladbrook, rented out the classrooms to people who wanted to host evening classes. Part of a way of making extra gold for the school¡¯s budget.


    Mick had just finished telling Nell about how busy he was. Nell, of course, was busier. For all her virtues, his friend¡¯s one flaw was that you couldn¡¯t say a word about how busy or tired you were, without her being even busier or more exhausted.


    Flo Anderson was sitting at the table next to them, drinking straight whiskey with her friend, Martha Peters.


    ¡°Sorry to eavesdrop, duckie,¡± said Flo. ¡°And I don¡¯t like to stick my oar in where it¡¯s not needed, as you well know.¡±


    Mick actually didn¡¯t know Flo too well at all. Only that she was always talking about birds, and that she worked with Lewis and Jack Cooper. The fact she had listened to him and Nell indicated that she very much did like eavesdropping. Still, it was nice to be nice.


    ¡°Of course not,¡± he said.


    ¡°I just couldn¡¯t help but hear that you¡¯ve got yourself a little administrative pickle. Well, I was a fully classed administrator, you know. I could help.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯d be great. You¡¯d really do that?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t like to use my old class. The past is the past, I always say, but I¡¯ve been having this little problem.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°Someone keeps stealing my milk bottle caps, Mick.¡±


    ¡°The little thin metal ones?¡±


    ¡°The very same. Rodney Franks leaves the bottles on my doorstep, and he swears they¡¯re fine. When I open my door to collect ¡®em, the caps are always missing! I love my milk, Mick. Love my cereal. Can¡¯t start my day without it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s probably just birds. Have you tried just setting a box with a closeable lid down on your doorstep?¡±


    Flo nodded. ¡°That doesn¡¯t really get to the heart of the problem, duckie. I want to know why it¡¯s happening. If I start leaving a box out there, it¡¯s almost like I¡¯m living with the problem. You know, allowing it to go on. Not my style. You don¡¯t sort out a fire by putting a screen in front of it to hide it away, do you? I need to know what¡¯s happening to my milk bottles, why it¡¯s happening,  and then put a stop to it.¡±If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Mick promised to take a look into Flo¡¯s milk bottle problem, and in return, she gave him a few pointers about staying organized and managing his time. These were obvious things, obvious as heck, but like most good solutions, they were the very ones he had overlooked.


    So, taking her advice, Mick bought a sheet of timber and painted on it in white. Unlike with his fliers, he wasn¡¯t too fussed about it looking particularly neat.


    Mick Mulroon ¨C Apprentice Sleuth For Hire *


    Consultation times: Weekdays, 09:00 ¨C 11:00 **


    * Subject to current caseload


    **Subject to workload, consultations may be cancelled


    Feeling like his work balance was just a little more under control, Mick took on a few new cases. This being his own enterprise, he was free to choose what to work on. He began to make a sort of priority system in his head. If an actual crime had been committed, then as head guard, he needed to look into it. All other cases were taken at his discretion, though.


    He needed to have ethics, for instance; though not all of his sleuthing cases were related to his official capacity as Sunhampton¡¯s guard, the Full Striding Guard Commission was still sponsoring his apprenticeship. If he did something to bring himself into disrepute, they might revoke his tokens.


    Once he was a fully classed sleuth, it didn¡¯t matter. They couldn¡¯t do a thing about his tokens; they were his. For now, though, until he passed his apprenticeship, he needed to be careful.


    Besides that, he couldn¡¯t have taken on a case that went against his personal morals, anyhow. Some sleuths did. A coin was a coin. But not Mick. So, when Percy Tattersall asked Mick if he could find out Paisley Porter¡¯s secret plans for her next window display so he could copy it, Mick declined.


    What he tried to do was take on cases according to what best fit his skill trees. After a few days of early morning consultations with clients, he had a healthy caseload. For now, he focused on mysteries that would involve him using his Observation skill tree. If people visited with a mystery that suited a different skill tree, he still took their particulars, but told them he had a waiting list.


    <u>Mysteries to take a look at:</u>


    1) Tim Ritson¡¯s Missing Moggy


    Help the old man in Full Striding find his missing cat


    2) The Lady with the Red Neck


    Why¡¯s her neck so red? Find out without being weird about it.


    3) The Mysterious Statue on Coiner¡¯s Way


    Who put the monster statue in the brick wall? Why?


    4) Flo Anderson¡¯s Milk Bottle Mischief


    Find out who¡¯s messing around with Florence Anderson¡¯s milk bottles


    5) Where does the Black Carriage Go?


    There¡¯s a carriage that parks up on the outskirts of Perentee town every Monday. It¡¯s there for exactly one hour, and nobody gets on or leaves it. Why does it come here, and where does it go? Alderman Woot, assistant to the mayor of Perentee, wants me to find out.


    6) The Flight of the Birds


    The birds on the Tattersall farm are acting funny. Jon Tillwright wants to know what¡¯s happening.


    <u>Solved Mysteries</u>


    The Mysterious Key


    Find out who left the key and what it unlocks


    There were other cases, too. Ones not even worthy of adding to his case sheet, but which he took on because he was a starter sleuth trying to build up both his business and his experience. And besides that, gold was gold, and he¡¯d written on his fliers that ¡®no case was too small.¡¯


    This saw him filling the odd hour or two here and there solving ¡®cases¡¯ such as Hattie Greave¡¯s missing keys, finding out who smashed the Sunhampton school equipment shed window (it was a freak weather event where the wind blew an acorn at the already brittle glass), and tracking down Seelka Syrne¡¯s missing  rabbit.


    Cases like these didn¡¯t bring in much gold, on their own. Then again, they didn¡¯t take very long, and they slowly but surely chipped away at his experience. Layering them in with his bigger cases, Mick started to see his skill trees in the distance.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 33

    <h2>33</h2>


    The Observation skill tree, according to his Starter Sleuthing book, involved two different types of observation: persistence during lengthy stakeouts, and attention to minute details at crime scenes.


    ¡®The Starter Sleuth is advised to buy a flask that will keep coffee hot, and to never leave for a stakeout without packing a sandwich,¡¯ read a helpful tip in Starter Sleuthing.


    Mick decided that he should hold up his end of the deal with Flo Anderson. Early one morning, he got up and completed his usual run while it was still dark. After a quick breakfast of buttered toast, he made his way to the east of town, where Flo¡¯s house sat in the early gloom, with no sign of the sun lighting over her roof slates just yet.


    He positioned himself on a waist high cobbled stone wall just across from Flo¡¯s street, and he sat there sipping coffee from the flask he¡¯d bought from Joe Phillips¡¯ store.


    Soon enough Rodney Franks, Sunhampton¡¯s only milkman, appeared, riding his cart that was stacked end to end with jars of milk and orange juice. A lone, brown-spotted mule pulled the vehicle, while Rodney¡¯s young helper, a teenager named Jonas Clyde, was standing on a step that stuck out of the back of the cart like a lip, clinging onto the roof to stop from falling off while they moved. Rodney whistled under his breath. Not loud, given the time of day, but enough so Mick could just about make out the sound, if not the tune.


    ¡°Here,¡± said Rodney in a clipped voice. The mule stopped walking. Rodney hopped down off the cart and placed milk bottles down on Flo¡¯s doorstep. Three of them. Full fat, judging by the color of the caps. Mick was very aware of milk bottle cap colors, because Ma wasn¡¯t allowed much fatty food anymore, and her favorite milk had been the first victim of her diet. It hadn¡¯t stopped there, though. No more lumps of cheese before bed, no more thick gravy with her Sunday roasts.


    After tying his bootlace, Rodney hopped back onto his cart and urged his mule on, heading down the road a little before stopping at a house three doors away.


    Alright, thought Mick. The bottles are in place, now I just need to see what¡¯s messing with them.


    Subtlety was needed now that the trap was set, so Mick climbed over the cobbled wall and ducked down on the other side of it, out of sight. Kneeling behind the stone, he poked his head out just enough so he could see Flo¡¯s front door. And then he waited.


    And waited.


    And waited some more.


    Daylight broke over Sunhampton like old age, arriving in increments so small you didn¡¯t really notice them. Then, before you knew it everything was changed; the sky was bluer than a sea of bluebells and the birds were singing melodies only they knew. A few houses down the road, a door opened and Headmistress Penelope stepped out of it, dressed in her prim, plum-colored suit and holding her satchel in her right hand, setting off for another day at Sunhampton school. From somewhere distant, maybe a few streets over, came the sound of someone hammering on something.


    Mick¡¯s knees were hurting from kneeling down for so long behind the wall, and he didn¡¯t know how long he could stay put. How sleuths did this so often, he had no idea. Maybe they all had top class stretching regimes. He was about to stand up, when Flo¡¯s front door opened and Flo, dressed in a fluffy gown, appeared. After a quick glance left and right, she kneeled down to pick up her milk bottles.


    Mick climbed over the wall and approached her. ¡°Hey, Flo. Don¡¯t think our mystery cap-stealer showed today,¡± he said. ¡°I could come back tomorrow.¡±


    Flo held a bottle so he could see it. Their metal caps were gone. ¡°Oh really, sparrow?¡±


    ¡°This doesn¡¯t make a lick of sense. I was watching the whole time from when Rodney put the bottles down to now, and nobody went near your front door. I swear on my honor.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what to say, Mick. I just don¡¯t. All I want is my cereal in the morning. Is that too much to ask? Martha says I should use the milk anyway, but who knows what¡¯s been done to it, with the cap missing?¡±


    ¡°Leave it with me,¡± said Mick. ¡°I¡¯m not quitting yet. Mulroons don¡¯t quit, and I¡¯m a Mulroon through and through.¡±


    This being a Monday morning, Mick had to leave town and walk to Perentee, where he had another case to attend to. He was joined for the walk there by Chris Crier, who worked in Perentee as their town crier.


    Chris was a nice lad. He had a big appetite, or at least he used to before he started dieting, and he enjoyed beer and a singsong at the tavern. A generous sort of fella, too. If you needed a hand with something, he was the guy you¡¯d ask. He was best friends with Lewis Cooper, and he¡¯d moved into a cottage with Paisley Porter not long ago. Mick didn¡¯t know him all that well, but what he did know about him, he liked.


    ¡°Flapjack?¡± said Chris, taking two out of his pocket and offering him one.


    ¡°Thank you kindly.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t usually see you out this way, Mick.¡±


    ¡°Got business in Perentee. Guard business. Well, sleuth business, actually.¡±


    Chris arched his eyebrow. ¡°Oh?¡±


    ¡°Yup. Apparently there¡¯s¡­hold on a second. Whatever I tell you, you¡¯re going to go blabbing in town, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    Chris shrugged. ¡°I am a town crier. Part of the job is having news to tell people.¡±


    He had to watch out for this kind of thing. Starter Sleuthing had said so. Sleuths, detectives, inspectors, they had to be careful about what they said to town criers and journalists, unless they wanted details of their cases spread throughout Easterly. Sometimes it could be useful, say if you wanted to appeal for witnesses or information. In that respect, it paid to have good relations with the press. For cases like the mysterious carriage, though, discretion was needed.


    ¡°How¡¯s your new house, anyway?¡± he said, changing the subject.


    ¡°Ah, okay. You mind your secrets, then, Mick. I won¡¯t pry. The house is great. Can¡¯t decide on the color for the living room walls, though. I keep going back and forth. Ocean blue or lobster red. Pais doesn¡¯t care. She said I can paint it black, for all she minds.¡±


    Mick got to Perentee for nine thirty, which made him early since the carriage supposedly showed up at eleven on the dot. To pass time, he found a bench in the town plaza, poured himself another cup of coffee from his flask, and took out his notepad to review his case.


    Where does the Black Carriage Go?


    There¡¯s a carriage that parks up on the outskirts of Perentee every Monday. It¡¯s there for exactly one hour, and nobody gets on it or leaves it. Why¡¯s it coming here, and where does it go?


    This case had come from Alderman Woot, assistant to the mayor of Perentee. Ald had been in Sunhampton shopping for a new case for his cello, when he¡¯d spotted Mick handing out fliers. Mick had already noticed Ald before the man came to say hello;  it was hard not to, what with the poultice he wore on his bald head, kept in place by see-through wrapping. It was for the skin on his scalp. It was very sensitive.


    ¡°Mysteries, eh?¡± Ald had said to Mick, studying the flyer. ¡°As it happens, there is something bugging me. But I can¡¯t do anything in my official capacity. Nor can Mayor Foster.¡±


    Ald explained how they¡¯d noticed the black wagon showing up in the forest west of town like clockwork, and how they didn¡¯t like it.


    ¡°Nothing illegal about a wagon,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Come on, Mr. Mulroon,¡± he said, adjusting his head poultice wrapping. ¡°It arrives the same time every week, and just sits there for an hour. Is that normal? I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    ¡°Again, nothing illegal about that.¡±


    ¡°Well, we don¡¯t like it. Only, Mayor Foster was elected less for his own virtues, if you¡¯ll excuse my candor, and more because he promised not to breathe down people¡¯s necks like Mayor Washering used to. That¡¯s why we can¡¯t just go asking the wagon driver what they¡¯re doing. Anything that smells like mayoral interference, we have to steer clear of.¡±


    ¡°Carriage driver,¡± said Mick. ¡°You said it was a carriage, not a wagon.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re the same thing.¡±


    Mick thought about Inspector Sammy Lee in her scrapyard. His mentor, at least officially. Not that Sammy had done much other than put her name on a form and loan him an old book.


    ¡°Carriages are much fancier than wagons, Ald, and they¡¯re used by different people, for different purposes. So it¡¯s very pertinent, if you want to know what they¡¯re up to.¡±


    ¡°All we need to know is that the wagon isn¡¯t doing anything dodgy,¡± Ald had told Mick. ¡°If it ain¡¯t illegal, we don¡¯t mind.¡±


    ¡°Tell me more about it,¡± Mick had said, pen ready.


    ¡°Not much to say. Turns up in the forest near town every Monday, same time. Stays there one hour, then goes. Nobody leaves it, not a single soul approaches it.¡±


    ¡°That does sound peculiar. Still not saying they¡¯re doing anything illegal, mind.¡±


    ¡°Well, as you said, there¡¯s peculiar, and there¡¯s illegal. I just want to rule out the second. If all it¡¯s doing is sitting there being strange, then we¡¯ll leave it alone.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 34

    <h2>34</h2>


    Soon, Chris Crier arrived at the town plaza dressed in a brown coat and holding a huge, brass bell. He rang it twice, then shouted out the day¡¯s news in a deceptively loud voice. Mick was impressed; he didn¡¯t know he had it in him. Must have been one of his abilities as a fully-classed town crier.


    Near eleven, Mick headed over to woodland west of town, where the black carriage was supposed to arrive. This wasn¡¯t much of a woodland, really. More of a small grouping of pines. It wasn¡¯t hard for him to find tracks in the mud from where the carriage usually parked up.


    He took a position a good distance away, out of sight by but so he still had a good view. From this vantage point, he waited and watched. Sure enough, a black carriage rolled up to the woodland outskirts, parking right where the mud tracks ended. The driver wore all black and had their hood up. They limbed down from the driver¡¯s compartment and skirted the carriage, annoyingly putting them out of Micks¡¯ eyeline.


    The carriage itself was fancy. Too fancy to be transporting goods or anything like that. Glossy black panels that caught the daylight, huge wheels made from the finest wood and polished to perfection.


    Nothing whatsoever had happened for a little while, lulling Mick into a false sense of security. He was surprised, then, when something did happen. Birds swooped down from every angle, dozens upon dozens of them.


    Without warning, the carriage driver flicked his reins and made the horses turn around, slowly heading away from the woods.


    Mick got up, rubbed his aching knees, and started off in the carriage¡¯s direction. A glance to his right told him that the birds weren¡¯t up to much; they were just eating something from the ground. The carriage  was the bigger prize; he just wanted to see where it went.


    He only managed to follow it for maybe a minute or two, though, before the driver urged the horses into a quicker pace, and the vehicle was gone, just a black spot on the horizon taking the answers along with it.


    There was nothing he could do about this but come back better prepared next Monday. In the meantime, he had plenty to be doing. What he really wanted was to earn his Observation skill tree, and the observing he¡¯d already done with Flo¡¯s milk bottles and the black carriage had helped.


    Checking on his skills was as easy as pie. All he had to do was tap his token bracelet, and the words came spilling out in the air, visible only to him. He hadn¡¯t actually earned any skill trees yet, though, so all it showed him was his progress towards them.


    Skill Tree: Simple Observation


    The ability to watch a person or place for long periods of time, and also to study a scene and pick out important details on a smaller scale.


    Progress toward skill tree:


    Practice surveillance on a case, or observe a detail that is hidden or easily missed [7/25]


    On Tuesday morning, Mick made his way to the Tillwrights¡¯ farm. He liked the Tillwrights. Alister, Jonathan, Samantha, and Jane had inherited the farm from their Pa, old George Doley-Tillwright.  They had come from the city, and they would probably admit themselves that country life had suited them like a pigeon wearing a suit of armor, at first. Now, though, they were ¡®hamptoners through and through, and their farm was as healthy as a ripened peach.


    Jonathan Tillwright made Mick a cup of coffee in the farmhouse kitchen. On the table was a birdhouse he was in the middle of mending. It was a sophisticated structure, as bird houses went; three floors, underfloor heating from a tiny glow stone. The damn thing was better than Mick¡¯s house.


    ¡°Thanks for coming, Mick. I know it can¡¯t be high up your list, worrying about a few birds.¡±


    ¡°A mystery is a mystery¡± said Mick. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡±


    ¡°Well, they¡¯re acting strangely. You know how I keep my birdhouses outside?¡±


    Mick nodded. ¡°Saw ¡®em. Very nice, they are.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. They¡¯re all occupied. Got some sparrows, bluebirds, a woodland pigeon family, couple of blue tits, a beautiful little chickadee. I¡¯m the premier bird landlord in these parts, Mick. No sooner do I nail one to a tree, then a new bird comes to visit.¡±


    ¡°Nail one to a tree?¡±


    ¡°A birdhouse.¡±


    ¡°Oh, of course.¡±


    Jonathan took a seat in front of Mick and cupped his hands around his coffee mug. ¡°Only, they keep disappearing. All of them, flying off as a flock. Different kinds of birds messing around together. You don¡¯t see that kind of behavior usually.¡±


    Mick sipped his coffee and said, ¡°I¡¯m wondering if maybe you need a ranger or a¡­¡± he tried to remember the name for a bird specialist. He was sure he¡¯d read it once and stored it in his dusty old memory palace. ¡°¡­ornithologist.¡±


    No sooner had he said it, though, then he admonished himself. Why was he trying to give away work? The tougher and more novel a mystery, the more experience he¡¯d get. Don¡¯t start giving good experience away, he admonished himself.


    Besides that, coins were coins. He needed to stop trying to talk himself out of cases. He supposed he was only being honest with a prospective client, but still, it wasn¡¯t a smart thing to do financially or professionally.


    ¡°I don¡¯t want to start getting rangers and other folks out to the farm,¡± said Jonathan. ¡°All that disturbance and such. No, forget that. You¡¯re local, and your card said you¡¯re a sleuth. So¡­¡±


    ¡°Okay then. Describe this odd behavior for me. Apart from them all flying off together, what else is there?¡±Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    ¡°The flying¡¯s the big one, Mick, because that¡¯s how it starts. They fly off, they¡¯re gone all day, and then they come home. Sometimes, they bring stuff. All kinds of things.¡±


    Jonathan approached the table and leaned toward Mick, whispering now, ¡°Rings, necklaces, coins. I keep them in a box, Mick. I want to give them back to people if I could find out their owners, but I¡¯m worried for the birds.¡±


    Mick had never heard of birds stealing stuff before. Maybe magpies liked to pocket things from other birds¡¯ nests. He was sure that was a thing. But thieving jewelry and bringing it back to the farm?


    ¡°I¡¯m the head guard here,¡± said Mick. ¡°How about you give me the box of jewelry, and I¡¯ll see about reuniting them with their owners? I¡¯ll leave you out of it. As for your birds, well, I reckon I need to track one of these birds of yours. See where it goes. Leave it with me, Jonathan, alright?¡±


    ¡°Got it.¡±


    ¡°Oh, by the by. I charge hourly for my time, and the client pays expenses. I¡¯ll give you time sheets, receipts, everything. We clear on that?¡±


    ¡°You do the sleuthing, I have the gold. Not lots of it, but I can pay.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t promise how long this¡¯ll take, or if I can even solve it. But I won¡¯t mess you around, and I won¡¯t quit until your budget starts getting skinny, alright? If we get to the point you can¡¯t afford to carry on, just tell me and we¡¯ll see what we can do.¡±


    Jonathan nodded. ¡°Will do.¡±


    ¡°Okay. Let¡¯s take a look at the culprits.¡±


    The birds lived in the trees just by the farmhouse. Specifically, in the many birdhouses that Jonathan Tillwright made for them as a hobby. Houses of all shapes and sizes, colors ranging from pink to red to blue. There was a house that looked like a cathedral, while another he¡¯d made resembled a theater with a little stage out front that birds could perch on. As well as that, he¡¯d set up feeders here and there which he filled with corn, and little pedestals that caught rainwater and made pools for the birds to drink from. These damned birds were living in luxury, that was for sure.


    ¡°I best be off,¡± said Mick. ¡°I¡¯ll keep you updated.¡±


    ¡°Got it. So long, Mick.¡±


    Back at his office, Mick decided it was time for some deduction, which was another of the skill trees he needed to earn. It wasn¡¯t just enough to observe things, after all; a sleuth needed to work out what they meant, follow threads of thought, make connections.


    He had bought a corkboard from Joe Phillips¡¯ general store, and he nailed this to a wall of his office. It took up almost all the space. On one part of the corkboard, he started pinning little slips of card. On them were keywords, things to jog his memory about a case. Birdhouses. Flying as a flock. Stealing objects ¨C metal.


    Once he had maybe a dozen pieces of card pinned up, he started pacing up and down in front of the corkboard, letting his mind loose.


    The birds are stealing rings, necklaces, shiny things. These are valuable things, but nobody¡¯s mentioned it to me as head of the guards.


    Logically, it followed that if no thefts had been reported, then the jewelry that the birds were stealing were ones that people wouldn¡¯t miss. Maybe jewelry kept in jewelry boxes that were never opened, or in drawers they never inspected.


    But this made it seem even stranger, because it suggested not only an intelligence in the birds that Mick had never thought they¡¯d be capable of, but a sense of planning, of intent. This couldn¡¯t be right.


    Then, though, his mind made a couple of connections. Didn¡¯t Percy Tattersall say he kept finding bird droppings in his house, but no sign of birds? And Douggie Fernglass had told Mick that he thought he needed more sleep, because he kept hearing birdsong with no birds in sight.


    They¡¯re sneaking around, the damned winged vermin. Creeping around town and stealing from people with their little greedy beaks.


    Might they also be responsible for stealing Flo¡¯s milk bottle lids, too? Could be. The lids were made from shiny metal. Maybe the birds were clever to a point, but also couldn¡¯t tell which pieces of metal were valuable  and which were worth less than a copper coin, so they just took everything in sight.


    The next Monday, Mick got to Perentee with more than enough time to get a better vantage point in the woods outside town. Now that he knew exactly where the black carriage would stop, he could risk getting nearer, setting up shop behind a half-rotted oak stump. It was tall and thick enough to hide him from view, yet there was a small hole in the middle that he could look through.


    That hadn¡¯t been his only preparation, though. He had brought a friend along with him today. Big Jimmy, a chestnut colored horse belonging to Farmer Barnes, who owned several acres between Sunhampton and Perentee. Jimmy was a handsome horse and a well-trained, well behaved bloke, and by all accounts he could gallop like the best of them if there was need.


    It was as he waited there in the woodland, leaning against the stump while Jimmy was a little way behind him out of view, chewing a tuft of grass, that he became aware of birdsong. Not such an unusual sound in a place like this. Only, if you spent as much time as Mick had lately thinking about birds, your ears began to get attuned.


    Sounds like a lot of them, he thought. A heck of a lot. And different kinds of birds, too. Or at least, different kinds of songs.


    It looked to him like he wasn¡¯t the only one waiting for the black carriage. Might these birds be the ones from the Tattersall farm? Were they also the Sunhampton jewelry thieves?


    After a little more time went by, he fancied a coffee. As he went to unscrew the lid of his flask, he paused. No sense letting out the smell of coffee into the air. What if the carriage driver had an especially attuned nose, and he sniffed the hot bean aroma? No, better play it safe.


    His patience was rewarded not long after, when the black carriage once again rumbled into the woodland, before slowing to a stop in the exact same place as before. This time, Mick was positioned so he could see the driver as they hopped off the driver¡¯s seat. Not their face; they still wore a hood that covered most of their head, and their bulky coat didn¡¯t give much away, either.


    What he did see was them take a little tub from a shelf on the driver compartment, unscrew it, then throw something around on the woodland floor. As soon as they did, birds swooped down from every direction, just as they had last Monday. And again, just as the week before, the driver climbed back onto their carriage, took hold of the reins, and urged their horses on.


    Mick gave them a bit of time to get a little out of sight, then dashed over to the birds. There were so many of them. Sparrows, pigeons, wrens. A few of them squared up and fluffed their feathers as he approached, but most of them were too interested in their woodland buffet to care about his presence.


    ¡°¡¯Scuse me, ladies and gents, pardon me,¡± said Mick, as he knelt down and scooped up a little jar full of what they were eating. He held the glass jar up to his eyes. ¡°Seeds. Just seeds. Huh, how about that?¡±


    Without any time to make deductions, Mick sprinted back over to Big Jimmy and climbed onto his back and urged him on in the direction the black carriage had gone. Jimmy moved at a trot and then a brisk clip, deftly avoiding knotted tree roots and divots on the woodland floor. Mick made him hold course, only giving him scant directions when he was veering off a little. As a competent yet nowhere near expert horse rider, he was wary of interfering too much.


    He and Jimmy kept a healthy distance back so that the black carriage stayed as a mere dot in the distance. They followed it ten or so miles north of Perentee, then east in the direction of Tattershaw Brook, before turning west and then northwest. Soon, they were in an area known as the Lackney Moorland, a vast plain of heather and sphagnum moss that went on for more miles than Mick could count. He hadn¡¯t been here often; once for a school trip when he was eight, and then ten years later when he, Spruce, and Lee went camping.


    Just when he thought the ride might never end, a house loomed into sight. A little cottage that might have been nice if it had been treated a little better, but even from this distance he could see that it had been battered by the fist of time, then given a kick in the stomach for good measure. Heck, the damned roof looked like it had half collapsed.


    There, the driver brought their black carriage to a halt. Mick brought Jimmy to a halt, too. Not much cover here. They¡¯re sure to see Jimmy if I hang around too long, he thought.


    Weighing it up, he decided the key thing was making sure the carriage driver didn¡¯t get suspicious. So, after taking out his paper map and making a mark on it, he set off back home.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 35

    <h2>35</h2>


    Mistress Janey Morgan was special in a couple of ways. For one, she was a master-ranked alchemist. If she didn¡¯t know something about potions and tinctures, it wasn¡¯t worth knowing in the first place. Secondly, she was married to Jack Cooper, Sunhampton¡¯s top-ranked artificer and most grouchy person, and putting up with him was worthy of Janey getting a statue in the town plaza, if you asked Mick.


    Her alchemy workshop was at the very top of a huge hill not far from the town plaza. On the summit of the hill was a house, an artificery workshop, an alchemy workshop, a kennel full of wolfhounds, and various sheds and stores. There was even a pond covered in lily pads, some bushes, and a fruit tree or two. The whole place was known as the craftstead, and it had been here for generations. Mick had visited it plenty of times; sometimes to have a chat with old Cooper, and once even for Jack Cooper and Janey Morgan¡¯s wedding.


    Mick liked alchemy workshops. The rows upon rows of little glass vials and huge jars filled with all kinds of oddments fascinated him, and there was something about the way alchemists worked with their measuring spoons and their mortars and pestles that spoke of precision and mastery of their craft.


    Only thing was, the workshop aromas played havoc with his allergies, and he couldn¡¯t look at a potion vial without being reminded of the dozens upon dozens he had to drink when he was a kid, back when his stomach gave him daily trouble. He¡¯d drank so many different medicines that it almost seemed like Healer Brown had run out of things to try. It was only when Ma forgot to buy milk and Mick had gone a couple of days without cereal, that the pieces fell into place a little. Dairy - that had been his problem all along.


    Janey made Mick wait while she finished off making a potion, boiling a bog-green liquid in a big, bulbous jar and then pouring the solution into a vial, before stopping it with a cork. She had a drawer full of the little corks; must have bought them wholesale.


    When she was done, she removed her eye goggles. They left red rings on her face. Crossing the workshop, she took off her white alchemist coat and hung it on the back of a chair.


    ¡°Sorry about that,¡± she said, ¡°But when I¡¯m the middle of something, I need to see it through or I lose my way.¡±


    ¡°S¡¯alright. What¡¯s that you were making, then?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t really say. A person has to be able to trust their alchemist.¡±


    ¡°Fair enough,¡± said Mick, leaning back against a workbench. ¡°Did you get chance to look at the seeds for me?¡±


    Janey pulled out a stool and sat down on it. ¡°They were very interesting. Where did you get them?¡±


    ¡°Some woods near Perentee. What¡¯s interesting about them?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m intrigued,¡± said Janey. ¡°I¡¯d love to know who would have cause to soak seeds in a cloaking potion and scatter them in the woods.¡±


    Maybe a few days earlier, this might have come as a huge surprise. Only, he¡¯d spent a while in his office, pacing in front of his corkboard and turning solutions over in his head. The idea that the seeds were somehow helping the birds fly around without being spotted had been one of them. He hadn¡¯t guessed a cloaking potion, exactly, but the math was simple: Birds stealing stuff without getting seen, multiplied by a strange person feeding them seeds in the woods, equals something suspicious.


    ¡°This cloaking potion,¡± he said. ¡°Sorry if this is a stupid question, but I need to be working from the facts. It makes things invisible, then?¡±


    ¡°In a roundabout way, yes. What it actually does,¡± she made air quotes with her fingers now, ¡°is ¡®wrap¡¯ something in a sort of fluid mirror of their environment, making them reflect what¡¯s around them. Effectively, yes, it shields them from view.¡±


    ¡°I never heard of anyone using a potion like this before.¡±


    ¡°No, you wouldn¡¯t have. Anything larger than a cat, and the illusion is easier to spot.¡±


    ¡°Is it expensive to make, this potion?¡± asked Mick.


    Janey nodded. ¡°A pretty penny or two. It¡¯s the kerwick root. Only grows in certain conditions, and it¡¯s hard to get hold of. You wouldn¡¯t brew it just to mess around.¡±


    ¡°Interesting. I¡¯ll have to bear that in mind. Say, Janey, do you think I could ask you for a favor?¡±


    ¡°Not really. I¡¯m very busy, Mick.¡±


    ¡°Alright, it¡¯s not really a favor, then. An alchemy order.¡±


    ¡°My sign doesn¡¯t say, ¡®Janey Morgan ¨C Master Alchemist¡¯ because I knit cardigans. What is it you need? I told you I¡¯m happy to brew a potion that will let you have dairy. Just half a vial before a meal, and you can stuff your face with milk, butter, whatever you want.¡±


    ¡°No, no. Don¡¯t trust those potions, no offense. Tried one once and then ate a full cheesecake to myself, and¡­let¡¯s just say the potion wasn¡¯t genuine, and the next week wasn¡¯t pleasant.¡±


    Janey put her hand to her heart. ¡°You would equate me to some back alley alchemist hawking colored tap water?¡±


    ¡°No, ¡®course not. But it¡¯s the association. You never got sick from eating a food, and then whenever you think about it you feel queasy? That¡¯s how I am when I think of those potions that help folks like me have dairy. But anyhow, it¡¯s not something I need making. I was thinking, ¡®ccording to this book I have, my Forensics skill tree has a lot to do with alchemy.¡±Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    Janey nodded. ¡°At its core, yes.¡±


    ¡°They issued me with a sleuthing kit, of course, and it has a little forensics kit inside that does everything for you. Takes the difficulty away. But I figured if I learned the theory behind the equipment, y¡¯know, the chemicals and how it all actually works and what have you, it¡¯d be good experience toward my skill tree.¡±


    ¡°You want me to teach you some alchemy, then.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll pay, and I only want to know the basics. Y¡¯know, the alchemy that¡¯s used in forensic procedures.¡±


    Janey drummed her fingers on the workbench. ¡°It might be useful for my business if I could say I¡¯m endorsed by the Sunhampton guards. I could put it on my leaflets. Town visitors aren¡¯t to know that you¡¯re the only guard, and that you work out of a storage unit. No offense, Mick. I didn¡¯t mean that in a bad way.¡±


    ¡°S¡¯alright, you¡¯re not far off the money. Only, I have an office on Bishop¡¯s Way.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll call around for a coffee the next time I¡¯m over that way.¡±


    ¡°No problem. So what do you say? Can you teach me a thing or two?¡±


    Janey nodded. ¡°Let¡¯s start right now. It shouldn¡¯t take long to instruct you in the basics.¡±


    After a few hours of instruction from Janey Morgan, Mick already knew about a hundred times more alchemy than he had when he¡¯d woken up that morning. She hadn¡¯t even shown him the surface of the subject, let alone  scraped it, of course, but Janey was able to show him how to do some very, very basic forensic experiments that his Forensics kit would otherwise have done for him. Just as he¡¯d suspected, learning a little of the theory behind it gave him some experience toward earning his Forensics skill tree.


    Following that, he made a visit to his office so he could pace around in front of his corkboard for a while and make some deductions. It really did help, all the pacing. If he didn¡¯t know better, he¡¯d say the corkboard was artificed to make his thoughts surer; there was just something about walking up and down in front of it that made things slide into place. When he was done, he sat at his desk and scribbled down the order of events to make it even clearer in his head.


    Afterwards, he locked up the office and crossed town, once again heading all the way up the giant hill leading to the craftstead. This time, he walked past the alchemy workshop and headed toward the artificery one. He knocked on the door twice, but didn¡¯t really expect an answer. Artificers were a special breed; they got so wrapped up in their work that they were oblivious to the outside world.


    Walking in, he saw Flo Anderson standing at a workbench that had a metal feeding trough turned upside down on it. She was dressed in blue overalls and wearing goggles than resembled Janey¡¯s, only with different colored lenses. Holding a strange little tuning fork, she repeated a strange process of tapping the trough, then grabbing some pincers and snapping at thin air.


    Flo was Jack Cooper¡¯s artificery apprentice, and by all accounts she had almost passed her apprenticeship. Mick had known to find her here because there were three places in Sunhampton you could reliably seek her out: her house, the King¡¯s Head tavern, and Jack Cooper¡¯s workshop.


    Mick held back from saying anything until she was done. It was only as she took her goggles off that she seemed to become aware of his presence. She rubbed her eyes where the goggles had pressed a little too hard.


    ¡°Sorry, duckie,¡± she said. ¡°How are you getting on with my little lid problem? Oh, how rude of me! Want a brew?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll take a coffee, if there¡¯s one going.¡±


    ¡°For my favorite sleuth, there¡¯s always a cup going spare.¡±


    While Flo brewed up, Mick¡¯s natural curiosity took over. He asked her what she was doing with the feeding trough. Unlike Janey Morgan, Flo was all too happy to explain what she was working on. It was a self-filling trough that Farmer Tew had commissioned, apparently. He wanted eight of them making, which he planned on placing in his more remote fields, hopefully saving him a good hour or two of work each morning.


    ¡°And what about you, chick?¡± asked Flo, when they sat down with their coffees. ¡°Anything to tell me?¡±


    Mick had been looking forward to this moment. ¡°I know what¡¯s happening with your lids.¡±


    ¡°Ooh! Come on then. Let¡¯s hear it.¡±


    Between sips of coffee, he explained to her what he thought was going on, subject to verifying it all. It seemed to him that the mysterious driver of the black carriage was going to Perentee woods and scattering seeds coated in a cloaking potion. The birds that ate it soon became, to all intents and purposes, invisible.


    Then came the part where incredulity got stretched thin like biscuit dough. When Mick asked around in Perentee and Sunhampton among the folks he could trust to be discreet, he discovered that a few of them, after they went and checked, were missing some of their jewelry and ornaments. Not just any jewelry, though; only the pieces they never wore, and kept stored away. The ones they weren¡¯t likely to notice were gone for a while.


    This line of questioning hadn¡¯t just been good for the case, but it had also given him some decent experience toward his Interrogation skill tree. All in all, he¡¯d racked up a decent chunk of Forensics, Deduction, and Interrogation experience lately.


    ¡°The birds are trained,¡± said Mick. ¡°Somehow, whoever this driver is, they¡¯ve taught the birds to meet them in Perentee, eat the seeds, go and steal a bunch of stuff, then fly the goods back to their cottage, where I¡¯m assuming they get some kind of reward. More seeds, perhaps?¡±


    ¡°Well I never,¡± said Flo. ¡°I¡¯m lost for words. Completely lost for them. I can¡¯t think of a single word to say. I tell you, duckie, I never heard of such a thing! Not in all my years living here in ¡®hampton. It¡¯s an absolute disgrace. It¡¯s struck me dumb, cross my heart it has. Struck me so mute I can¡¯t even think of anything to say.¡±


    ¡°You might point out that your milk bottle lids aren¡¯t valuable.¡±


    ¡°Oh. That¡¯s true.¡±


    ¡°Way I figure it, one of the birds might not be as well trained as the rest. Must think your lids are worth stealing. Or maybe it¡¯s an even craftier little thing ¨C reckons it can deliver milk bottle lids to the carriage driver, and still get a lovely handful of seeds as a reward.¡±


    ¡°Birds are much cleverer than you think,¡± said Flo.


    ¡°Well, scatter a few seeds on your doorstep tomorrow morning, before your milk gets delivered, and see if they get disturbed. That ought to tell you if I¡¯m right. Don¡¯t do it before bed, because hedgehogs and badgers wander around at night. Do it maybe thirty minutes before your milk arrives.¡±


    ¡°What about all those poor peoples¡¯ jewelry and such?¡±


    ¡°Leave that with me.¡±


    ¡°That I will do, Mr. Mulroon, because you¡¯re a fine detective, and I¡¯ll trust you¡¯ll sort it out.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a sleuth, if you please, Ms Anderson. And thanks.¡±


    ¡°I got you something, in anticipation that you¡¯d get to the bottom of this. I¡¯ll still pay you, of course, but I thought I¡¯d give you something extra.¡±


    Flo crossed the workshop and retrieved a brown, oak case with a leather handle, which she placed on the workbench in front of him. His initials were chiseled into the lid.


    ¡°It¡¯s artificed,¡± she said, wearing a look of pride. ¡°Enchanted the miodes myself. When you open it up, it¡¯ll store much more than it ought to.¡±


    Indeed, the case interior was much roomier than should have been possible. It was like having a suitcase, except it was barely bigger than a book. In fact, he could probably have fit it in his pocket.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t have to do this,¡± he said. ¡°My fee was more than enough.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m an artificer, chick. It¡¯s nothing to me to make a little trinket like this. And you deserve it.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 36

    <h2>36</h2>


    Mick ended up watching the cottage in the Lackney moorland for a few days waiting for the driver to appear. He paid a fee to borrow Big Jimmy again, getting a receipt so he could add it to Alderman¡¯s bill. In the northern reaches of the moor there was a place where the mossy ground dipped so much it was a crevice, almost like the base of a very deep spoon, and it was in there that he set up his tent. He¡¯d had the four-berth tent since he was a kid, and as luck would have it, its green-brown fabric blended in with the moorland perfectly.


    Shielded from view from all but the most trained of eyes, Mick watched the cottage, waiting for the black carriage driver. It would have been a lot easier to just arrive when he knew they¡¯d be here; in other words, straight after scattering the seeds in Perentee. Only, he needed confirmation for the rest of his theory. Namely, he needed to see a sparrow or a wren deliver some stolen goods.


    Such surveillance was harder than he¡¯d expected, the act of observing a place where nothing was going on. It took stamina not too dissimilar from running, only this was a different kind of tiredness. Mental stamina, he supposed. Fatigue of the brain.


    Three and a half days passed, and not a thing happened. Mick thought about just approaching the cottage, knocking on the door, and getting it over with, but he couldn¡¯t. He needed to see stolen goods get delivered, or he had nothing. Right now, he didn¡¯t have enough of the facts to get a warrant to search the place. What could he say to a judge? That somebody was scattering seeds in the woods, and therefore he needed to search their home? No, that wouldn¡¯t work.


    He needed to see a bird bring a piece of jewelry here to the cottage. That would give him decent cause for a warrant. The only issue was the cloaking potion, but Janey had told him the potion would wear off long before the birds got back here.


    So far, though, he¡¯d seen nothing but a kestrel, which had swooped overhead and flapped away without setting claw nor beak near the cottage. He considered going home and just thinking up a new plan. It was hard just sitting out here on the moors and watching a house for days on end. Nothing happening, nothing stirring. There wasn¡¯t even a breeze. He didn¡¯t want bad weather, but it was as though the climate had conspired to be perfectly mild, just to make things even more boring for him.


    He could already see that this was part of a sleuth¡¯s job that he wasn¡¯t going to like. But then, he supposed there were good parts and bad parts to every job. To anything, in fact. Nothing was truly, absolutely good. Except for dogs, of course.


    For a few more hours he churned his determination into a butter and spread it on a toast of perseverance, forcing himself to stay put on the soft moss, his binoculars pointed at the cottage. Movement in the sky sent a jolt of excitement through him. Aiming his binoculars at it and quickly fiddling with the focus adjuster, he saw that it was just a common grackle heading west, not paying attention to the cottage. Reaching the limit of his patience, he set the binoculars aside.


    ¡°Ah, forget it,¡± he said.


    He rolled onto his back, stared up at the sky. There was a kind of relief at not having to watch the cottage anymore, but mixed with a bitter disappointment at giving up.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Then, a kind of smacking sound caught his attention. He sat up and stared at Big Jimmy, who he¡¯d become surprisingly fond of. He¡¯d always loved animals, always formed bonds with them at the click of a finger, before his allergies stomped around wearing clogs and shattered his porcelain dreams of animal friendship.


    Not so with Jimmy, though. Horses didn¡¯t seem to make his throat tighten or make his face and neck go beetroot read. Besides that, there was a lot to like about Jimmy; always happy to go anywhere with you, never complaining, never giving you cheek.


    And the way he just stood there, happy to chew on the moss and just live moment to moment. Who couldn¡¯t admire that in another living being? He needed a gallop every so often, needed to be brushed from time to time, but otherwise, he didn¡¯t complain.


    This observation dug out a little bit more resolve inside Mick. If Jimmy could be out here for hours on end without complaining, then Mick could, too.


    Sleuthing Insight Gained: Persistence


    Careful study of an uncomplaining animal has gained you your first sleuthing insight. When activated, the Persistence insight will make it easier to engage in monotonous tasks.


    The token text caught him by surprise. In fact, he wondered if he would ever get used to this strange narration of his life. And how far would it go? He could picture it now; ¡®By diligent brushing of your teeth, you have earned the Pearly White skill.¡¯ Strange as heck, this whole thing was. Nevertheless, the actual content of the token text wasn¡¯t completely foreign. Starter Sleuthing had mentioned sleuthing insights, which could come at any point. They weren¡¯t always tied to a skill tree, either, so even fellas like him who didn¡¯t have any trees could use them.


    But how did one go about doing that?


    In his head, he made a command for Persistence to start working. It felt a little silly, but token text told him it had worked. Now, when he contemplated watching the house longer, his mind didn¡¯t protest at the sheer boredom of it, and the tiredness in his body felt like it was ebbing away a little, like a tide deciding to leave the shore alone until tomorrow.


    He grabbed his binoculars and resumed his watch of the house. He was rewarded just forty-three minutes later, when the first of the winged sky felons arrived. This was a thrush, small and brown, and swooping in from the west with something shiny in its beak. It was flying too fast to make out any detail, but something it was carrying definitely caught the sunlight.


    After that, it was as though some kind of floodgate had opened. Sparrows, tits, wrens, pigeons, they all visited the cottage, circled around, landed in a yard behind the house that Mick couldn¡¯t see from there, then flew away again.


    ¡°That just about confirms it. Well, almost,¡± he told Jimmy.


    The only problem was that he hadn¡¯t actually seen them deposit any jewelry. He¡¯d seen something shiny in their beaks, but that didn¡¯t prove a thing. It was hard to make out what a bird was carrying in its beak, when they flew so quickly.


    He needed to properly catch one in the act. So, he made himself a coffee, quickly drank it, and then put his binoculars to his eyes and observed with all the concentration he had in him. He tried to predict the flight of birds, tried to perceive their intended moves before they made them.


    At first, it didn¡¯t work. The birds were just too fast to track properly, while trying to make out details. But then, he was being stupid. He already knew a fixed point where they were going, didn¡¯t he? So why not just focus on that?


    Shifting his position a little on the moss, he instead watched not the birds but the cottage roof, beyond which was where they always disappeared from view, presumably to land in a yard or a garden.


    Focusing in this direction, he finally saw it. A glorious sight. A big, fat pigeon with a pearl necklace in its beak. He set the binoculars down and allowed himself a fist pump.


    ¡°Got you,¡± he said.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 37

    <h2>37</h2>


    A private sleuth wasn¡¯t usually likely to get much cooperation from a magistrate, but Mick¡¯s tokens had been issued under Full Striding¡¯s training program. This, along with his position as Sunhampton¡¯s head guard, meant that he had success in getting a warrant to search the cottage.


    He arrived there three days later, along with Lill Gill. After writing to the Full Striding Guard Commission requesting assistance, it was Lill who they¡¯d sent. He was happy to see her, since they hadn¡¯t spoken since she¡¯d helped him get on the training program.


    Lill had already managed to earn her Deduction skill tree, and she was a hair away from her Forensics token, too. Stealth & Tracking was where she stumbled; she told Mick she was about as subtle as a horse wearing tap shoes.


    ¡°No need for any subtlety today, at least,¡± he told her. ¡°All I need you to do is go around the back of the cottage and stand by the door in case our friend decides to leave.¡±


    ¡°Got it. What if they fly away?¡±


    ¡°No, Lill. The carriage driver isn¡¯t a bird. They¡¯re just feeding ¡®em.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d you wind up with this case, anyhow?¡± asked Lill.


    ¡°Not much official business for a ¡®hampton guard, so I had to make my own. Set up a little private sleuth shop. Got an office on Bishop¡¯s Way. There¡¯s a corkboard in there and everything.¡±


    ¡°Ooh, fancy. Is it not a bit of a conflict of interest, going private while you¡¯re the town¡¯s head guard?¡±


    ¡°Checked the regulations,¡± answered Mick. ¡°Nothing stopping me, not as long as I declare it when my cases turn criminal. Just like I did with this. If they¡¯re not criminal, then it¡¯s nobody¡¯s business.¡±


    ¡°What sort of cases do you get in a town like Sunhampton?¡±


    ¡°Well, all kinds of stuff. This one, for instance, seems to me to cover three of my cases. There¡¯s also a strange imp statue someone hid inside a wall. While back, probably mentioned it, a fella¡¯s pig went missing. It¡¯s all happening.¡±


    ¡°In Lundy, someone once stole the welcome sign. Caused a scandal like you wouldn¡¯t believe.¡±


    ¡°Why¡¯d they do a thing like that?¡±


    ¡°I was bored,¡± said Lill. ¡°And any self-respecting guard officer¡¯s child has to go through a rebellious phase. Don¡¯t worry, I put it back a few days later, no harm done.¡±


    Lill¡¯s left foot suddenly disappeared into the ground with a squelch. When she pulled her boot out, it was covered in mud.


    ¡°Ought to have told you,¡± Mick told her, ¡°It gets a little peaty here after it rains.¡±


    Up close, the cottage looked even more run down. Not only was it falling apart piece by piece, but the whole thing was covered in bird poo. There was so much of it that he wouldn¡¯t have been surprised to learn that the walls weren¡¯t white at all, and that if you scraped off the dried droppings it was an entirely different color underneath.


    As he stood at the front door, it would have been a lie to say he didn¡¯t feel at least a little bit nervous. Nevertheless, he knocked on it using the guards¡¯ knock ¨Cthree firm raps in rapid succession. Loud enough so they couldn¡¯t be missed.


    He was waiting a while. Long enough that he would have said nobody was home, if it wasn¡¯t for the smoke coming from the chimney. Then, there was a commotion behind the door. He thought the suspect might make a run for it, and was glad he¡¯d brought Lill.


    Instead of that, the front door opened. ¡°You have to be joking me,¡± said a voice.


    He echoed the sentiments right back. Standing there was a lady named Lena Coarty. She had brown hair that was graying here and there at roughly the same rate as Mick¡¯s, and narrow, crafty eyes that always seemed like they were staring right into you. At the same time, her face inspired a strange kind of trust, if a person was foolish enough to let it. It was her smile, maybe. Warm, yet not too overly so, since that would have seemed suspicious. She got the balance exactly right. Her whole expression just had this weird, almost ethereal honesty that you couldn¡¯t quite pinpoint, yet you felt it more strongly the longer you looked at her. The trick, Mick knew, was not looking for too long in the first place. Don¡¯t let her beguiling ways take effect.


    This wasn¡¯t his first encounter with the lady, after all. Not so long ago, Lena Coarty used some sort of artificed steel wire to steal energy from the Sunhampton lumbermill, which she used to power tinkered machines in an illegal mining operation she had set up outside of town. Lewis Cooper had been the one to find the operation, and Mick had, in turn, traced it to Lena. He had been especially proud of that since it had been his finest piece of work as Sunhampton¡¯s guard.


    Whatever surprise Lena had felt, she¡¯d already recovered herself. ¡°Mick Mulroon, what a pleasure. Come in and I¡¯ll put the kettle on.¡±


    This wasn¡¯t the welcome he¡¯d expected, not even before he¡¯d known it was Lena, but Starter Sleuthing said the number one rule about interrogating perps and questioning witnesses was that if they were already talking, you let them carry on. Lena had invited him in, so why not take the opportunity? He needed to be careful, though.


    ¡°Mind if my partner joins us?¡± he said.


    ¡°The lady who was standing outside my back door? She¡¯s already in the kitchen, Mick. Come on. I¡¯ll have to ask you to take your boots off at the door, though. I¡¯m very houseproud.¡±


    ¡°Houseproud?¡± he said, wondering exactly what part of this decrepit house could inspire, or was the result of, pride.


    ¡°Sorry, but a host¡¯s gotta have rules. My dad, he always impressed I should keep a clean house.¡±


    Yeah, and once I¡¯m not wearing boots, you¡¯ll put yours on and make a run for it.


    ¡°Sorry, but I¡¯ll be keeping them on. I¡¯m not here on a social call.¡±


    He showed her the warrant to search her home. Lena read it twice, then handed it back to him.


    ¡°That certainly takes the sugar out of a nice visit,¡± said Lena. ¡°Don¡¯t get many friends calling on me out here. And since you and I go back a little, I thought it was nice you came knocking. Oh well. I¡¯ll still  make you a coffee, though. I¡¯m not a monster.¡±


    He followed her through the hallway and into the kitchen where, true to Lena¡¯s word, Lill was sitting on a stool by a counter and blowing on a coffee mug to cool it. There was the faint smell of cooked bacon in the air. It made him feel hungry; all he¡¯d had time to eat today was a couple of slices of toast. Unfortunately, if his nose was a true guide, this particular bacon was long-since eaten.


    ¡°Do you take sugar?¡± asked Lena.


    ¡°Two, please,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Oat milk for you, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°¡­that¡¯s right,¡± he said, raising an eyebrow.


    ¡°The more you know, Mick. The more you know.¡±


    While Lena was making the coffee, Mick took out his notepad and hastily scribbled a few lines. Then he showed it to Lill. She read it, her forehead creasing either from frustration at trying to decipher his penmanship or the contents of the note, which amounted to a warning.


    Don¡¯t look at Lena in the eyes for too long at a time. ¡®Criminal¡¯ isn¡¯t a recognized class, but you can get illicit tokens. Just be careful about staring at her too long.


    Lill made a ¡®Give it here¡¯ gesture to Mick with the fingers of her right hand. He passed her the pen, and she wrote, I know.


    Humming to herself, Lena turned away from her refreshment counter and passed a mug of coffee to Mick. ¡°There we go. One nice, hot cup of coffee for the fella who put me in jail.¡±


    As much as he could use a coffee, it occurred to him that the last thing he ought to do was accept a beverage made by the person who he¡¯d sent on a free vacation to a zero-star jail resort. He¡¯d just have to leave the coffee well alone, and make sure Lill didn¡¯t drink hers, either.


    Lena took a seat so she was across the counter from them. It made for a nice impromptu interviewing desk, actually.


    ¡°It¡¯s a pleasure to see you, anyway, Mick,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯m out of jail, as you can see. Thank you for that, by the way.¡±


    ¡°Any time.¡±


    Lena sought his eyes with her own. Mick didn¡¯t want to stare into them, nor did he want to give her the satisfaction of looking away. He felt like it¡¯d weaken his position. So, he stared at a fixed point just above her, so he was still looking in her general direction as he spoke.


    ¡°We need to chat about the birds,¡± he said.


    ¡°Oh? That¡¯s funny. It¡¯s become something of a hobby for me. Nice bit of bird watching, of an evening. I spread seeds in my yard to encourage them to come, and then I mark down in my little book all the different species that I spot. Glass of wine, nice blanket on my lap. It¡¯s fun, yet relaxing.¡±Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.


    ¡°Nice excuse. Doesn¡¯t explain the jewelry.¡±


    ¡°I have no idea what you¡¯re talking about.¡±


    Lill slammed her hand down on the counter, surprising both Mick and Lena. ¡°Cut the crap, lady! If I don¡¯t hear the right words out of your mouth in ten seconds, I¡¯ll drag your arse all the way through the moors and throw you in a Striding jail myself. And let me tell you, darling, you¡¯ll never see the light of day again if I can help it.¡±


    Mick found himself feeling a little apprehensive of his friend now. Lill didn¡¯t just say tough words ¨C it sounded like she meant them, even if deep down he knew she was just adopting the ¡®nasty, nasty¡¯ approach covered in the ¡®Interrogation Personas¡¯ chapter in Starter Sleuthing. She¡¯d overcooked it, sure. But then, she was equally as practiced in interviews as Mick was. Better acting and more nuance would come with experience.


    Lena, as a career scoundrel, was far too long in the tooth to be fazed. ¡°The aggressive routine is best reserved for someone showing signs of fear,¡± she told Lill. ¡°If a suspect looks agitated or anxious, it might be the crack that breaks the dam. Used on someone like me, it¡¯s like throwing a stone at the moon and expecting it to fall.¡±


    Some of this sounded familiar to Mick. Took him a second or two to pinpoint why, but then he realized that he¡¯d read it in Starter Sleuthing. Had Lena read that book, too? If the criminals in Easterly were reading Starter Sleuthing to get ahead, maybe he ought to seek out Starter Crime, or something.


    He decided to take back control of the conversation. ¡°Explain the carriage to me. Why do you drive it to Perentee every Monday morning at eleven o¡¯clock?¡±


    ¡°Is that illegal?¡± asked Lena.


    ¡°Not as such.¡±


    ¡°Explaining it doesn¡¯t appear to be covered in your warrant, either. I think I¡¯ll keep my private journeys private, thank you.¡±


    She had an answer for everything, and she sure knew the law and its procedures. Mick felt he was trying to paddle up a ravine using a paddle made from soggy pages of Starter Sleuthing. He didn¡¯t even have the Interrogation skill tree, yet he¡¯d put himself up against a career criminal who most likely had some kind of illicit token that protected her in such questionings.


    This was why apprentice sleuths worked with a mentor, damn it. Mick¡¯s ¡®mentor¡¯ was Sammy Lee, who was more interested in damned wagons and carriages than helping him out.


    No, this wasn¡¯t working. Lena was way too canny for a couple of apprentices to turn over. The way he saw it, he could either press on and look even more foolish, or try something else.


    ¡°I think we¡¯ll take a look around now, Ms. Coarty. I¡¯ll have to ask you to stay with my partner here.¡±


    ¡°Not drinking your coffee?¡± asked Lena.


    ¡°Apologies, but I¡¯m not thirsty.¡±


    ¡°Well, can¡¯t let it go to waste,¡± she said, and took a gulp of the beverage she¡¯d made for Mick. ¡°Never a single coin must you waste; that¡¯s how I was brought up. I even reuse teabags.¡±


    That was a skinflint step even Mick had never resorted to. As much as he admired a fellow money miser, he wondered how a person could be so careful with their own coin, yet willing to steal hard earned valuables from other people. He found himself wondering about Lena¡¯s background, her family, where she¡¯d grown up. He¡¯d already researched this, back during the illicit mining bust, and found nothing. Wherever she¡¯d gotten her start in life, it had left no trace in Easterly¡¯s grand chronicle of history.


    Leaving Lill and Lena in the kitchen, Mick began searching the house. All he needed was to find a piece of jewelry or two that they could link to the thefts in Perentee and Sunhampton, and then they could close the curtain on this show. Forget talking, forget nice questions. An illicit necklace or stolen brooch was the ticket.


    This was the crux of it; actually finding something. It wasn¡¯t enough that he¡¯d seen a pigeon with a pearl necklace. Finding some jewelry was essential. The carriage, the seeds, the birds ¨C those were all circumstantial things. But add them to discovering stolen goods here in the cottage, and this whole case would slam shut like a tavern door after closing time.


    He made a careful search of the kitchen, living room, and then the upstairs rooms. Finding nothing, he checked them again, and then went out back to start looking in the yard.


    At some point, the cottage¡¯s backyard might have looked nice. There were certainly vague hints that an old owner had tended to it, perhaps even had a vision for its aesthetic direction. ¡®Rustic¡¯ was the tag Mick would have pinned to it, if pressed. In the corner, for instance, there was an old wagon wheel that had been sanded and varnished, and it had creeping lavender growing through the spokes. Nailed to a wall there was a beaten, red sign that read, ¡®Hawthorne Pottery.¡¯ You could pick old signs like that up at antique stores for five or so gold a piece. Ma had half a dozen of them.


    The yard¡¯s purposefully rustic days were long gone, though, and now the whole place was covered end to end in dried bird droppings. The area was so white with droppings that looking at them for too long was like staring into snow and getting snow blindness. Bird dropping blindness ¨C was that a thing?


    Another delightful feature was that the yard was filled with random junk. Wheelbarrows, watering cans, disused shelves presumably taken out from the house and dumped here, old paint cans with solidified paint inside. There was more rusty old crap here than in Sammy Lee¡¯s scrapyard.


    Mick set his sleuthing kit case down on a sodden, overturned armchair and took out his gloves. There were two pairs: paper thin gloves for handling evidence, and thicker gloves for¡­well, general glove use. Judging these to be padded enough to protect him from stray metal edges and the like, he began poking around.


    Twenty or so minutes later, he had nothing. Going back into the house, he asked Lena to go sit in the living room while he conferred with Lill. Lena was surprisingly obliging. Smug, even. She went into the living room, sat on a couch, and picked up a book .


    ¡°Checked pretty much everywhere,¡± he told Lill. ¡°Thought there being so much junk in the yard might be a good cover, but I¡¯m coming up empty.¡±


    Lill said, ¡°Have you tried knocking on walls, finding hollow spaces, and that kind of thing? Floorboards, too. I used to hide tobacco from my mother underneath a loose floorboard in my room. Don¡¯t do it anymore, though.¡±


    ¡°The smoking, or the hiding?¡±


    ¡°Both,¡± said Lill.


    ¡°You mind having a look for hidden spaces, since you¡¯re the expert?¡±


    ¡°Most certainly.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. Second pair of eyes, and all that. You might see something I missed.¡±


    While Lill checked inside the house, Mick went back into the yard. There was just something he couldn¡¯t shake about it. He¡¯d seen the birds disappear over the roof and presumably land here, after all.


    Opening the artificed case that Flo had given him, he searched through his sleuthing kit and took out his forensic equipment. There was his fingerprint dusting set, a magnifying glass with low-level artificery for clue highlighting, charcoal and parchment to take rubbings, and a few chemical vials he¡¯d bought from Janey Morgan, which would react to certain substances.


    The first thing he did was to grab a watering can, fill it from the water pump, then dilute a single drop of silverite into it. Then, using a paint brush from the kit, he began spreading the silverite solution over the bird crap-covered yard. The way he figured it, if the birds were bringing jewelry to the cottage, then they¡¯d swoop into the yard and release the necklaces, rings, and bracelets onto the ground for Lena to collect.


    Only, he made a rough covering of the yard with the solution, yet there was no sign of it coming into contact with silver. He sat down on the overturned sofa. Then, feeling the seat of his pants get damp from its soddenness, he stood up and began pacing. The yard didn¡¯t make for a good pacing area, though. Not like in his office. There was too much junk to avoid.


    Okay, so if there¡¯s nothing out here, then Lena must meet the birds in the yard, take the jewelry from them, and store it inside the house.


    Heading back into the house, he found Lill sitting in the living room with Lena. They were laughing like old friends. Mick began to get a sinking feeling in his gut that Lill had stared into Lena¡¯s eyes too long and fallen under her charms.


    When he conferred with her out in the hall, though, she seemed her usual self.


    ¡°Just passing the time, is all,¡± Lill said. ¡°The nasty, nasty approach doesn¡¯t work with her. So I thought, if I get her thinking I¡¯m all nice and friendly, maybe she¡¯ll slip up.¡±


    ¡°Good thinking, but I wouldn¡¯t count on it. You searched this place, then?¡±


    Yup, she¡¯d finished checking, she told him. She¡¯d done a full sweep of the house, which meant they both had now, and she¡¯d also used an acoustic knocker from her own forensics kit to find hidden spaces. Nothing.


    Mick felt so frustrated that he could have hit a wall, if he didn¡¯t have such a respect for interior decoration and an unwillingness to cause damage that might need a tradesperson to fix. After all, as rundown as the cottage was, he could hardly come in here as either a sleuth or a town guard and start breaking stuff.


    Besides, he wasn¡¯t the type to hit an inanimate object like that. Whenever he felt tense or angry, he¡¯d just go for a nice run around ¡®hampton. Clear it all right out of his head. No chance of that right now, though. Better to just focus on the case. Stay practical.


    He was about to say something, then thought better of it. He gestured toward the kitchen. Lill followed him there.


    ¡°It¡¯s getting late,¡± he said, ¡°and we¡¯ve searched the place. The warrant doesn¡¯t cover us setting up camp here. We¡¯ll have to clear out soon.¡±


    ¡°Well, what can we do? We tried.¡±


    ¡°I saw the damned birds bring jewelry here, Lill. Saw it with my own peepers.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s haul her into the station. I¡¯m sure we¡¯ll be able to find something we can arrest her for, if she¡¯s as bad as you¡¯re making out. Then we can get her talking.¡±


    ¡°Believe me, if there was something obvious, I¡¯d be happy to. But she¡¯s too clever for that.¡±


    Lena Coarty wasn¡¯t so clever that she¡¯d gotten away with the whole mining operation, though. He needed to remind himself of that. Mick had been the hero of Sunhampton for a little while afterwards. People had nodded at him in the street, they¡¯d bought him beers at the King¡¯s Head. Only, he knew the truth. He had caught her, yes. He¡¯d worked hard to do so. But it had been as much about Lena getting cocky and slipping up, as it had about his own investigative prowess.


    This time, though, she¡¯d held the better cards. However she had done this whole thing, she¡¯d done it well. He was going to have to call this quits. Mark the score between them as one each.


    He supposed it wasn¡¯t a complete loss. He¡¯d still get experience for the sleuth work he had done. It was just that using your skills was all well and good, but solving a mystery or closing a case boosted your experience way more, according to Starter Sleuthing. After all, you could get enjoyment from reading half a book, but nothing compared to finishing it and finding out how the story ended.


    Just before giving it all up and telling Lill they¡¯d better go, he went back into the yard one last time. Daylight was fading now, which would make it even harder to spot anything. Out here on the Lackney moors, it could get real dark real quickly. If it wasn¡¯t for this cottage, there wouldn¡¯t be any light for miles around.


    Mick opened the artificed sleuthing kit and took out his glow lamp, which he lit and set atop a wheelbarrow. Then, after assembling all the equipment he needed next to the lamp, he made one more forensic sweep of the yard.


    This time, he used dusting powder on the yard walls. The powder was a special, alchemical kind which should reveal not just fingerprints, but other strange markings, too. The way he saw it, there might be a safe hidden out here somewhere. It wasn¡¯t beyond the means of someone like Lena to have a safe concealed inside a stone wall, and then maybe even enchanted for perfect camouflage.


    When the powder revealed no fingerprints on the walls, he wondered if perhaps it was built into the ground. So, he paced the yard, sprinkling dusting powder in heaps here and there. Using a thick bristled brush, he spread the powder methodically, covering square sections of the yard one at a time.


    And then, he found something. He grinned, feeling so pleased with himself that he almost dropped his brush. He sat down on the ground, despite the bird droppings, and stared at the scene he¡¯d uncovered.


    Lots and lots of little bird claw prints, right there on one section of the yard. It was in the north eastern corner, and without the dusting powder, it didn¡¯t look different from the rest of the yard at all; it was just as encrusted with bird droppings.


    Only, when Mick pressed down on the part where the bird claw prints were concentrated, the ground tilted like one of those traps he¡¯d read about in his dungeon adventure stories. Just like that, a little square of yard tilted on an axis, revealing a space underground.


    Mick stood up, feeling happy despite his knees aching. It was time to have another word with Lena Coarty.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 38

    <h2>38</h2>


    It was gone just past nine o¡¯clock by the time he and Lill used Lena¡¯s black carriage to take her to Elmshore East station in Full Striding and got her booked in with the desk sergeant and escorted to a cell. Lena barely said a word the whole journey, though she answered the desk sergeant¡¯s questions politely and with practice, even offering a couple of details before he asked for them. After filling out some paperwork about the lead up to the arrest, it was eleven minutes past ten before Mick and Lill finally left the station. Outside, the street was lit with streetlamps spaced ten feet apart and glowing orange. A carriage driver waited nearby, feet up on his driver¡¯s seat and using a tiny carving knife to shape a wooden duck.


    Lill fastened her coat buckles and turned up the collar. ¡°Colder than a witch¡¯s tits out here. Celebratory drink? We can fit one or two in before last orders. Maybe three if we mean business.¡±


    ¡°Never turned down a celebratory ale in my life,¡± said Mick.


    She took him down Waxon Street, across a small plaza filled with street performers, and then to the middle of Kierkemall Avenue, where the Hand and Cuff tavern awaited. This was the Elmshore East guards¡¯ pub of choice, apparently. Anyone ranked as an inspector, sleuth, detective or above didn¡¯t go in. They preferred the Glassy Eye, which was on the opposite side of the street and north a little. Lill said she hated that place, and despite not being the correct rank, she would go nowhere but the Hand and Cuff.


    ¡°Cheaper beers, a less pretentious food menu, and if you¡¯re lucky, things get rowdy after midnight,¡± she said.


    Inside, they got a few funny looks from the sergeants and constables who were enjoying a post-work ale or cider, gathering in little law enforcer clusters spread throughout the tavern. A few of them recognized Lill since she was Head Inspector Brenda Glass¡¯s daughter, and they knew she was an apprentice inspector. This led them to conclude that Mick was, too, and thus they weren¡¯t exactly welcome. Nobody went so far as to be rude, but Mick was decent at judging a person, and he knew enmity when he saw it.


    ¡°This guy¡¯s taking a while,¡± said Lill.


    They¡¯d been stood at the bar for at least ten minutes now, and the barkeep kept serving anyone with a constable or sergeant insignia on their shoulder. Didn¡¯t matter if they¡¯d arrived after Lill and Mick, they got served first.


    ¡°¡¯Scuse me,¡± said Mick.


    The barkeep ignored him.


    ¡°S¡¯cuse me, fella, we were here before this lot.¡±


    Again the barkeep treated Mick like he was the tavern ghost.


    ¡°This is ridiculous. Let¡¯s just go somewhere else.¡±


    ¡°I used to come here all the time,¡± said Lill, ¡°But I guess that was before I became a trainee inspector.¡±


    ¡°Well, now, look who it is,¡± said a voice.


    Mick turned around, quickly becoming dismayed to see Sergeant Nichols waving at him, the bloke who¡¯d played the Inspector Longwaite joke on him. Nichols had been drinking in a snug with a couple of constables who hadn¡¯t gotten changed after work, like they were supposed to. Rather than enjoy beers while wearing their uniform, they had simply removed their ranking stripes from their sleeves.


    Sergeant Nichols stood up and said loudly in his West Easterly accent, ¡°Sleuth Mulroon, isn¡¯t it? Barman, a drink here for Sleuth Mulroon and Inspector Glass. Put it on my tab.¡±


    Mick wasn¡¯t a fully-classed sleuth yet, so didn¡¯t deserve the title, but he appreciated it nonetheless. ¡°Thanks. I¡¯ll have a glass of Lawless Times.¡±


    Evidently, Sergeant Nichols had some standing in the Hand and Cuff, because nobody glared at Mick and Lill after that, and the barman decided their gold was just as good as anyone else¡¯s.


    After thanking Sergeant Nichols, they grabbed a seat in the booth furthest away from the door. The green, felt seats were worn, but the snug had ornamental oak barriers around it, giving them some privacy. Mick took a long, refreshing sip of his beer, unable to resist letting out an ¡®ahh¡¯. The first sip of a nice ale always hit the spot.


    ¡°Checked your token text yet?¡± asked Lill.


    ¡°Nope. I was saving it all up. You know, as a treat.¡±


    ¡°Check them together?¡±


    ¡°Sure, why not.¡±


    The idea of checking their token text at the same time was a nice thing to do in theory, however neither of them could see the other¡¯s text. Tapping his token bracelet, Mick released several streams of token text into the air. It hovered above their table like pipe smoke, visible only to him.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    In one fell swoop ¨C and he was pleased to think of this pun, even if he didn¡¯t actually say it out loud ¨C he had solved three bird-related cases. Added to the book learning he did at home, his studying with Janey, and the various smaller cases he¡¯d solved about missing keys and the like, it had resulted in something special.


    <u>Skill Tree Earned: Simple Observation</u>


    - Ability: Keen Eye


    Level: 1


    Keen Eye enhances your vision, allowing you to spot details that others might miss.


    Sleuth Bonus: Increased perception of details and observations related to heightened states of emotion


    -Ability: Stakeout Stamina


    Level: 1


    Allows for a temporary increase in concentration and the removal of mental fatigue


    <u>Skill Tree Earned: Simple Forensics</u>


    - Ability: Evidence Sweep


    Level: 1


    Applies an instant forensic sweep of a location. The evidence uncovered depends on your ability level, as well as the equipment and materials you have to hand.


    -Ability: Show Deceptions and Manipulations


    Level: 1


    Highlights the presence of physical items and evidence that have been manipulated or tampered with to aid some kind of deception.


    <u>Skill Tree Earned: Simple Stealth & Tracking</u>


    - Ability: Silent Movement


    Level: 1


    Quiets your movement and footsteps, allowing for more efficient tailing of a target.


    - Trail Hound


    Level: 1


    Possessing a keepsake belonging to a person allows you to track their whereabouts.


    Sleuth bonus: The better your abilities and the more important the keepsake (in terms of emotional connection), the further you can see a trail, and the clearer it is


    Mick had to read the token text three times, he was so overwhelmed by it. Not in a bad way, though; this was a pleasant kind of overwhelmed. He knew he¡¯d been chipping steadily away at all of his skill trees lately, what with all his hard work and the little cases he¡¯d solved. It was still surprising to earn three skill trees at once.


    Then again, he¡¯d solved three cases in one go, and that counted for a heck of a lot. Flo¡¯s milk bottle lids, the mystery carriage, Jonathan Tillwright¡¯s birds. Doing so had taken the use of every aspect of sleuthing, which earned him plenty of experience. Then, closing three cases in one go had given it a great boost.


    The descriptions of his new abilities under each skill tree would bear further reading when he got home. He¡¯d sit in his favorite chair by the fire, make a nice mug of hot chocolate, and really get to grips with what they could do. Ultimately, though, the best way of learning was by doing ¨C by using his new sleuth abilities.


    Reaching into his pocket, he took out the five skill tokens that Brenda Glass had told the station quartermaster to issue to him.


    Well, would you look at that. Three of his tokens were no longer blank. The Simple Observation token had a pair of binoculars on it, the Simple Forensics had a glove and a vial, while the Simple Stealth & Tracking token had a set of footprints on it.


    ¡°Three trees?¡± said Lill. ¡°Well done!¡±


    He¡¯d been so lost in his thoughts he¡¯d almost forgotten he was even in a tavern, let alone that his friend was with him.


    ¡°So the tokens,¡± he said. ¡°Now that I have three skill trees and a couple of abilities on each, I have to set the tokens in my bracelet to use them? Am I barking up the right tree?¡±


    ¡°Starter Sleuthing goes into all this. Chapter Six. Or chapter four if you have the old edition from a few years ago, before they revised it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s one thing reading it, another actually getting a skill tree myself.¡±


    Lill drank the rest of her beer, leaving nothing but suds at the bottom, and pushed the glass aside. ¡°Okay, so for one thing, your abilities aren¡¯t in the tokens. They¡¯re in you now that you earned the skill trees, okay?¡±


    ¡°Sure. Wouldn¡¯t make much sense to lose a little token down the back of the couch and have to say bye bye to your abilities.¡±


    ¡°Exactly, so the tokens are just a way of getting the abilities out. Like, say you know how to play the lute. Take your lute away, and you can¡¯t make sounds, yet you still know how to play. Right?¡±


    ¡°Makes sense.¡±


    ¡°Think of the tokens like that, like instruments. What if you need to use an ability from Simple Observation? Easy as lemon pie on a sunny afternoon. Just make sure you have the Simple Observation token set in your bracelet.¡±


    Mick was grateful he¡¯d befriended Lill, of all the people in the token intake group. As the daughter of a Chief Inspector mother and a solicitor father, she¡¯d grown up in an environment where little inspector class tidbits were as prevalent in the air as mayflies in summer. She knew so much about it all; she and her parents probably discussed changes in the counterfeiting law over the dinner table. They probably read her the ¡®Easterly Noise Act ¡¯81¡¯ as a bedtime story.


    At the same time, as grateful as he was, he felt like the guy turning up at a buffet with nothing to add to the table. What was Lill getting out of their friendship? He tried to think of something he could offer. A little morsel of knowledge he could throw her way.


    ¡°Gotta be wary,¡± he said, then paused and took a sip of his beer for effect. ¡°All well and good using abilities on your skill trees. But there¡¯s a certain kind of stamina at play when you do so. I read about it in Starter Sleuthing. Use your abilities too much and you¡¯ll dip into your ability stamina, and all you can do is rest up and wait for it to come back.¡±


    ¡°Uh huh. Ought to be easy to conserve stamina for a miser like you, no? Just pretend it¡¯s gold and you¡¯ll be fine.¡±


    ¡°Oh, like that is it?¡± he side, with a grin. ¡°Well, Ms. Gill. How about the miser here buys the next round of drinks? Who¡¯s the skinflint now, huh?¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 39

    <h2>39</h2>


    Mick decided he didn¡¯t have time to spend making trips to the Tillwright farm and Alderman Woot in Perentee to collect his fees. If he spent all his day chasing up invoices, he¡¯d never get any sleuthing done. What he really needed was an administrative assistant, but he couldn¡¯t afford one yet. As a middle ground, he wrote a few notes then went to the post office to see Connor Perry.


    Connor had been Sunhampton¡¯s head postmaster for years. He opened up the post office the same time every day like clockwork, even if he¡¯d had fitful sleep thanks to his light sensitivity. He could reliably be found behind the post counter most times of the day, usually sorting through mail but sometimes reading a book. If he wasn¡¯t there, he was out on post duties, though he and his assistant, Seelka Syrne, shared that part of the job.


    ¡°Would you like first class postage or second class?¡± asked Connor.


    ¡°What¡¯s the difference?¡±


    ¡°One to two days delivery for first class, three to five for second.¡±


    ¡°Second class is cheaper, I take it?¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Naturally.¡±


    ¡°Ah, what the heck. Second, please. Actually¡­don¡¯t suppose there¡¯s a third class postage that¡¯s even cheaper?¡±


    Connor nodded. ¡°We do.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll send them by third class then please, Connor.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s called delivering it yourself. Doesn¡¯t cost a penny.¡±


    People paid their sleuths in different ways, Mick soon learned. Some of them liked to deal in actual coins, and would hand them over in bags, rolls, stacks, or by just placing them on his desk. Flo Anderson, for instance, used paying Mick as an opportunity to get rid of all her old change, remunerating him the full amount he was owed in coppers and silvers. Mick didn¡¯t mind, though. Gold was gold, and you could get it changed at the bank for free. Besides that, Ma collected coins and getting so many of them let Mick look through to see if there were any editions she didn¡¯t have yet.


    Other folks preferred to use banking drafts, which he was reluctant to accept unless he knew the person well or had a solid reason to trust them. Call it wisdom, call it the aftereffects of spending time with Lena Coarty, but he was all too aware that banking drafts could be forged. Then again, so could coins, he guessed. Didn¡¯t they just shut down a major copper coin counterfeiting set up in Hattersdale? Clever really; nobody expected anyone to go to the effort of forging copper coins rather than silver or gold, so they¡¯d gotten away with it for years.


    In any case, though Mick had healthy suspicions most of the time, he didn¡¯t mind when Alderman Woot sent a banking draft in the post. He was the mayor¡¯s assistant, for saints¡¯ sakes. A good old, salt of the earth politician. If you couldn¡¯t trust those folks, then who could you trust? Everyone in Easterly knew that.


    With a bit more gold in his sleuth coffers, Mick did a few things. First, he treated Ma to a meal at the King¡¯s Head. She asked him what she¡¯d done to deserve it, and he said nothing ¨C she just deserved it. Lavish, sure. But couldn¡¯t a guy treat his mother from time to time?


    He divided the rest of his earnings into pots. Not physical ones, as such, but he liked to know where his money was going. He set a quarter of it aside for regular business expenses, a quarter for the necessities of life, kept a modest sum for buying a few pieces of sleuthing equipment, and planned to take the rest to Full Striding Central bank, where he¡¯d save it.


    Lee Hunter called in at Mick¡¯s office while he was dividing his cash, this effort represented by a series of sums scribbled in a notepad. When Mick explained what he was doing, Lee shook his head like it was the most ridiculous thing he¡¯d ever heard.


    ¡°What are you like? So you do all this work, and then¡­just save your gold?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the idea,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°When do you get to spend it?¡±


    ¡°Well¡­most of it¡¯s for my retirement.¡±


    ¡°You might never see your bloody retirement! Sorry to be so gloomy, buddy, but there¡¯s a balance. What about the now? What about enjoying your life while you¡¯re at your peak? Relatively speaking.¡±


    ¡°I keep in shape!¡± said Mick.


    ¡°I¡¯m just saying, you should treat yourself. At least a little.¡±


    ¡°I go for beers with you, Spruce, and Nell. What¡¯s that, if it isn¡¯t treating myself?¡±


    Lee paced around the office. It was a different kind of pacing to the one Mick normally practiced; Lee was just always full of energy. In fact, he only ever seemed to find calm when he was alone in a forest or woodland.


    ¡°That¡¯s not a treat. Going for a nice ale is sort of¡­.normal friendship maintenance. I mean that you should do something really nice for yourself. Like when I went out and bought myself that new bow. Didn¡¯t need it. Already got half a dozen bows. But I¡¯d worked hard, hadn¡¯t I, and I really wanted it. What about when Nell came back from the West Grove East antiques fair with that grandfather clock that doesn¡¯t even keep time right? Her cottage is barely big enough to fit it in, but she really liked it.¡±


    Mick wondered if he really could spend some of his earnings on himself. On something he didn¡¯t need, some item or other that he merely wanted. It¡¯d feel strange. Even the idea of spending completely unnecessary gold made him inwardly recoil. Someone might say taking Ma out for dinner wasn¡¯t necessary, not strictly. He and Ma didn¡¯t need cod and fried potatoes at the King¡¯s Head to carry on breathing, did they? But showing his mother he cared was a necessity - just a different kind. It wasn¡¯t the same as splurging coins on himself.


    ¡°How¡¯d it go with the bird business, anyhow?¡± said Lee. ¡°When¡¯s the trial?¡±


    Mick felt his mood sour a little. ¡°There won¡¯t be one.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°The prosecution service felt there was no way to prove that Lena Coarty trained the birds to steal, or that she even knew they were bringing the jewelry back to her cottage. All she has to do is claim ignorance about the hiding place in her yard and the prosecutor would have better luck digging for gold nuggets with a spoon.¡±


    ¡°But the seeds she was feeding them. You said they were alchemical ones or something?¡±


    Mick shrugged. ¡°Lena told the inspector she had bought the seeds from a guy at a tavern. Couldn¡¯t remember his name, couldn¡¯t even remember the tavern. So she bought the seeds without knowing what they did, and she sometimes enjoys riding all the way to Perentee to feed the birds, is all.¡±


    ¡°What a crock of crap.¡±


    ¡°Way of the world, my friend,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°So that¡¯s all you have to do to get away with something? Just¡­say you didn¡¯t do it?¡±


    Truth was, Mick had already been over this in his own head plenty of times, to the point he¡¯d made a kind of peace with it. ¡°She didn¡¯t do any of the stealing herself, and we can¡¯t exactly get the birds to talk. If she¡¯d used parrots, well at least that¡¯d be something.¡± He sighed, and continued, ¡°It is what it is. At least we put a stop to the whole thing. Peoples¡¯ jewelry is safe, Flo Anderson can enjoy her cereal, and I made nice progress towards my class.¡±


    Though he hadn¡¯t known it at the time, Lee Hunter¡¯s words must have had an effect, because the next morning, Mick woke up with a single thought in his head: I¡¯m going to treat myself today. He knew just the thing to buy, too.Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    With this fixed firmly in mind, he headed across Coiner¡¯s Way in the direction of Paisley Porter¡¯s store. He was nervous yet excited, and he could already picture himself wearing one of the fancy coats that both Paisley and Jace had already tried selling him. They weren¡¯t coats made specifically for a sleuth, but he thought they were the sort of thing a sleuth would wear all the same. The only thing he hadn¡¯t figured out yet was whether to go for a black or dark brown one.


    They say black is slimming, don¡¯t they? Then again, folks already know me as Skinny Mick. And brown looks good on me. People have always said so. But a black coat does lend a certain mystery to a guy¡­


    He was pulled from his thoughts by the clip-clop of horse hooves. He stepped aside and was ready to walk on, when he recognized the horse coming his way.


    ¡°Big Jimmy!¡±


    Sure enough, it was him. Big Jimmy, who¡¯d made for great company during his adventures in Perentee and his moorland stakeout. Farmer Barnes was leading him through Coiner¡¯s Way by a lead rope attached to Jimmy¡¯s halter.


    As nice as it was to see Jimmy, he couldn¡¯t say the same for Farmer Barnes. Mick didn¡¯t dislike many people, and even of those who provoked the feeling in him, he usually tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. But Begbie Barnes had always stirred up a dark feeling in his gut, and he¡¯d trusted his gut even before he became a sleuth.


    It wasn¡¯t that Begbie had done anything to Mick. He hadn¡¯t seen him mistreating his horses, either. Honestly, he couldn¡¯t say where the feeling came from, and that was why he did his utmost not to let it influence how he behaved. Now that he was a sleuth in training, it was even more important that he treat people fairly and as though they were innocent until he knew for sure it was otherwise.


    ¡°Morning, Begbie,¡± he said. ¡°How¡¯s the day treating you?¡±


    ¡°Mick.¡±


    ¡°See you¡¯re out with Big Jimmy here. Or Large James, as he told me he sometimes likes to be called.¡±


    Begbie Barnes didn¡¯t even smile at Mick¡¯s joke. Not that it would have brought a tavern audience into stitches, but still. It wasn¡¯t the worst joke ever told in Easterly.


    ¡°Selling him on,¡± said Begbie. ¡°Just taking him now.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re selling Jimmy?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Begbie was the biggest horse dealer in this part of Easterly. He bought them, rented them out, sold them. If there was a way to make money from a horse, he most likely had his hand in it. Though he treated his horses fair by all accounts, viewing them as stock that needed to be kept in good shape so he could earn maximum profit, he didn¡¯t have any love for them.


    Nothing wrong with that, of course. Nothing at all. Mick had once heard Jace Porter telling his niece, Paisley, how there was no room for sentiment in business. That was years ago, when she¡¯d first arrived in Sunhampton and wasn¡¯t even an apprentice merchant yet. Much later, he¡¯d overheard Paisley giving her friend, Lewis Cooper, the very same pep talk.


    Being of this school of business, Begbie Barnes had no time nor patience for unnecessary expenses. If his horses weren¡¯t likely to make him much money by other means, he found a buyer for them. Simple as that. Did he really need to sell Jimmy, of all horses, though?


    ¡°Where¡¯s Jimmy going?¡± asked Mick.


    ¡°Rocky Falls mine, just southwest of The Cove. They take all the nags they can get. I made a contract for a dozen, but then Spotted Clyde got sick, so Jimmy here needs to make up the numbers.¡±


    Mick wasn¡¯t na?ve; he knew how the world worked. He knew how animals were used for all kinds of labor, and he himself had no doubt used, consumed, or eaten something that was a direct or indirect result of such things. But Big Jimmy, of all horses, getting sold to a silver mine where he¡¯d be pushing mining carts and hauling stuff around all day?


    Nope. No way, no how. Not in this lifetime. Sure, it was hypocritical to get so wound up over this one animal - what about all the rest of the beasts of burden in Easterly, after all? But he was only human, and he couldn¡¯t help his feelings. He was also just one guy, that was the fact of it. Saving the world was unrealistic. Better just to do his best in his little parcel of it.


    ¡°How much you getting for Jimmy?¡± he said.


    ¡°Told you, it¡¯s a contract for a dozen.¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± said Mick, ¡°What¡¯s the total divided by twelve?¡±


    Begbie squinted. ¡°You¡¯re awfully interested.¡±


    ¡°Look, I¡¯ll give you two hundred gold for Jimmy right now.¡±


    ¡°Two hundred! You ever bought a horse before, Mick?¡±


    ¡°Well, no. But I¡¯ve spent some time with Jimmy, and I know a few things about him. He¡¯s lazy, he ain¡¯t that strong, he¡¯s about as obedient as a¡­wasp-¡±


    ¡°As a wasp?¡±


    ¡°Yup, and he¡¯s dumber than a bag of rocks that¡¯s been crushed into dust. All in all, if I made a list of horses to sell to a mining outfit, I wouldn¡¯t even put Jimmy on it, let alone at the bottom. He¡¯s dumb, weak, and he¡¯s old.¡±


    Mick glanced at Big Jimmy. Hope you can¡¯t understand me, buddy. And if you can, that you know I¡¯m lying, and it¡¯s for your own good. He placed his right hand on Jimmy now, who responded by turning a little and brushing his head against Mick¡¯s sleeve.


    Begbie gave a tug on the reins. Not hard, not cruelly, but just enough to make Jimmy move away.


    ¡°What do I care? I promised them twelve horses, and they¡¯re getting twelve.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve got a reputation, Begbie,¡± said Mick. ¡°Don¡¯t just think about this one contract. If word gets around that Begbie Barnes sells old and useless horses-¡± he paused then, inwardly thinking, sorry, Jimmy, ¡°then nobody¡¯ll want to deal with you.¡±


    Begbie glanced at Jimmy, then back at Mick. ¡°I do have a couple of younger ¡®uns I was umming and ahhing over including in the contract.¡±


    ¡°Every horse represents you and your business, Begbie. Remember that. They¡¯re like a walking advertisement of you.¡±


    ¡°Fine. A thousand gold for Jimmy. He¡¯s of good stock.¡±


    ¡°I ain¡¯t a breeder, you told me you¡¯ve got no use for him. Every coin you get from me for him is like free money,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Five hundred.¡±


    ¡°Two hundred, and we part as friends.¡±


    ¡°Doubt we¡¯ll ever be that. Fine, Mick. I don¡¯t have time for this. Two hundred, right here right now, and we¡¯ll call a deal a deal.¡±


    Mick led Big Jimmy across town and to the King¡¯s Head. He didn¡¯t know if it was just coincidence, but he swore he could feel the wind sneaking in through the gaps in the protection of his old coat now. Maybe he could treat himself again in a few cases time, though. Buy himself a new coat then. Unless, that was, he bumped into a farmer selling a cow that he¡¯d befriended recently, or something equally stupid. He needed to stop being so soft hearted, damn it.


    At the tavern, Mick went to see Paul Parsnip. Paul ran the stable at the back of the tavern where guests hitched their horses and mules ¨C and on one occasion a griffin ¨C for ten gold per night. There was always a stable or two going free, and Paul said he could offer Mick a discounted rate of seven gold per night to keep Big Jimmy there. This wasn¡¯t a livery, so they couldn¡¯t offer a long-term guarantee of a place, but he¡¯d let Mick pay for a month and see where they went from there.


    ¡°Seven gold per night to keep him here?¡± said Mick. ¡°You¡¯re robbing me blind. I could keep him in my garden for free.¡±


    ¡°Seriously? It¡¯s seven gold per night.¡±


    ¡°All the coins count. My garden¡¯s zero per night.¡±


    ¡°Oh yeah, Mick? What¡¯s he going to eat?¡±


    ¡°Grass.¡±


    ¡°You got a garden that sprouts up anew every night, have you? A little field of magic grass that¡¯ll sustain a horse?¡±


    ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll go to the farmers market and buy hay wholesale. Bet I could get it cheaply.¡±


    ¡°Okay,¡± said Paul, ¡°What about when it¡¯s cold or raining or stormy? You gonna let Big Jimmy sleep in your bed? Because you don¡¯t have a stable, as far as I know.¡±


    ¡°Damn it. Can¡¯t you do it any cheaper?¡±


    ¡°Mick¡­I don¡¯t think you¡¯re realizing that seven gold per night to stable a horse is an absolute steal. I¡¯m not pretending this is a livery-standard setup; it¡¯s a stable at the back of a tavern. But c¡¯mon. You know what kind of care I put into the animals that stay here. Seven gold for the reassurance Big Jimmy is cared for is the best deal you¡¯ll ever see in this lifetime. In fact, when I save up for a livery of my own, I¡¯ll charge four times that much.¡±


    It was true. Paul Parsnip was renowned around Sunhampton for his obsession with horses, mules, donkeys. Anything that wore a saddle, in fact. When Big Jimmy wasn¡¯t with Mick, there¡¯d be no better place in Easterly for him.


    All the same, seven gold per night¡­what an expense that was! And for the duration of Jimmy¡¯s life! Mick had set out that morning to buy a nice coat for himself as a treat, but he¡¯d given himself decades of obligation.


    What the heck is happening to me lately? All this time I¡¯ve been so careful with coins. Then I quit my job¡­.I buy a damned horse.


    Thing was, there was another part of his mind telling him that if he really, really thought about it, neither of these decisions had actually felt wrong. Not even though they went charging head on toward his old values, brandishing a long sword and roaring a battle cry.


    Something stirred in his gut just then. A kind of prodding feeling, but from the inside. As though some inner instinct was telling him something.


    ¡°If this is such an amazing price, then a fella has to wonder why.¡±


    ¡°Ever heard of looking a gift horse in the mouth, Mick? Alec just wants to make the King¡¯s Head a friendly tavern. Friendly to travelers, friendly to animals.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not telling me the real reason.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not?¡±


    Mick hadn¡¯t really known he was going to say that until he did, but there it was. And now, he needed to stick with it.


    ¡°You¡¯re not,¡± he said with conviction.


    ¡°Alright, fine. Alec said lots of road folk only stop at a tavern where they can stable their animals, and that expensive stabling fees would make them look for another tavern. Perentee ain¡¯t far, after all. It¡¯s all about profit. Alec takes a hit on the stabling, but gets people paying for lots of food and drink when they¡¯re inside.¡±


    ¡°Okay, then. It¡¯s about money. That¡¯s something I can understand.¡±


    The tokens in his coat pocket vibrated then. Or at least, one of them did. Now wasn¡¯t the time to look, but he guessed it was his blank Simple Interrogation skill token earning a little experience.


    Weighing things up for a second or two more, he made his decision. He¡¯d bought Jimmy. There was no going back from that, and now, it was his responsibility to make sure he enjoyed his twilight years as much as possible. That began with good lodgings. Living here at the tavern, under Paul Parsnip¡¯s dutiful care, was perfect. Besides, he would just have to allocate Jimmy¡¯s expenses into his budget, that was all. The rate really was so cheap that solving a case or two would cover it for a month.


    After paying a month¡¯s worth of stabling up front ¨C and again briefly questioning what the heck was happening to him ¨C he said a temporary goodbye to Jimmy and went on with the rest of his day.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 40

    <h2>40</h2>


    His next stop was to Healer Brown to ask about his knees. Kneeling down for hours near Lena¡¯s cottage had made them really sore. Sitting down in one place for so long wasn¡¯t much better, either. With lots of stakeouts promised in his future, he needed to do something about it.


    ¡°Have you thought about hiring an apprentice, Michael?¡± said Healer Brown.


    Brown had called him ¡®Michael¡¯ ever since he was a kid and he prescribed lotion for his chicken pox, and there was no point trying to change it now. He was one of the few people Mick didn¡¯t bother correcting.


    ¡°I am an apprentice, technically,¡± said Mick. ¡°I know what you mean, though. I just can¡¯t afford to hire anyone to help me yet. Maybe if business takes off, and I start drawing a proper salary as town guard to boot.¡±


    ¡°I suppose until then, you¡¯ll come knocking at the door of medicine to see you through like everyone else does.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­yeah. It is your job.¡±


    Healer Brown took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ¡°Sorry, Michael. I had to call round the craftstead and check on Jack Cooper today. That man, I tell you, he¡¯d infuriate a saint¡­anyway, take this to Paisley Porter¡¯s store and she¡¯ll fill the prescription.¡±


    Brown had prescribed him a tincture he could apply to his knees when the pain was especially bad, but spent a few minutes before he left to stress that a better solution was to start a few daily exercises intended to strengthen his knees. Preventative maintenance, he called it. Like how a good tinkerer kept his gears well oiled.


    After that, Mick caught the midday commuter cart to Full Striding, where he went to see Sammy Lee at the scrapyard. When he got there, Sammy was trying to fix a wagon wheel that was almost twice the size of her.


    ¡°If you¡¯re here for advice, I told you. I¡¯m a name on a form. No more, no less.¡±


    Mick took out his Simple Observation, Forensics, and Stealth & Tracking skill tokens. ¡°Just need you to sign off on these.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Where¡¯s the form? Pass it here.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re supposed to get me to use one of the abilities from each tree. So you know I didn¡¯t just give my tokens to someone else and get them to earn them.¡±


    ¡°Why in Easterly would someone do that?¡± said Sammy.


    ¡°Same reason anyone might fake getting any class. Gold. Fully classed sleuths can earn a good coin or two.¡±


    Sammy set her wrench down. ¡°I couldn¡¯t give a rat¡¯s arse if you get your tokens fairly or not. If you wanted to cheat, then that¡¯s on you. It¡¯d be yourself that you¡¯re fooling, at the end of the day.¡±


    ¡°Well, the guard commission, too. You could at least pretend you know. Throw in a wise word here or there. It wouldn¡¯t kill you.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m busy, Mick. You think these wagons fix themselves? Well, I¡¯ll tell you. They don¡¯t. Never, not once. That old story about the tailor and the elves is a crock of crap.¡±


    ¡°Alright. I s¡¯pose just the forms, then.¡±


    He righted a disappointing start to the afternoon not with a trip to a tavern for a beer and a pie covered in gravy, as tempting as that sounded,  but by stopping at the Elmshore East station, where Sergeant Nichols was on duty. It was a quiet day by Elmshore East standards, and Nichols was passing time by arranging his pens in order of how much ink each of them had left.


    ¡°Hello, Mick,¡± said Nichols. ¡°Here to hand yourself in? I always suspected you were the Striding Pie Stealer.¡±


    Mick laughed. ¡°You  remember that old fella who was here when I was waiting to see Inspector Longwaite?¡±


    ¡°Old fella¡­.old fella¡­¡±


    ¡°Guy who¡¯d lost his cat.¡±


    ¡°Oh, right,¡± said Nichols. ¡°Poor guy.¡±Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    ¡°Did they ever find it?¡±


    ¡°Let me see¡­¡±


    Sergeant Nichols spent longer looking for the paperwork than any of the Full Striding guards had spent looking for Misty-Bell, the cat belonging to Tim Ritson. Mick didn¡¯t blame them; they had a whole city to police, and their budget for doing so got smaller every year. Soon, Nichols explained while he looked through his files, they¡¯d be expected to keep Full Striding safe on an annual budget of one copper coin and a tin of biscuits.


    ¡°Ah, here we go. Ritson, Tim. Missing cat. No progress, Mick. It¡¯s been all the Striding inspectors have focused on for a fortnight, though. Dropped everything for it, we have. Our number one case, a cat that wandered off. But the moggy eludes us.¡±


    ¡°Mind if I look into it? I¡¯m a guard, after all. Technically.¡±


    ¡°Mick, if you like, I¡¯ll assign all the missing cat, dog, parrot, and rat cases over to you. You can have as many of them as your heart desires, my friend. It could be your special department.¡±


    It didn¡¯t take him long to cut a route north of Elmshore station to Tim Ritson¡¯s house on Claridge Drive. Only when he got there did he realize he could have taken a shortcut by following an alleyway next to the bakery on Shaftsbrook Avenue, but he¡¯d remember that for next time. Tim Ritson lived in a big house. At least three bedrooms, maybe four, Mick guessed while looking at it from the outside. When Tim opened the door and invited him in for a biscuit and a brew, he confirmed as much.


    ¡°Big ol¡¯ place for me to be clanking around in,¡± he said. ¡°Mind your arm on the wall there. Bit rough. Been meaning to sand it down.¡±


    Tim had shared this house with his late wife, Kelly, and they¡¯d brought up their kids Felicity and Simon here. With the children now not children at all and in fact having families of their own, it was a huge place for one guy.


    It was a sad story, but Mick didn¡¯t feel like he had to say anything. Seemed to him that Tim was more grateful for someone to say it to, rather than looking for any potential answer.


    ¡°S¡¯alright, though,¡± continued Tim. ¡°I¡¯ve been busy enough. Busier than a bee that¡¯s been kicked up the arse, some days, what with volunteering for the Forgetters and Misplacers Society, and my orienteering and hiking group. Only times it gets tough is the evening. Misty-Bell helps with that.¡±


    Mick had vowed to himself over and over again that he wouldn¡¯t say the following words, not even under threat of torture, but he found himself saying them regardless.


    ¡°I¡¯ll find Misty-Bell for you,¡± he promised Tim.


    Mick was the kind of guy who, when he made a promise, he¡¯d work himself to the grave trying to keep it. Right now, it felt like he¡¯d just dug his own. He also knew that when a cat went missing, your best bet was to find it in the first week or two. Every day that passed after that, and it got harder.


    As well as that, though, he couldn¡¯t charge Tim Ritson a single coin for this. He¡¯d gotten the case lead through Elmshore East station, which meant he was technically acting under an official capacity as a member of their token program, and an official Sunhampton Guard. What this meant was that every second he spent on this was actually costing him money.


    ¡°Can you describe Misty-Bell?¡± he said.


    ¡°She¡¯s black all over, with white patches on her side and her paws.¡±


    ¡°Got it. Anything else? Anything that might make her different from other black and white cats?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s Misty-Bell. She is different,¡± said Tim.


    ¡°Does she have a collar?¡±


    Tim looked down at his carpet, a pretty dreadful floral patterned thing that Mick wouldn¡¯t have chosen, personally.


    ¡°It snapped off, and I ordered her a new one. She went missing in between.¡±


    ¡°Okay. So she¡¯s a black and white cat, no collar. I need something else, Mr. Ritson. Something so I know it¡¯s her.¡±


    ¡°What else can I say, damn you!¡± replied Tim, then almost immediately after, ¡°I¡¯m sorry. Didn¡¯t mean to snap.¡±


    Mick patted his shoulder. ¡°We¡¯ve all gotta let it out sometime. I¡¯m as thick skinned as a rhino. You feel free to just go ahead and uncork it all.¡±


    ¡°No, really. I¡¯m sorry. I haven¡¯t been myself since Misty-Bell¡­¡±


    This clearly wasn¡¯t going to work. Mick needed a way to be able to know it was Misty Bell if he saw her, yet something about his straightforward questioning approach wasn¡¯t working with Tim.


    He spoke a bit softer now. ¡°You know Misty-Bell like the back of your hand, I¡¯d bet. Only thing is, Mr. Ritson-¡±


    ¡°Tim, please.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know her, Tim. The last thing I want to do is bring every single black and white cat in Striding here for you to inspect. All I need is just one little detail that I can use so I know it¡¯s her, and so I know I¡¯m reuniting you both rather than bringing the wrong cat here and getting your hopes up.¡±


    Another vibration from his pocket told him that he¡¯d earned experience, and he would have bet ten gold it was on his interrogation skill tree. This wasn¡¯t an interrogation, as such, but questioning witnesses was included within the skill tree.


    Tim thought about it, finally remembering that his granddaughter had made a drawing of Misty-Bell for him a couple of years ago. It was quite good, for a five year old¡¯s rendition. That is to say, it was pretty awful. Still, it showed the general layout and shapes of Misty¡¯s white patches, which Tim confirmed was actually pretty accurate.


    Mick drank his brew, ate one last biscuit, then said bye to Tim and headed out onto the street. His first plan was hinged on one fact; cats had to eat. He wondered if maybe Misty-Bell had found some poor sap to feed her, and she¡¯d started living there, maybe. Cats could be fickle. Everyone knew it.


    They were like that friend who you made plans with, always knowing that they¡¯d back out at the last minute. Yup, cats were like that friend but worse, because a cat would somehow manipulate you into thinking it was all your own fault, too.


    His feeding theory didn¡¯t help him a great deal, though, since he guessed that a cat could easily cross the whole city in a day. Misty could have found a generous benefactor anywhere in Full Striding.


    What I need is some information, he thought. Something to narrow things down.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 41

    <h2>41</h2>


    Armed with a five year old¡¯s drawing of a cat, Mick made a few house calls to Tim Ritson¡¯s neighbors, and all the houses on the adjoining streets. Some people were sympathetic about old Tim, whereas others didn¡¯t see what the fuss was. ¡°Just get a new cat,¡± one lady said to Mick. ¡°We lived on a busy wagon road growing up. Had a new cat every week.¡± A healthy number didn¡¯t even answer their door.


    Of the ones that did, some had a healthy suspicion regarding guards and sleuths, and weren¡¯t exactly forthcoming with their answers. Mick quickly learned to adapt his approach to a person. Some folks needed flattery, others preferred a straightforward question or two. For some people, he only needed to show his badge. Door by door, person by person, he worked his way down the street, not learning a great deal about Misty-Bell, but earning precious experience towards his Simple Interrogation skill tree.


    Two hours and a lot of questions later, Mick was at the third to last door on the odd-numbered side of Express Street. He gave the guards¡¯ knock, then waited. A few seconds later, a man answered the door. He was tall, skinny as a rake on a diet, and had scratches on his right cheek. The smell that wafted out from behind him was decidedly animal-like, and there were so many cats purring, meowing, and hissing from somewhere within the house that it was like someone was conducting a feline orchestra.


    Mick¡¯s gut began tugging at him for his attention now. He decided that he was going to listen to it. This guy knew something; he was sure of it.


    Just before he asked about Misty Bell, though, something made him change course. This was another part of him; not his gut, exactly, but some kind of sleuth instinct that he was beginning to form. It told him there was a right and wrong way to go about this, and that hitting this guy head on with cat questions would make him retreat into his shell like a startled tortoise.


    ¡°Yes?¡± said the man.


    Mick quickly thought of something to say. Something not related to cats, so that he could leave here without having raised his suspicions. What kind of person did most folks want to get off their doorstep as quickly as possible?


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­uh¡­collecting for a charity. You¡¯re clearly busy, though. Sorry to bother you, sir.¡±


    ¡°Oh, really? What charity?¡±


    For some reason, Mick couldn¡¯t think of a single charitable cause for a moment. It was as though the cat fumes coming from the house had fogged up his mind.


    Finally, he said, ¡°Kids.¡±


    ¡°What kind of kids charity?¡± asked the man.


    ¡°Just in general. You know.¡±


    ¡°So you just¡­collect gold and give it to some random children, no criteria involved?¡±


    ¡°No charity¡¯s perfect. Anyhow, I¡¯ll be off. Have a good day.¡±


    Mick spent a while scouting for a good place to watch the house, settling on a bench further up the street, out of view of the house¡¯s windows yet with a clear line of sight on the back door, where a cat flap allowed easy entry and exit from the home to anything cat sized and under.


    If this guy does have Misty-Bell, he thought, I can¡¯t get him for stealing. Not if the cats can come and go as they please.


    Not much really happened for a good while after that. This was a quiet street, after all. Oh, cats came and went from the house. Lots of them. A menagerie of cats, if that was the right word for it, though Mick half suspected a better term might be pride. Or was that lions? At any rate, there were ginger ones, fully black ones, even black and white ones. None of them were Misty-Bell, though. He was certain about that much, at least.


    Maybe I¡¯m wrong about this guy. Maybe he just has a lot of cats. I could be sitting out here all night, only to find out I¡¯m wrong.


    A couple of times, he almost stood up to leave. Each time, though, something inside made him sit back down. As though there was an invisible thread keeping him there, weak and thin, and he just wasn¡¯t ready to snip it yet.


    Besides, the longer he went without success, the surer he was this was right. Because, saints alive, this man had a lot of cats. Mick lost count after seeing fourteen unique felines leave or enter that one home. No wonder it smelled so bad.


    As the day wound on and the sky slowly darkened, be begun to feel the pinch of such a long stakeout. He was hungry, thirsty, and he badly needed to both go for a run to stretch his legs, and to have a nice, long lie down.


    Thinking now was as good a time as any, he used his Stakeout Stamina ability from his Observation skill tree. His fatigue left him instantly. His bones were still a bit achy but it was bearable now, and his concentration felt like it had just been treated to a big mug of coffee. Freshly invigorated through his ability use, he vowed to carry on his watch for as long as it took.


    His patience was rewarded soon after, when a black and white cat danced gracefully down the back street and toward the house. Mick glanced at the drawing, and thought this might be Misty-Bell, but he needed to be sure. And he needed to earn this surety quickly, before Misty-Bell disappeared through the cat flap.


    Activating his Keen Eye ability, his vision strengthened as though he¡¯d lived all his life partially sighted and someone had suddenly slipped a pair of perfectly prescribed spectacles on his nose. Colors came at him brighter, starker, with depths he hadn¡¯t noticed before. The world morphed into a place of sharp light. Hues of color came to him that he hadn¡¯t noticed before. He looked at the drawing and then Misty, Misty and then the drawing.


    It was her. By the hair on all the saints¡¯ arses, he was sure it was her.


    Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.


    The man didn¡¯t answer the door to the first set of Mick¡¯s guard knocks, nor the second. It was only when he made it clear he wasn¡¯t going away with a third set of knocks, that the man gave in. He was wearing a very thin and remarkably short evening gown that showed off his pasty white legs.


    ¡°Oh, you. The charity guy.¡±


    ¡°We need to have a chat,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Look, I¡¯ve nothing against giving to a worthy cause. But yours wasn¡¯t worthy. It wasn¡¯t even a cause. Either that, or you¡¯re terrible at selling it. If you¡¯ll pardon me, a charity needs an angle. You can¡¯t just say ¡®kids.¡¯ What about them?¡±


    Mick took out his brass badge and showed it to the man, who peered closely at it.


    ¡°That says you¡¯re the head of guards at¡­Sunhampton? Where the heck¡¯s that?¡±


    ¡°Never you mind. We could be on the moon¡¯s moon, and I¡¯d still be a guard and a sleuth-in training, here on business,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Huh? What?¡±


    ¡°I have reason to believe you have in your possession a cat belonging to someone else.¡±


    The man crossed his arms. ¡°Do you believe it, or can you prove it?¡±


    The truth was that Mick could prove it alright, but only if he went inside and pointed out Misty-Bell. He couldn¡¯t just walk through the guy¡¯s house, though. He needed a warrant, which would be no problem once he reported his sighting. But by the time he went to the station and came back with the warrant, this guy might have moved all his stolen cats.


    Should have gotten the warrant first, Mick scolded himself. It was a sign of inexperience that came at him as stark as a slap in the face. He wouldn¡¯t make this mistake again, though. Nothing wrong with mistakes if you learned from them, of course, but he just wished he hadn¡¯t had to make it now.


    No, he was going to have to sort this out right here. He thought about maybe taking a letter out of his pocket and waving it quickly in front of the guy¡¯s face. He could pretend it was a warrant. If he was working a case as a private sleuth, he might get away with that. Since he was here officially, there was no chance.


    No, he was going to have to be economical with the truth here if he wanted to get answers, but without tossing it away completely.


    ¡°A member of the Full Striding guard and investigator team has been watching your house for a while now, sir,¡± he said.


    So far, so true. Mick, as a guard on the token scheme, was employed by Full Striding in a way. A person could truthfully argue that, couldn¡¯t they? And he had been watching the house for ¡®a while¡¯. If the man took this ¡®while¡¯ to mean days or weeks, rather than hours, that wasn¡¯t Mick¡¯s problem.


    ¡°You¡¯ve been watching me?¡±


    Mick nodded.


    The man gripped the door handle. A more hasty guard or sleuth might have seen this as a reason to step up in force, but Mick would never be that kind of person. Sure, this guy was gripping the door handle, but he didn¡¯t look like he was going to try slamming it shut. This was more like an awkward fidgeting.


    The man relaxed. ¡°You expect me to believe that the Full Striding guards, budgets being what they are, would waste gold watching me? And why, anyway? I haven¡¯t done anything wrong.¡±


    ¡°I have reason to believe you¡¯re harboring a feline that doesn¡¯t belong to you. One, possibly more.¡±


    ¡°Is that illegal?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a reason I haven¡¯t said stolen, yet, sir,¡± replied Mick. ¡°A cat shows up at your home, begging for food, no collar or anything. Well, it¡¯s not illegal to feed it, and you¡¯re under no obligation to reunite it with its owner, either.¡±


    ¡°Right. Well, I¡¯ll say goodnight then. Good luck with the kids¡¯ charity. Oh, sorry, that was all crap, wasn¡¯t it?¡±


    Mick cleared his throat as the man was closing the door. ¡°However, sir, cats and dogs are classed as property under Easterly law.¡±


    ¡°I know they are, and don¡¯t get me started on it. It¡¯s a joke. They¡¯re animals, not things.¡±


    ¡°Be that as it may. A gentleman has reported his cat missing. Therefore, anyone who has the cat in their home is effectively harboring missing goods. Note that I still haven¡¯t said stolen. Not yet. But a denial over having those goods might change the way this whole situation is interpreted.¡±


    The man eyed Mick. His expression was of utter seriousness, though Mick found it difficult to take it as such, being more focused on the very, very thin and revealing nightgown that man had chosen to answer the door in.


    ¡°Striding guard budgets really are bad, though, aren¡¯t they? I¡¯m always reading about it in the Chronicle. Let¡¯s say there was a house with missing cats in it. Whether they¡¯re classed as property or not, cats aren¡¯t worth much. No chance they¡¯d allocate more than one guard to watching a house with a bloody¡­suspected cat inside. One person can¡¯t watch a house forever.¡±


    ¡°A person can¡¯t stay in their house forever, either,¡± said Mick. ¡°And you might not know this, sir, but some sleuths, detectives, and investigators earn an ability that lets them watch a place for a long, long time. Much longer than a regular person could. Let¡¯s quit messing around, shall we? If you¡¯ve innocently invited a missing cat into your home, I would just advise that you let me in to take a look at it. If it¡¯s the one I¡¯m looking for, then I¡¯ll be taking her with me. No harm. No foul. A mistake can happen to anyone. But they best not keep happening.¡±


    ¡°Let me see that badge again.¡±


    ¡°Here.¡±


    The man sighed. ¡°You had better come in.¡±


    Before leaving Full Striding that evening for the last commuter cart, Mick went for a quick drink with Lill at the Hand and Cuff. She had been working on her Deduction skill tree all day, tagging along with her mentor on a couple of burglaries. She¡¯d worked so hard she hadn¡¯t eaten all day, so while Mick contented himself with a beer, she ordered battered cod and fried potatoes with a side of onion rings.


    ¡°Have a couple of my fried potatoes,¡± said Lill, when they were at their table. ¡°Go on. Just a couple. I hate eating alone.¡±


    ¡°Honestly, I would. But when I took Misty-Bell back to Mr. Ritson¡¯s house, he¡¯d made a stew. Wouldn¡¯t let me leave until I had a bowl. Gave me a mug of ale, too.¡±


    ¡°What a monster.¡±


    ¡°I know. This job, eh?¡±


    ¡°He must have been happy, though,¡± said Lill.


    Mick nodded. ¡°It was almost embarrassing. Wouldn¡¯t stop thanking me. He tried to slip me a few gold, you know.¡±


    ¡°Should have taken it.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the problem? Just take it and don¡¯t say anything. Buy yourself a new cologne.¡±


    ¡°Lill¡­your mother is the chief inspector.¡±


    ¡°So?¡±


    ¡°Anyhow, even accepting the stew and beer was borderline, but I was starving. So I had some, and then left him and Misty-Bell to it. He was going to read to her, he said. She enjoys the Tales of the Necromancer¡¯s Butler. I checked my token text on the way to see you, and I¡¯ve made good progress on my deduction and interrogation skill trees. I think I can¡¯t be all that far off.¡±


    ¡°Way to go. My Deduction¡¯s coming along, too. And you know what? I deduce that it¡¯s your turn to buy beers.¡±


    ¡°Same again?¡±


    ¡°Please. Oh ¨C what happened to the cat thief?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s the thing,¡± said Mick. ¡°He isn¡¯t a cat thief. No law in the world against feeding cats that aren¡¯t yours, and the cat flap meant they could come and go as they wanted. He hadn¡¯t stolen a thing.¡±


    ¡°Then why wasn¡¯t Misty-Bell going home?¡±


    ¡°She was. Only, Tim Ritson doesn¡¯t have a cat flap, and he¡¯s been out looking for her morning, noon, and night. Every time she got home, the house was empty, the doors locked. So she went back to our cat thief friend¡¯s house.¡±


    ¡°I thought you said he wasn¡¯t a thief. Not technically.¡±


    ¡°Well, yeah.¡±


    ¡°So what now, then?¡±


    Mick decided to take up Lill¡¯s offer, and grabbed a fried potato from her plate. He tried to get the biggest one, one covered in mayonnaise, but she speared it with her fork first. Defeated but not deterred, he settled for the second biggest.


    ¡°Three of the cats were his, so no problem there. He doesn¡¯t want to stop feeding strays. The guy just loves cats, and fair enough. There¡¯s enough of ¡®em without a home in Striding. Only from now on, before he decides to adopt one, he¡¯s going to check in with the guards and the cat shelter. See if they¡¯ve been reported missing.¡±


    ¡°So that¡¯s that, then,¡± said Lill. ¡°Fancy seeing a show at the Aud tonight?¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t. Sorry. Need to get the last commuter carriage. Another time?¡±


    ¡°You know where I am.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 42

    <h2>42</h2>


    At precisely eleven twenty-six on the following Friday morning, Mick was sitting behind his desk studying a layout of Mrs. Bettie Jenkins¡¯ house. Rats were getting into her basement and then having free reign of the whole place, chewing up curtains and urinating everywhere. Being especially clever rodents, they¡¯d somehow eluded the last three vermin experts she¡¯d called out. She was at her wits end with it. It wasn¡¯t the most exciting job but it all helped put food on the table, so Mick said he¡¯d lend his sleuthing skills to the problem and see if he could find where the rats were getting in.


    Just as he noticed something strange about the plan of Mrs. Jenkins¡¯ home and was about to look closer at it, his office door opened and Mr. Leabrook walked in. He was wearing his best suit, a dark blue one he¡¯d had tailored in Hattersdale. A mustard yellow handkerchief was tucked into his breast pocket, with his initials sewn into it. The two colors didn¡¯t go well together, but Mick wasn¡¯t about to say anything. Not while he was sitting there wearing a thick, wooly cardigan with a huge, brown wolf embroidered onto the back. People wearing paper armor shouldn¡¯t go out in the rain, after all.


    ¡°Can¡¯t give you much time I¡¯m afraid, Michael,¡± Mr. Leabrook said, taking a  step inside the office.


    Mick didn¡¯t recall asking his old employer for any time, but he set his pencil down on his notebook. ¡°Morning,¡± he said. ¡°To what do I owe the pleasure?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s another one. Right there, in broad daylight.¡±


    Mr. Leabrook led him onto Coiner¡¯s Way, where they stopped at the side of Rolls and Dough bakery. It was a brick building, perhaps forty or fifty years old. Most structures in Sunhampton went back way further than that, of course, it being one of the oldest towns in Easterly. Before Mrs. Grant had opened her bakery, it used to be an accountant¡¯s office, though that was before Mick¡¯s time. He¡¯d always known it was the place where he could stop by after school and buy discounted jam twists and sweet rolls.


    ¡°Right here,¡± said Mr. Leabrook.


    He was pointing at one of the bricks. A huge chunk of it had been chipped away to form a sort of cavern, just like before, and a little imp statue had been placed inside. Similar to the last one they¡¯d found, the statue was stuck so hard inside its little brick chamber that it¡¯d take a hammer and chisel to remove it.


    ¡°That makes two of them,¡± said Mick. ¡°Can we be sure this is new, though? They¡¯re so small. It could easily have been put there the same time as the other one, and we missed it.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s new, you can bet your last copper on it. Mrs. Grant keeps asking for the brickwork to be repointed, and we had a builder out to price it up last Thursday. They would have seen it.¡±


    ¡°Maybe it was them who left the statue there.¡±


    Mr. Leabrook shook his head. ¡°It was Stacey Logan who came out to price up the work.¡±


    He needn¡¯t have said more. Stacey Logan was the most respected builder in Sunhampton. She didn¡¯t overcharge by even a copper, and her work was rarely less than exceptional. Even better, she¡¯d been born in town and lived here all her life. She was a ¡®hamptoner through and through.Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.


    Mr. Leabrook regarded the little imp once more, then looked away. ¡°Something about this gives me the shivers, Michael. Sends one right up and down my back every time I look at the hideous thing. Can you do some digging?¡±


    ¡°Are you hiring me as a sleuth?¡±


    ¡°Saints alive, no. I can¡¯t afford to be throwing gold around like that.¡±


    ¡°Then I¡¯m sorry, Mr. Leabrook. I can¡¯t afford to be spending my time on cases that don¡¯t pay, either. I¡¯ve done enough of that lately.¡±


    ¡°Then perhaps you¡¯ll do it as our town¡¯s head guard. That is your duty, isn¡¯t it?¡± countered Mr. Leabrook.


    ¡°Nothing illegal about leaving a statue somewhere.¡±


    ¡°Ah ¨C but damaging someone else¡¯s property? Vandalism?¡±


    Damn it, Mr. Leabrook had him there. There was no getting around it. Under his official capacity as town guard, he was duty bound to at least pretend to look into this. ¡°I¡¯ll see what I can do.¡±


    Mick went into the bakery and questioned Mrs. Grant about the statue, but she didn¡¯t know a thing about it, and she didn¡¯t much care, either. She explained that she¡¯d stupidly agreed to cater for a wedding happening in Perentee at the weekend, and she was going to be working all day and night making jam twists and a five tiered cake with little model figures of the happy couple on top. So, with all due respect, could Mick please leave her be?


    Outside the bakery, Mick opened up his enchanted narrative notepad and let its magic get to work. Words wrote themselves onto the page in a furious scribble, before stopping abruptly, like a carriage coming upon an unexpected roadblock.


    The bakery¡¯s outer walls hold a secret, just as Mrs. Grant¡¯s delicious vanilla pouch potluck treats hold secrets, too. Only theirs is of the sweet kind¡­not imp.


    The statue itself seems harmless enough. But then, anything designed for harm by devious hands would appear innocent, wouldn¡¯t it? A more learned scholar might know more, but a normal person won¡¯t even notice the statue, let alone know what it is.


    <u>Points of interest:</u>


    The imp statue: Who put it there? Why?


    A footprint near the wall: does it belong to the builder who was recently here, or someone else?


    Mick stared at the notepad, his brow furrowing. How had he missed the footprint? He guessed it was somewhat faded. Not that outlandish to overlook a thing like that. He needed to look closer at things, though, damn it. It was just another sign of his inexperience.


    He kneeled down by the footprint to get a better look, but his knees protested, so he straightened up again. Checking that his Simple Forensics token was set in his token bracelet, he activated Evidence Sweep.


    Blue light the hue of a spring sky bulging with promise washed out from his hands, momentarily startling him. It traveled in waves over the ground and the wall, washing upwards before fading away near the bakery gutters. Once the last trace of it had disappeared, token text appeared in thin air, and three items appeared by his feet: a large slip of card, a smaller slip of card, and a vial. He¡¯d had these items in his knapsack, though not with the details that were now on or inside them.


    <u>Evidence Gained: </u>


    Boot print: Size 9, probably not worker¡¯s boots judging by the soles. Unusual treads.


    Fingerprint: Partial, taken from the untouched brick next to the statue.


    Metal shavings: From the chisel used to remove brickwork?


    Mick put the evidence in his knapsack to look over later and see if he could make any deductions. That done, he activated Keen Eye to check if there were any smaller details that he¡¯d missed, but nothing stuck out. Finally, he opened his regular notepad and made as good a sketch of the imp statue as he could manage. He was no artist, that was for sure, but his drawing was passable.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 43

    <h2>43</h2>


    In the town library, he found only two books that might help. One was an encyclopedia of deities worshipped past and present in Easterly, going all the way back to when the land was known as Hagtchapeak and occupied by a race of people who, one day for a reason still unknown, just got into their boats and left. The second was a historical book relating to art, specifically sculptures.


    Sitting at a little table next to a window that looked down onto the sundrenched Coiner¡¯s Way, Mick started working through the book. He¡¯d never been a good student, never enjoyed it the way some people did. These books were a lot more picture based than others, which was a boon, but it was still slow going. He began to wish he¡¯d earned some kind of speed reading ability.


    As the day wore on, Chester the head librarian and his assistant, Spenny Hold, began tidying up. As they edged closer and closer to Mick¡¯s table, he sensed his day of studying was coming to a close. In fact, the library was already shut to the public, but they had made an unspoken decision to let him stay while they did their post-hours chores.


    The deity book was a waste of time; nobody worshipped imps, it seemed. He began working through the art book faster, turning page after page and giving the diagrams only a quick glance.


    ¡°Afraid it¡¯s time to leave, Mick,¡± said Chester. ¡°I booked in for a haircut with Soloman. He¡¯s staying open an hour later just for me.¡±


    He turned one page. Another.


    Chester loomed over the table. ¡°You can come back tomorrow, you know.¡±


    Mick froze in his seat, staring down at the book. That was it ¨C the imp! He was looking right at it, albeit in pencil form printed on a page. The same as the two statues left in Coiner¡¯s Way.


    The diagram was of a statue just like the ones Mick had seen. Well-crafted and displaying excellent workmanship, certainly. But they were hideous things, like the kinds of monsters that children imagined lived under the bed. When it came to monsters, though, looks could be deceiving.This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work.


    Tri Imps of Tarnmouth, Blessers of Fortunes.


    It was said that long ago, when the land was called Hagtchapeak and the plants and trees whispered secrets to those willing to listen, there lived three imp brothers, each born with a third of an enchanted luckleaf embroidered in their souls. After years of exploitation of their charms, the brothers retreated to a life of solitude, scarcely using their fortuitous talents ever again.


    Upon their death, their ashes were inherited by their cousin twice removed, who infused their remains into three statues. If the statues enjoy unbroken stares, the point where their gazes meet will enjoy great luck.


    ¡°Well, how about that,¡± Mick said aloud, breaking the library¡¯s golden rule.


    Not a great example to set, as town guard, but he didn¡¯t much mind at that moment. He was halfway, or more accurately two thirds of the way, toward knowing what was going on.


    ¡°Mick¡­¡±


    He stood up. ¡°Don¡¯t worry, I¡¯m going. Got somewhere to be, as it happens.¡±


    Earlier that day, before Mick had left the house, Ma had been insistent that he get home at seven o¡¯clock for dinner. This was unusual, because she didn¡¯t much care about that sort of thing normally. Theirs was a free and easy kind of arrangement when it came to evening meals. If they ate together, great, if not, then one of them would cook and leave leftovers for the other.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be late, Micky,¡± Ma had told him as he put on his coat.


    ¡°I¡¯ll try.¡±


    ¡°No, none of this, ¡®I¡¯ll try¡¯ business. I don¡¯t ask you for much. Just get back here for five to seven at the latest.¡±


    Just before heading back home, he stopped by his office to check on it. Maybe it didn¡¯t need checking up on, but he still hadn¡¯t shaken off the pride he felt about having his own little place, and he felt duty bound to call in.


    Opening the door, he stepped on an envelope that had been posted through the letterbox. The handwriting on the back merely said ¡®Mick¡¯, but there was a hurriedness to that one word. A sloppy way of writing, as though in a rush.


    Tearing it open, he discovered that it was a note from Seelka Syrne, Connor Perry¡¯s assistant at the post office.


    Mick, I came by and you weren¡¯t here, came by again and you still weren¡¯t here, so I stayed outside for an hour. Please, please come to the post office.


    Checking his pocket watch, he had enough time to go to the post office and then get home, but it was cutting it fine. He could spend five, ten minutes there at the most. It¡¯d be better leaving it until the morning, but this must have been urgent for Seelka to come to his office looking for him twice, and then stay for a whole hour waiting for him to get back.


    I¡¯ll make a quick stop, find out what¡¯s going on, and then get home for dinner, he promised himself.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 44

    <h2>44</h2>


    ¡°So you can see the problem,¡± said Seelka Syrne. ¡°You might say it¡¯s urgent.¡±


    Mick saw the problem alright. There, sitting in the little area behind the post office counter where they kept all their stamps and scales and whatnot, was Connor Perry, the postmaster. Only, not just one Connor Perry. Six of him. Half a dozen identical copies. Same face, same clothes, and the same grouchy look, as though doing their job was a burden.


    It was such a strange situation, that for a while there, staring was all Mick could do. Logic was a carriage bound for a different station, and right then, he didn¡¯t have enough gold to buy a ticket for Rational Thought Central.


    As strange and creepy as it was to have six Connors staring at him, none of them looked threatening. In fact, they weren¡¯t talking at all anymore. They each seemed resigned to their fate. When Mick had first entered the post office they¡¯d all yammered on at him, insisting they were the true Connor. They¡¯d done the same to Seelka. But after a while of yelling and getting nowhere, they¡¯d shut up, one by one.


    ¡°Well?¡± said Seelka.


    Mick had known Seelka and her family since he was a boy. His father had been good friends with hers, Wahid Syrne, and both families would often go to each other¡¯s houses for dinner. Seelka was a lot younger than Mick, so they¡¯d never really had much in common. He liked her well enough, though.


    ¡°I don¡¯t even know where to start,¡± he finally said.


    ¡°You don¡¯t?¡±


    The worried look on Seelka¡¯s face taught him something, right there and then. The lesson was that when people called out a sleuth or a guard, what they were really doing was handing over responsibility of the situation to someone better equipped to cope. Despite how he felt, he needed to show a strong presence in front of her.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry. I know what we¡¯re going to do here,¡± he said. ¡°Just need to decide the order of proceedings. Can we have a word outside?¡±


    Just before leaving the post office, Mick flipped the sign from ¡®open¡¯ to ¡®closed¡¯. Out in the open air, the temperature had taken on a chill. Seelka, who¡¯d forgotten to grab her coat, stood there hugging herself. Mick took off his wolf cardigan and handed it to her. It looked way too big wrapped around her, like she¡¯d accidentally grabbed a garment fit for a half-giant.


    ¡°You better tell me everything you know, and we¡¯ll go from there,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Well, there¡¯s six of him, like you saw. When I got back from my rounds, they were waiting here for me. They started yelling all at once, I couldn¡¯t even hear myself think. I locked them inside and came to see you. Y¡¯hear about this kind of thing happening, don¡¯t you? Only, not here in ¡®hampton. Con¡¯s been acting strange lately, sure. Not overly so, but a little bit. I wonder if it¡¯s something he ate¡­no, can¡¯t be. Can food make you copy yourself?¡±


    Her thoughts were going this way and that, giving him an insight into how she was feeling. Such a discordant crashing of several thoughts all at once was typical of a witness, according to Starter Sleuthing. When people were worried or scared, they didn¡¯t proceed in a logical manner. It was the sleuth¡¯s job to direct the witness¡¯s thoughts through targeted questioning.


    ¡°Let¡¯s start at the beginning. When did you last see Connor on his own, as his regular self?¡±


    ¡°This morning, just before I left for rounds. Call it¡­ten o¡¯clock?¡±


    ¡°Okay, and what time did you find six of him?¡±


    Seelka thought about it, then said, ¡°Ten to two this afternoon.¡±


    ¡°So we know that whatever happened, it was between ten in the morning and two in the afternoon. Any idea where he¡¯s been today?¡±


    Seelka shook her head. ¡°We¡¯ve both been covering the delivery routes lately, only I don¡¯t know which route Con¡­I mean Postmaster Perry¡­ picked up. The route maps are behind the counter, and I don¡¯t want to go near the six of him to check them.¡±


    ¡°Very wise. I think I had better have a word with each of the Connors.¡±


    ¡°Be careful.¡±


    ¡°Careful¡¯s my middle name.¡±


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    Mick¡¯s magical knowledge wasn¡¯t extensive, but he¡¯d given himself a basic grounding in it as a part of his quest to build up a healthy supply of general knowledge. Not the practice of it, mind. Just a general background. He guessed he probably knew as much about magic as he did about sailing, knot tying, spotting which fungi were safe to eat and which would dissolve your insides.


    There were spells that mages could cast to create temporary duplicate copies of a person, but they cost a king¡¯s ransom. He couldn¡¯t see any reason someone would spend that kind of gold just to create six copies of a small town¡¯s postmaster, then set him loose with no apparent purpose to it all.


    This left another kind of spell: illusion. For a much cheaper price and way less effort, a competent mage could easily create five illusory copies of a person. But again, the question was, why do it to a postmaster? Putting aside picking Connor as a choice of copy, why just send all the copies back to the post office? Besides that, illusions didn¡¯t last very long, and they didn¡¯t seem as real. They also didn¡¯t have a definite physical presence, yet each of the Connors seemed to be flesh and blood.


    ¡°The whys and where¡¯s don¡¯t matter at the minute,¡± he told Seelka. ¡°First thing is to find out which of them is the real Connor. We can decide what to do about it from there.¡±


    ¡°But they all say they are.¡±


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s why you called out a sleuth, ain¡¯t it? I¡¯ll have a little chat with them. After that¡­I don¡¯t know. We can maybe call a mage out here, but they¡¯ll be a long time in coming.¡±


    Mick decided to set up an impromptu interviewing room in the post office supply closet, where hundreds of envelopes, stamps, and rolls of parcel tape were stored on its half a dozen shelves. The whole room reeked of stamp glue. In the middle of the closet were two boxes filled with spare mail sacks, the kind with shoulder straps that made them easier to carry. He brought in two chairs and placed them as far apart as the closet would allow.


    One by one, he began conducting his interviews with the Connors. It was a lengthy process, because he had to bind each of them by their wrists before stepping into the closet with them. They didn¡¯t look dangerous, but then dangerous things didn¡¯t always wear a sign. Best to be careful.


    He began his questioning by asking each of them questions relating to working as a postmaster. Things Connor Perry would know without a sweat; the current prices of first and second class stamps. Delivery times. The price for sending a parcel that weighed a certain amount. Each of the copies passed his quiz, though, including the trick question he included at the end.


    ¡°And what about a third class stamp?¡± he asked. ¡°Does such a thing exist?¡±


    Each Connor nodded and said, in exactly the same tone of voice, ¡°It¡¯s called delivering it yourself. Doesn¡¯t cost a penny.¡±


    After conducting a first round of interviews he was none the wiser, so he started again. This time he asked them personal questions about Connor Perry. Mick didn¡¯t know the man that well but he¡¯d had some dealings with him, and almost everyone in Sunhampton had shared a small talk or two with each other, this being a small place.


    He asked all the questions he could think of; he asked them what beer Connor liked to drink at the King¡¯s Head. What artificery he had recently paid Lewis Cooper to do for him. Finally, he went back into the post office main hall, grabbed a dogeared book from behind the counter, and asked each Connor roughly what page Connor had read up to. They all passed without a hitch.


    He wasn¡¯t even an inch closer to finding the real Connor. Conducting twelve interviews had earned him some decent experience toward getting his Simple Interrogation skill tree, but that didn¡¯t help with the problem of Sunhampton having half a dozen postmasters.


    Done with talking to them for now, he escorted the last Connor back behind the post office counter and left the six of them there while he went to speak to Seelka. They all yammered and hollered at him, just like before. Each of them insisted they were the real Connor, and that they were tired of all this and just wanted to go home, and why wouldn¡¯t Mick believe them? Couldn¡¯t he see the truth?


    ¡°You know me, Mick,¡± said one of them.


    ¡°You know me!¡± replied another.


    Mick went outside and shut the post office door behind him.


    ¡°Saints alive, that was an experience,¡± he told Seelka.


    ¡°It gives me the creeps.¡±


    ¡°There any chance it might be better having six postmasters? It¡¯d make deliveries go a lot quicker.¡±


    ¡°Mick!¡±


    ¡°I know, I know. Look, I need a place to take them while I figure out what to do. The last thing we want to do is let them loose. At least when they¡¯re together, we can keep an eye on them. Talk to them.¡±


    ¡°I hate the idea of leaving the real Connor in there with them.¡±


    Mick nodded. ¡°What about if we take them all to Connor¡¯s house? That way, the real Connor is in his own home. I¡¯ll keep watch over them.¡±


    ¡°All night?¡±


    Mick didn¡¯t relish the idea of sitting in Connor Perry¡¯s living room all night staring at half a dozen copies of him, but he had the Stakeout Stamina ability now. That, coupled with a cup or two of coffee, ought to see him through.


    ¡°All night,¡± he said, nodding. ¡°We just need to get them there, though. Best to bind up their hands so there¡¯s no funny business. We¡¯ll wait here just a little longer. Midnight, maybe. Don¡¯t want to risk anyone seeing six Connors walking through town. I should be alright on my own, though. You go home.¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s okay. I¡¯ll stay,¡± said Seelka. ¡°I owe Mr. Perry that much. I just feel so bad for him. You know, it just occurred to me. How handy would it have been if Mr. Perry had a dog? Or if even one of us had one?¡±


    ¡°Animals can¡¯t really tell a good mimic and its target apart,¡± said Mick. ¡°They trialed it using dogs from a station in Full Striding. Twelve trained dogs, and the best of them only picked out the mimic less than half the time.¡±


    ¡°Oh, well.¡±


    It was a long, long night, sitting in Connor Perry¡¯s living room with the real postmaster and a bunch of copies staring back at him. He told them not to talk, and they mostly adhered to that. Problem was, when one of them talked, they all started up. Above it all, though, Mick felt sorry for the real Connor Perry, and wanted to make him ¨C whichever of them he was ¨C feel comfortable.


    ¡°How about a brew?¡± he said.


    All six Connors replied that yes, they¡¯d love a cup of tea.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 45

    <h2>45</h2>


    When dawn broke, Mick was sick of the sight of Connor Perry. He at least had a better idea of what he was going to do, though; the plan remained to deduce which of them was the real postmaster, and he thought maybe he had the means.


    First, though, he needed to sleep. Just a little bit of shuteye, that was all. Even his Stakeout Stamina ability had its limits, especially at the low level it was now. After that, he needed to wash, dress in fresh clothes, and have a bite to eat. He¡¯d have to miss his morning run. In fact, he¡¯d had to miss quite a few of them lately. He was quickly learning that being a sleuth meant compromising a heck of a lot.


    Soon, there was a knock at the door. Seelka Syrne had gotten changed, though she still didn¡¯t look much fresher than Mick. If she¡¯d managed more than a few hours¡¯ of sleep, he¡¯d have been surprised.


    ¡°Morning, Seelka,¡± said Connor Perry, smiling. This was repeated another five times by five pleasant postmasters.


    Seelka gave them all an unsure wave. ¡°They at least don¡¯t weird me out as much today. The morning sheds new light, and all that.¡±


    Mick nodded. ¡°You sort of get used to them. Let¡¯s talk outside.¡±


    Sunhampton was only barely waking up. From Connor¡¯s house, which was one of three dwellings on Bobbin Hill, he had a good view of the northern end of Coiner¡¯s Way where some of the merchants were setting up for the day. Paisley Porter was standing outside her store, soaping her display window and then wiping away the smears with a huge, yellow sponge. Across the street, Percy Tattersall was doing the exact same thing at his bookshop, casting a glance back at Paisley¡¯s windows every so often to gauge the comparative cleanliness of his own.


    Though this was still early for some folks - people like Lewis Cooper, for instance - Seelka was perfectly at ease being up and about at this time of day. It was part of being a postie, after all. She made a cup of coffee for herself and Mick in Connor¡¯s kitchen. The six Connors asked for one, too, but Seelka wasn¡¯t as hospitable as Mick had been.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to ask my pal Lee Hunter to see if he¡¯ll watch over them for a while,¡± Mick said. He sniffed his armpits. ¡°I could use a bath.¡±


    ¡°I could keep an eye on them.¡±


    ¡°Lee won¡¯t mind. I don¡¯t like the idea of leaving you alone with them. They seem pleasant enough, but you never know.¡±


    ¡°Why can Lee stay alone with them, and I can¡¯t?¡±


    ¡°He has a crossbow,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Ah. Fair enough.¡±


    When Mick went home, he found Ma sitting on the couch, eating a slice of toast covered in so much marmalade it was less, ¡®toast with marmalade,¡¯ and more accurately ¡®marmalade with a bit of toast.¡¯ Mick was about to comment on this being why they got through so many jars of the stuff, when he noticed that she had a look like thunder. Suddenly, as he always did when Ma had this kind of look, he felt like a kid again.


    ¡°Look who¡¯s finally showed his face.¡±


    ¡°Sorry, Ma. I should have sent word. I was out all night on a case.¡±


    ¡°A case, was it? Hope it was a good one. Important enough to miss dinner.¡±


    The dinner! With a sharp stab of regret, Mick remembered that he¡¯d promised he¡¯d be home for seven the previous evening. ¡°Oh, heck. The meal! I¡¯m sorry, Ma. I really am.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t apologize to me. Apologize to George. He made lamb casserole.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll say sorry to him.¡±


    ¡°Well. That¡¯s all well and good, then,¡± she said, in a tone that indicated it very much wasn¡¯t all well and good.


    ¡°How about I take you both for some grub tonight at the King¡¯s Head? To say sorry? Eh? My treat. C¡¯mon, Ma. We both know you can¡¯t stay mad at me.¡±


    And it was true. The talent of keeping up annoyance at her only son was one Ma had never mastered. Kiera? Well, Ma could stay mad at Mick¡¯s sister for days. The two of them were just so much alike. But not Mick, she could never keep a fire or ire stoked long when it was him who was in trouble.


    A hint of a smile crossed her lips. ¡°Fine. But if you agree to dinner again, you better not miss it.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t. I promise.¡±


    After a quick bath, a bowl of honey cereal, and dressing in a clean shirt and trousers, Mick headed out into town. He stopped by the King¡¯s Head and reserved a table for the three of them that night. Next up, he made a call to Sunhampton library, where he was disappointed to find that they didn¡¯t have a single book on magic or spells that might help with the ¡®Six Connor¡¯ problem.


    Heading back to Connor¡¯s house, he found Lee Hunter sitting in the living room on a couch. He had his hunting crossbow on his lap. Facing him, sitting on the couch opposite and on a few dining chairs, were the six Connors.


    ¡°They give you any trouble?¡± said Mick, nodding at the crossbow.


    ¡°They¡¯re annoying, but nothing worth sweating over. Kept asking me to make brews and sandwiches. You got any idea where they came from, these mimics?¡±


    ¡°Mimics?¡± said Mick.


    Lee nodded. ¡°Well, that¡¯s what they are, aren¡¯t they?¡±If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Mick stared at the Connors. None of them objected to Lee¡¯s suggestion. In fact, they all looked rather tired of the whole situation. Whatever they were, it seemed that they needed sleep, too.


    Looking at them with this new insight, Mick could have slapped his own forehead. Of course they were mimics. You didn¡¯t see those creatures much in this part of Easterly, but they weren¡¯t completely unheard of. Why hadn¡¯t he even considered the idea?


    ¡°You reckon he was bitten by a mimic?¡± he said.


    ¡°Sure enough,¡± said Lee. ¡°I¡¯d bet my last arrow on it. Happened to my Uncle Bert when he used to live down south. Came home with two of him. My aunt didn¡¯t mind.¡±


    ¡°Reckon you could stay here just a little longer?¡±


    ¡°My cousin¡¯s minding the store. You owe me a beer, though. Several, in fact.¡±


    ¡°You got it. Where¡¯s Seelka?¡±


    Lee said, ¡°Opening up the post office. She said Connor¡¯s always talking about the ¡®rain or shine¡¯ promise, and she isn¡¯t about to break it today.¡±


    Mick headed to the post office. Seelka was already out delivering mail, but she¡¯d recruited Flo Anderson to mind the office in her absence. Flo was an artificer with her own work to do, of course, but she was Seelka¡¯s aunt, and she¡¯d do anything for her. Not an aunt by blood, but more in the way that old family friends are often introduced to kids as ¡®Aunt Flo¡¯ or ¡®Uncle Pete.¡¯


    ¡°Hello, duckie,¡± said Flo. ¡°Quite the palaver, huh?¡±


    Mick was unsure how to respond. He hadn¡¯t wanted anyone in town to learn about the Connor problem, and he didn¡¯t know what to say. Surely Seelka hadn¡¯t told Flo about the six Connors?


    Luckily, Flo spoke before he could answer. ¡°Poor Connor, coming down with flu. Seelka is a darling, she really is. I told her, ¡®of course I¡¯ll mind the office for a bit. Can¡¯t do it all day, though.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Flo.¡±


    ¡°What do you need, anyway, my chick? I¡¯m no postmaster. I don¡¯t even know where he keeps the stamps. But I¡¯ll try.¡±


    ¡°I just need to take a look at all the delivery route schedules. It¡¯s a guard business thing.¡±


    ¡°Oh, well they¡¯re¡­.ah! Right here. Is this them?¡±


    Flo handed Mick a stack of maps, each depicting parts of Sunhampton. This wasn¡¯t a large town, but there were still enough streets and houses to necessitate several delivery routes if the post schedule was to be kept up.


    Mick took them to the Sunny Caf¨¦, where his friend Spruce saw him, gave a quick hello, then retreated back to his kitchen to cook up fried breakfasts for a bunch of hikers. He told Mick he¡¯d whip up a Mick Special, though it might take a while longer than usual.


    Over a cooked breakfast and a coffee, Mick studied the delivery routes. From what he could gather, the route Connor had delivered to yesterday had encompassed the eastern part of town, though it also extended away from the town center itself and included some of the remote farmhouses and cottages on its outskirts, stopping just short of the boundary where Sunhampton met Perentee.


    There was nothing for it. He was going to have to walk a route of his own. Call in at every house Connor might have delivered mail to, and see if there was anything he could learn. It might take a while, but what else could he do?


    With all the hikers catered for, Spruce Wilkinson finally pulled out a chair and sat opposite Mick at the table. Mick studied his friend¡¯s face, noting that he looked not just weary, but maybe a little perturbed. Upset, perhaps. Spruce was usually a hard guy to read, but he and Mick had been friends for years, and he could tell something was wrong, clear as day.


    ¡°Coin for your thoughts?¡± he asked, while cutting into a pork sausage.


    ¡°Hope you brought your pouch, then.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s up?¡±


    Spruce sighed. ¡°Remember I told you that a health inspector could call at any time? And how they never tell you when, and don¡¯t even tell you when they¡¯re actually here?¡±


    Mick nodded.


    Spruce continued, ¡°Well, must have happened recently, because I got this in the post.¡±


    He passed Mick a folded slip of paper. Mick read it, feeling his stomach sink. ¡°An ¡®F¡¯ rating? Here? That can¡¯t be right.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m in trouble, Mick. An ¡®F¡¯ is the worst rating you can get! Might as well have written ¡®F you¡¯ on it, it¡¯d mean the same thing. If I employed a bunch of rats as waiting staff, I¡¯d still get a better rating than that.¡±


    ¡°But you keep this place so clean. No way, Spruce. This doesn¡¯t seem right.¡±


    ¡°Well it¡¯s there, plain as flour. Got the official Food Safety seal and everything. Given me three weeks to turn it around. Only thing is, there¡¯s nothing to turn. There really isn¡¯t. This place is so spotless you could eat off the floor. I¡¯m serious. I¡¯ll do it right now.¡±


    ¡°Settle down, pal. Let me see that.¡±


    Sure enough, the letter had a seal on it, which Spruce had broken. The official-type language it was written in looked genuine enough. All the same, Mick couldn¡¯t shake a feeling in his sleuth gut that something wasn¡¯t right here.


    ¡°Leave this with me,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯ll find out what¡¯s what.¡±


    Leaving the caf¨¦ with a full stomach, he set upon walking the postal route that Connor Perry had delivered to yesterday during the time when the whole copying thing must have happened. It was a winding trail, weaving all along the odd-numbered houses on a street and then the even side, and repeating this for every street, avenue and road in the eastern pocket of Sunhampton.


    Mick wasn¡¯t delivering mail, of course. He didn¡¯t even know what he was looking for. Nor could he knock on doors and ask - this was the kind of problem that he couldn¡¯t afford to let anyone get wind of. Sunhamptoners could gossip like the best of them, and if someone like Terrence Smedge on Holdcroft Way, for instance, got hold of the news, it¡¯d be all over this part of Easterly like a bout of gastric flu.


    Besides, there were just way too many houses on the route for him to stop at each one and have a chat. Even if he had an assistant or two, it¡¯d be hard going. All he could do was walk the route and just hope something suspicious stuck out, that something snagged his sleuth instincts. In any case, he reasoned that whatever had happened, it was unlikely to have occurred on one of the busier, inner town streets.


    Eventually, the route took him outside of Sunhampton town proper, though still within its land boundaries. He followed the rocky traveler road eastward, soon finding himself walking a path only barely wide enough for a wagon, sandwiched between hills on either side. These mounds of grass sloped upward and downward like waves frozen in time, and it wasn¡¯t so hard to imagine they might thaw one day and become a green, muddy ocean. Birds chirped hello to him from unseen perches on the many oak and acorn trees dotted around, and Mick gave a cheery greeting back, beginning to wonder if maybe being a postie might have been the life for him. Then again, it might not be so nice walking these paths in winter.


    Following the route, he paid a visit to the Tartyke farm, Hattie Greaves¡¯ woodland cottage, and a couple of other remote abodes that were still classed as being in Sunhampton, but barely. Nothing at all struck him as strange, though. Not a single one of his instincts flared up.


    Reaching the end of the postal route at a small patch of woodland near town, Mick took a second to sit on a tree stump. He took out the route map and studied it, making sure he hadn¡¯t missed anything. Judging that he hadn¡¯t, he rolled the map back up into a cone and put it in his pocket.


    Standing up, he told himself he was just going to have to chalk this up to a failed lead. But that was when he saw it.


    It was just a chance glance across the woodland, that was all. It was enough, though, for his keen sleuth¡¯s eyes to light upon a lodge in the distance, partially hidden by huge belberry bushes. He glanced down at his map, then at the lodge. Sure enough, this place wasn¡¯t marked on the delivery route.


    Making his way through the woods, Mick slowed down the closer he got to the cabin. He activated Keen Eye. The ability took a second or two to work, but when it did, his eyes lit on a few details; a tree stump with an axe on it and cut logs piled up nearby. A fenced area with five lengths of chain attached to six brass hooks dug into the ground. Rose petals scattered all around. Windows on the northern facing wall, the room beyond them dark and watchful. And beneath it all, sitting in his gut like sediment in a river, was a sense that something wasn¡¯t right.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 46

    <h2>46</h2>


    When Mick got back to Sunhampton, he wasted not a second in heading to Connor Perry¡¯s house. There, he found Lee Hunter and Seelka Syrne keeping watch over the Connors. Lee and Seelka were sitting on the same sofa, right next to each other. It was a cramped living room, sure, what with six Connors residing in it. But there was still a chair or two going spare; no need for Lee and Seelka to be sitting all close like that. Mick suppressed a grin. Some cases didn¡¯t need to be cracked ¨C you could just leave them be.


    ¡°Think we¡¯re getting somewhere,¡± he said. ¡°Who wants a brew? Lee? Seelka? Connors?¡±


    After making coffees for the nine of them, he told them what he¡¯d found at the log cabin in the woods. Put simply, because Mick knew and preferred no other way, it seemed like whoever owned it had been illegally keeping five mimics there. Breeding them and raising them up so they could sell them on.


    ¡°But they outlawed breeding mimics outside of registered programs seventy years ago,¡± said Lee. ¡°Who would break the law like that?¡±


    ¡°A criminal, Lee. They¡¯ve got an annoying penchant for it. No sign of whoever was doing it, though. I think they must have cleared out when they realized the mimics were gone.¡±


    After a little poking around, he explained to them, he had surmised that the log cabin was new. A hastily thrown up kind of thing, probably done cheaply by someone with the building class. It didn¡¯t appear on town records or postal routes, which was why, when he saw it, Connor Perry had probably gone over to say hello to the owner, and see if they wanted to be added to the postal route.


    ¡°There were all these rose petals scattered around outside, where the chains were,¡± Mick explained, showing them a sample of one of the petals he¡¯d collected. ¡°What I think happened is this: mimics have to acquire things to copy through biting or scratching and what have you. That right?¡±


    Lee Hunter nodded. ¡°Uncle Bert got bit on the arse when he went to use a latrine near his hunting camp.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s a new fear to add to my collection,¡± said Seelka.


    ¡°Well, somehow, one of the mimics must have acquired the form of a rose bush. And they can slip in and out of forms at will, can¡¯t they? So they must have hidden it from whoever was raising them.¡±


    ¡°They can really do that?¡± asked Seelka.


    ¡°They¡¯re craftier than a fox that just graduated from the Easterly College of Slyness,¡± said Lee. ¡°Trust me. The one that copied Uncle Bert? Took it weeks to give itself away. It was Uncle Bert¡¯s gas problem, you see. The mimic didn¡¯t want to copy it anymore. Finally got sick of having to fart all the time and surrendered.¡±


    ¡°Oh wow, they have preferences, too?¡±


    ¡°Some of them develop likes and dislikes, yup.¡±This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.


    ¡°Way I see it,¡± said Mick, ¡°Once one of them got the rose bush form, the others only had to scratch or bite it a little to acquire it, too. So picture this: the owner is away somewhere, and the mimics notice Connor heading their way. By the time he arrives, they¡¯re all waiting in rose bush form. They¡¯ve got big, green branches lined with thorns. To all appearances, they¡¯re just plants, no? Connor wouldn¡¯t have even looked at them twice. Only, unlike plants, the mimics can move their branches around. So when our postmaster walks up to the cottage door, he gets jabbed by a branch. Then another. Before you know it, five mimics have acquired his form.¡±


    ¡°Thought they were chained up?¡±


    ¡°Only by these old, brass hooks sunk into the ground. One of them must have gotten loose when they were in Connor¡¯s form. After that, not a big issue to free the others.¡±


    The six Connors had been listening to this with rapt attention. As strange as Mick had found them yesterday, the novelty had worn off now, and it was easy to forget they were even there. It was because they were so silent. Yet, when one of them spoke, they all did, and then there was no shutting them up. Part of him thought maybe the real Connor would always be the one who spoke up first and the others just copied him, but it was a different one that spoke up each time. They were devious little creatures, alright.


    ¡°What do we do about it?¡± asked Seelka. ¡°I hate Postmaster Perry being in this mess.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± said one Connor.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± repeated all the others.


    Mick held up a book he¡¯d taken from a desk inside the cabin. On the front of the book was the title, ¡®Breeding Mimics: A Treatise.¡¯ He shouldn¡¯t really have taken it. Shouldn¡¯t have even been in there without a warrant, in fact, but he judged this to be an emergency on Connor¡¯s behalf. This overrode bureaucracy.


    ¡°According to this, mimics get access to a person¡¯s memories up to the point they acquired their form. They get access to their personality too¡­but only to a point. The aspects of a person¡¯s personality each mimic gets is almost like a bowl of pot luck stew. When it gets ladled out, some of them get more carrots in their bowl, some get more potatoes. So, we could expose all six of them to some kind of new experience, then question them about it. Ask how they feel, see how they react, that kind of thing. We might get a feel for which of them is the true Connor by their responses, because they won¡¯t be able to act like him perfectly.¡±


    ¡°Oh, so like, take them to a new place, maybe a beauty spot, and see what they think of it?¡± said Seelka. ¡°And if they complain about it and act grumpy, they¡¯re probably Postmaster Perry?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s one way. According to the book, though, mimics have to stay near to the thing they mimicked. Depending on the complexity of what they¡¯re mimicking, that is. That¡¯s why our little gang of Connors haven¡¯t gone their separate ways. Plus, mimics tend to form close familial bonds. In any case, if we separated the six of them far enough apart, all but one would lose their Connor form.¡±


    ¡°So we just need six secure places to take them, and six people to keep an eye on them all,¡± said Lee.


    Mick set the mimic treatise down on the table, and eyed the six Connors. Without taking his gaze off them, he said, ¡°Both those approaches would work. But I think there¡¯s an even easier way.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± said Seelka.


    ¡°We just need to see which of them has five jab marks on them from the thorns. Easy as a slice of lemon meringue pie.¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t they all have jab marks if they¡¯re copying Connor?¡±


    ¡°Only the real Connor will have five. Think about it; the first mimic stabs Connor with a thorn. It gets a copy of Connor as he is. The second mimic jabs Connor, and its mimicked form will have a thorn mark from the first mimic. And so on. Only the real Connor will have five punctures.¡±


    ¡°I thought mimics could copy forms from each other? So they might not all have marked him.¡±


    ¡°Nah. They can only do that with simple ones,¡± said Mick. ¡°For copying a person, they¡¯d each need a sample from the source.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 47

    <h2></a>47</h2>


    That evening, Mick made sure to get to the King¡¯s Head fifteen minutes before he was supposed to meet George and Ma. He was wearing his best shirt, which he¡¯d even pressed with a hot iron, and he¡¯d cleaned his boots so well that if anyone needed a mirror, they should look no further. He¡¯d thought about wearing a tie, but c¡¯mon. He wasn¡¯t going to court. No need to go overboard.


    When George and Ma finally arrived, the three of them took their reserved table near the hearth. This table was usually snagged by Lewis Cooper and his pals, but they weren¡¯t here tonight. After a quick look at the menu Ma and George both ordered the same thing ¨C crab ravioli with a plate of garlic bread to share.


    ¡°Order whatever you like, Georgie,¡± said Ma. ¡°It¡¯s on Mick.¡±


    Mick, who hadn¡¯t known this information until a second ago, nevertheless agreed. What choice did he have? ¡°Least I could do, after the other night.¡±


    ¡°Ah, forget it. I was young once,¡± said George.


    Mick hadn¡¯t been called young in a while, but he guessed it was all relative.


    ¡°No, don¡¯t forget it,¡± said Ma. ¡°Missing dinner like that, after you went to all that effort.¡±


    ¡°Give the lad a break.¡±


    Mick had quite fancied the crab ravioli but three people eating the same dish would look strange, so he opted for a mushroom risotto. The mushrooms were most likely foraged by Lee Hunter, whose woodland trips weren¡¯t all about tracking animals. So, as well as getting a tasty dish, he was helping out a friend. Such economical deals were hard to resist.


    The food was a while in coming, but then, Zakariya Spencer was the chef, and his food was worth waiting for. They filled the time with chitchat. George was thinking of getting into taxidermy. A grim hobby, certainly, but he was retired, and he needed to occupy his time somehow.


    ¡°You¡¯ll see when you get to my age,¡± he said. ¡°An unwatered mind wilts before you know it.¡±


    ¡°Taxidermy, though? Couldn¡¯t you have chosen something nice, like birdwatching?¡±


    ¡°When I was growing up, we had a stuffed black Labrador called Rex. Kept him near the fire in the living room. Rex was my father¡¯s childhood dog. Him passing upset my father so much he swore he¡¯d never have another pet, so Rex was the nearest thing I had. Grew strangely fond of him, I did.¡±


    ¡°Remember that little chick you found in the river, Micky?¡± said Ma. ¡°And how it followed you everywhere?¡±


    Mick smiled at the memory. ¡°He used to sit on my shoulder at school. Until he got too big.¡±


    ¡°Aye, and he used to crap in my books, too. Still, nice little thing.¡±


    Soon enough their dishes arrived, and it was when they were halfway through their meal, that George and Ma shared a look. Mick didn¡¯t have to be a sleuth in training to know what was coming.


    ¡°Now, don¡¯t get upset about this, Micky,¡± began Ma. ¡°But George and I have something to tell you.¡±


    Mick decided to pretend like he had no clue. ¡°Alright.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll always be my number one man. You know that.¡±


    Mick almost laughed. ¡°Okay, Ma. What is it?¡±


    She put her left hand on George¡¯s. He put his right hand on top of hers. She put her left on top on his. It looked a little like the ¡®one potato two potato¡¯ game, and Mick wondered if he ought to add his own hand to the pile.


    ¡°George and I, well¡­we¡¯re getting married,¡± said Ma.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    A long, drawn out silence followed. George and Ma studied him, each trying to gauge his reaction as though he were the judge, and the verdict that left his lips would alter the course of their whole lives. As though the destiny of this elderly, in love couple rested upon what Mick said, on the decision he delivered.


    Mick shrugged. ¡°Okay. Happy for you,¡± he said, and resumed eating his risotto.


    ¡°I¡¯d like you to be the groomsman,¡± said George.


    Ma added, ¡°And I want you to give me away.¡±


    ¡°Sure thing. Groomsmen don¡¯t have to give a speech, do they?¡± asked Mick.


    George shook his head.


    ¡°Phew. It would have been fine, but public speaking ain¡¯t my thing. Anything else, I¡¯m your man.¡±


    Toward the end of the evening, the tavern door opened and in walked Connor Perry. Just one of him, this time. He looked tired, the poor guy, like his eyes had been out shopping and were holding bags with a month¡¯s worth of groceries inside. He hadn¡¯t even gotten changed into fresh clothes yet. He shuffled over to Mick¡¯s table, his usual grouchiness completely absent.


    ¡°Mick. Wanted to thank you for everything.¡± He glanced at Ma and George now. ¡°For¡­you know.¡±


    ¡°Part of the service,¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Anyway, wanted you to know that you get free second class deliveries for a year, and I¡¯ll cut you a deal on first class.¡±


    There was no sweeter music to Mick¡¯s ears than that of getting something for free, especially after having bought dinner for three. ¡°Thank you very much, Connor. What about third class?¡±


    The postmaster smiled. ¡°That¡¯s called delivering it yourself.¡±


    The night went by pleasantly, and before he knew it, Alec was ringing the tavern bell to announce last orders. Ma said she was tired and asked Mick if he was ready to walk his old ma home. He said he¡¯d be delighted.


    Just before they went, while Ma was getting her coat, George took Mick to one side for a quick word.


    ¡°It¡¯s the anniversary coming up,¡± he said. ¡°Your Pa¡¯s.¡±


    Mick nodded, strangely touched George would even know this. ¡°That¡¯s right.¡±


    ¡°I was thinking of taking your mother away for a few days. Would that be insensitive?¡±


    ¡°It¡¯d be just what she needs, George. She always gets down this time of year, and Pa always said she wasn¡¯t to wallow. She¡¯d like a little break.¡±


    It wasn¡¯t long after the whole Connor incident concluded that the mimic breeder was caught just south of Full Striding, trying to snag some rare golden eagle eggs from a nest. This being a clear contravention of the conservation act, he found himself having to come up with a reasonable explanation as to why he was standing on a ladder, halfway up an elm tree, with a burlap sack in his hand. A deft interrogation by an inspector at the Georgehill station in Striding led to him admitting to breeding mimics, among other crimes. When all was said and done, the guy was looking at a lengthy stay with bed and board paid for at the state¡¯s expense.


    The mimics themselves had been a bigger problem. At least, at first. Letting them loose would be an invitation to pure mayhem, yet there was nowhere in Sunhampton to keep them. The town didn¡¯t even have a jail cell; any criminals caught there had to go to Perentee or Full Striding to await their judgments.


    Understandably, Connor Perry hadn¡¯t wanted them anywhere near his home or the post office. He didn¡¯t want to see a mimic ever again, which in fairness, was the likely outcome given how rare they were. Most people didn¡¯t see one mimic in their lifetime, let alone five. The whole experience had been distressing for him, though, and Healer Brown wanted to meet up once per fortnight to talk things through so that Connor didn¡¯t cling on to bad memories. Brown always said it was better to take your shoe off and get rid of the stone even if it slowed you down, rather than walk on and put up with the pain.


    Connor¡¯s strong preferences meant that Mick needed somewhere to keep them that was close by, yet still far enough away from the town center. The answer came to him while he was drinking a cup of coffee in his office. The mimics were in there with him, in their natural form of semi-solid lumps of fat. They were a docile bunch when they weren¡¯t stealing folks¡¯ identities, and in fact, they weren¡¯t the worst company to have. Even better, they didn¡¯t trigger his allergies one bit. If only one of them would take the form of a dog, it¡¯d solve his problem and he¡¯d have the pet he always wanted. Alas, mimics bonded close with the others in their pods. He couldn¡¯t separate them.


    Still, as much as he didn¡¯t actually mind the mimics, they couldn¡¯t stay in his office forever. All he needed was a place to keep them until someone from the Exotic Animal Preservation Society arrived. He needed somewhere out of the way, somewhere safe.


    Inspiration came to him like a crossbow bolt.


    ¡°That¡¯s it. The perfect place!¡±


    That was how five mimics ended up staying in the kennels in Jack Cooper¡¯s craftstead.  Mick asked Lee Hunter to keep an eye on them, then made the journey across town and up the steep hill to the craftstead, where he found Jack Cooper still working in his workshop. The old artificer was as grouchy as they came, but when the cards fell, he was a decent bloke. He listened to what Mick had to say, thought about it, and then nodded.


    ¡°The hounds can stay in the house and we can lock the mimics in their kennel,¡± he said. ¡°But only for a night or two, mind. Any longer than that, and the pups will start getting used to it and want to stay in my living room all the time. Only the saints know why, though. Their bloody kennel is more luxurious than my and Janey¡¯s bedroom.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 48

    <h2>48</h2>


    Over the next few weeks, cases came and went in dribs and drabs. He solved Mrs. Bettie Jenkins¡¯ rat problem by holding a stakeout in her basement, taking up position in the corner, in a fold-out camping chair. It was a long night, sure enough, but he finally learned that they were getting in via a loose floorboard, squeezing through a crack that hardly seemed big enough to allow entry to a gnat. Nevertheless, they managed it.


    Not only did he free Mrs. Jenkins of her rats, but he located Mrs. Grant¡¯s lost brooch, found out who had drawn rude graffiti on the library wall ¨C the Jones girls were in a lot of trouble ¨C and he also helped Stacey Logan track down her missing tools, which it turned out she had simply left at her last job and the owner had stored them with his own in his shed.


    These were small-town cases for a small-town sleuth. Not the most interesting of jobs, but after all the mimicry business, Mick was glad of them. Besides, gold was gold and experience was experience. The more cases he solved the more his skill trees spread their roots, and the stronger his abilities in each of them became.


    After banking a decent chunk of gold for solving these odds and ends, he turned his attention to something a more personal. Namely, Spruce Wilkinson¡¯s poor health inspection rating. He, Nell, and Lee discussed it one evening when they met up in the King¡¯s Head. Spruce wasn¡¯t with them, saying he needed to stay in the caf¨¦ and go over his books. They knew the real reason, though; he wanted some time alone.


    ¡°I got a pretty shoddy evaluation by a school board inspector once,¡± said Nell, who was drinking a triple gin and tonic. ¡°They said my manner was too gruff with the students. I thought the guy must have had it out for me. That he resented the fact that I was a great teacher who inspired young minds, and all he did was sit on his arse judging people.¡±


    ¡°When was this?¡± asked Lee.


    ¡°A few months back.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Around the time you took up weight training with Yulred Usgood in his yard gym.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s right,¡± said Nell. ¡°Gotta work off the stress somehow. Anyway, I wrote to the evaluation board and asked them to explain their reasoning. I thought if I got them to do that, they¡¯d have to admit that their reasoning was pure tripe and that they¡¯d evaluated me wrong.¡±


    ¡°And did they?¡±


    ¡°Nope,¡± said Nell. ¡°They sent back quite a detailed report that proved I was, actually, quite a gruff teacher who needed to soften up a little.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think Spruce has earned his F rating, though,¡± said Mick. ¡°It¡¯s just something deep down. Can¡¯t put my finger on it, but it doesn¡¯t feel right. I¡¯m going to do a little digging. Metaphorically, that is.¡±


    Nell, a literature teacher, said, ¡°Yeah, Mick. We got that. I didn¡¯t think you were actually going to dig a hole.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t forget to take a metaphorical shovel,¡± added Lee.


    There was no way of finding out which Food Safety inspector had dined at the Sunny Caf¨¦ and made a report, since they were meant to be anonymous. Similarly, writing to their office wouldn¡¯t make a bit of difference, according to Spruce. They never gave out information on their employees, and once they gave a rating, that was that.


    All Mick needed was a way to either confirm his gut feeling ¨C that there was something funny about this - or to contradict it. He just needed an inkling of the truth. Genuine rating or not, at least then they could deal with it.


    Poor Spruce, meanwhile, was so stressed out that he could barely cook. In fact, he started spending two and a half hours each morning scrubbing his caf¨¦ from top to bottom, and then the same at night when he closed up. As well as that, he washed his hands maybe a hundred times throughout the day. His skin was red raw, and he¡¯d worn down a whole alchemical long-lasting soap bar to just a nub. Those things were supposed to last months! This kind of wastage bothered Mick more than the whole F rating business.


    Nothing Mick, Nell, or Lee could say to Spruce would help. It just wasn¡¯t sinking in; it was as though they were whispering words of comfort to a rock. In the end, it was his ex-girlfriend, Mrs. Grant of Rolls and Dough, who got through to him.


    Mick had been enjoying a coffee and a bacon roll ¨C which he¡¯d had to cook himself - in the caf¨¦, when she walked in wearing her baking apron that had a giant muffin with a black, curvy mustache printed on it. Wasting no time, she strode right up to the caf¨¦ counter and addressed Spruce, who was scrubbing his hands at the kitchen sink.


    ¡°Look,¡± Mrs. Grant said. ¡°You need to put this in perspective and stop wallowing. It¡¯s happened to me before. Got a D rating. Turned out to be nothing to do with the state of my bakery; it was just that I forgot to fill out a form. It all got sorted out, and nothing bad happened.¡±


    Spruce paused, his hands covered in soap suds. ¡°But I got an ¡®F.¡¯ That¡¯s way worse.¡±The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°It¡¯s two letters different.¡±


    ¡°I know, but the punishments scale, don¡¯t they? They could close me down!¡±


    Mrs. Grant said, ¡°Well, have they told you what you lost marks on? Sent recommendations? All you need to do is follow them.¡±


    Spruce shook his head. ¡°Nothing so far.¡±


    Mrs. Grant scratched her chin. ¡°That¡¯s strange. I got my recommendations a few days after the rating.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯d make more sense to send them together,¡± said Mick. ¡°Save on postage.¡±


    ¡°They like to see you sweat, mark my words. The Food Safety Board is where would-be torturers who¡¯re too squeamish to be around blood go to earn a living. Anyhow, Connor Perry has been a little behind on his deliveries lately, Spruce. Don¡¯t know why ¨C he¡¯s normally so reliable. Maybe your recommendation letter is in the post.¡±


    Overhearing this exchange had given Mick an idea. He didn¡¯t want to get Spruce¡¯s hopes up, so he didn¡¯t share what he was thinking yet. Instead, he asked if he could see the F-rated certificate that the Food Safety Board had posted to him.


    The first thing he did was to get fingerprint samples from anyone who¡¯d handled the letter. By his reckoning, there was only him, Spruce, and Seelka, who¡¯d delivered it. He got Spruce¡¯s prints straight away, and then tracked Seelka down to Smithson Street, where she was three quarters of the way through her delivery route.


    After calling by the King¡¯s Head stables to say hello to Big Jimmy and feed him a few apples and keep him up to date on town gossip, he went back to his office. There, he cleared his desk as best he could, and took out the food safety certificate and placed it on the right half of the surface. On the left, he assembled his forensic equipment: magnifying glass, fingerprint set, and so on.


    He didn¡¯t need to physically use them, of course. He just needed to have them nearby. Instead of doing any manual work, he activated Forensic Sweep and watched as the sky-blue light traveled back and forth over the paper.


    <u>Evidence Recovered: </u>


    Fingerprints: Three sets belonging to Spruce Wilkinson, Seelka Syrne, and Mick Mulroon.


    Sigil tampering: The Food Safety Board sigil looks like it has been taken from another document and stuck onto this one.


    Mick stared at the results of his ability use, represented both in token text form, and physical evidence that had appeared on the table. He let his thoughts go wherever they wanted for a moment or two, just to clear his head, then tried to get in a deduction frame of mind.


    A couple of things here didn¡¯t make a lick of sense. For one thing, the fingerprints. Three sets? There ought to be more. A set or two belonging to people at the Food Safety office. Were they wearing gloves when they handled the letter, or something? That seemed like a strange thing to do if they were a legit operation.


    Even more curious was the tampered sigil. Why would an official document show signs of tampering? Mick had never done well in math class at school, but even he knew these sums didn¡¯t add up.


    These deductions felt true enough, and they gave him some experience towards getting his Deduction skill tree. Even so, it felt like all he¡¯d done so far was take a step into a foggy expanse, with not even a single light to guide the way.


    Closing up his office, he visited the King¡¯s Head again. Alec, the landlord, was busy putting up some red and yellow bunting across the brick wall above the hearth. Martha Peters had booked the tavern for her birthday party, which all of Sunhampton was welcome to attend, apparently. She was even putting a hundred gold behind the bar to pay for peoples¡¯ drinks. Mick made a mental note to attend, even if it most likely meant Martha would challenge him to one of the arm wrestling contests that she loved so much. Aching forearm muscles and the humiliation of losing to a woman in her sixties was worth the bonus of free beers.


    On questioning him, Alec told Mick that he hadn¡¯t received anything from the Food Safety Board.


    ¡°They normally have their inspectors visit every eatery in a town, don¡¯t they?¡± said Mick. ¡°Save on travel costs.¡±


    ¡°Aye. Is there a problem, Mick?¡±


    ¡°Nothing for you to worry about. Thanks, Alec. I¡¯m gon¡¯ saddle up Big Jimmy and take him out for the day.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s your horse.¡±


    For the rest of that day and evening, he visited some of the taverns and restaurants on the outskirts of Sunhampton to see if they¡¯d had letters from the Food Safety Board. More than a handful of landlords and landladies were cagey about it; why did Mick want to know their hygiene score? Was he trying to sabotage their business? Showing them his sleuth badge straightened it out.


    Later on he headed to Perentee, calling in at the several taverns there, all of which had ¡®Fox¡¯ in their name on account of the town founder¡¯s love for the nocturnal animals. With that done, he also stopped by the town square and had a chat with Chris Crier, to see if the town crier had heard any whispers. He had to ply him with a steak and ale pie and a free dandelion cordial, but it was worth it.


    The sun was putting on its nightcap and gown when he and Jimmy finally trotted back into Sunhampton. As tired as he was, Mick stabled Jimmy and then went back to his office, where he settled behind his desk and evaluated everything he had learned. Sleuths, he was quickly learning, had to keep long hours.


    Still, it had been worth it. It turned out that the Sunny Caf¨¦ wasn¡¯t the only establishment in the area to get an F rating. In fact, the Fs had been coming down like pigeon crap in Striding Square. Some taverns and eateries were probably lacking in cleanliness, sure, but eight of them? Something was going on here.


    The biggest lead had come from a Perentee tavern called The Crafty Fox. The landlady, Brendar Higgingbotham ¨C and you had to make sure you pronounced the ¡®r¡¯ in Brendar or she¡¯d get cross - told Mick that one of her patrons had left behind a leather knapsack. It wouldn¡¯t have been suspicious, except for the timing. It was a day before she got an F rating in the post. With some cajoling, she surrendered it to Mick. As an official guard, he was well within his rights to claim lost property.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on, anyhow?¡± Brendar had asked him, after retrieving the knapsack and passing it over the bar.


    ¡°Guard business,¡± Mick answered.


    A man walked up to the bar and placed his coin pouch on it. ¡°A pint of Wily Fox, please, Brenda.¡±


    Brendar¡¯s face crossed with anger. ¡°Get out of my pub,¡± she growled.


    Inside the knapsack were a few very interesting items. Namely, a bunch of Food Safety sigils deftly removed from official documents, a pair of black leather gloves, tweezers and a magnifying glass, and a member¡¯s token for a billiards club in Full Striding.


    It was time to make another trip to the city.

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 49

    <h2>49</h2>


    The billiards club was in a rundown building on Knapper¡¯s Street, a stone¡¯s throw from Ceridoc Mercantile Square. Inside, it was a hall filled end to end with green tables, some unoccupied, others with games in various states of play. Whoever was Chancellor in Charge of Lamp Placement was miserly with their coin, but the dimness seemed to work for the place. Every few seconds there was the soft click-clack of balls colliding, punctuated by murmured conversations that never reached the volume you¡¯d find in, say, a tavern. This was on account of the club¡¯s second rule: ¡®No loud noises, under any circumstances¡­.except if there is a fire.¡¯ The air smelled strongly of fried potatoes, not a surprise since this was the only hot food they served. You weren¡¯t allowed to eat them near a table, though. Rule three.


    Mick sought out the owner, only to learn that she was on vacation in The Cove. Instead, he had to make do getting answers from the clerk who ran the place in her absence. She was busy totaling something in a big, red book on the counter in front of her. Stacked on one side of the counter where three boxes filled with little green cubes of cue chalk.


    ¡°Got a few questions for you, if you don¡¯t mind,¡± Mick said.


    ¡°Can I see your token?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have one.¡±


    ¡°This is a members¡¯ only hall, I¡¯m afraid,¡± she said. ¡°You can fill out an application now, pay the fifty gold, and we can issue you a token in a few days if your references square up. Or, if you know a member, they can get you a guest pass for the day.¡±


    ¡°Will this do?¡± asked Mick, showing his guard badge.


    She studied it. ¡°No, that¡¯s not one of our tokens.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a special one. Says that you need to answer my questions.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    Mick sighed. ¡°It¡¯s a guard badge. I was trying to be mysterious¡­you know what? Forget it. Just need to ask you a question or two, that¡¯s all.¡±


    ¡°Oh, sorry. You were being rather vague. Right you are.¡±


    ¡°Alright, so, I was wondering¡­¡±


    The clerk was pleasantly cooperative now that she knew he was both a town guard and a sleuth in training, and after a few directed questions he learned that one of their members had recently visited the hall to play a few games, only to find that they didn¡¯t have their members¡¯ token. They reported it missing and filled out a form for a replacement, but hadn¡¯t yet returned to claim it.


    ¡°What did they look like?¡± asked Mick.


    ¡°Can¡¯t say. I don¡¯t work Tuesdays. All¡¯s I¡¯ve got is a note from Piper about it. If you can call it a note, that is, with her handwriting. More like a sheet of squiggles.¡±


    ¡°Could I see the form, please?¡±


    The clerk turned a piece of paper around, allowing Mick to make a note of the name and address written on it.


    Mick ate his homemade cheese and ham sandwiches on a bench in Harrington Square, where he was surprised to learn of a city tax that had recently been introduced. Brought into law by a flock of pigeons who perched on the edge of a fountain, this taxation decreed that unless you donated a few crumbs of bread and a piece or two of cheese, you wouldn¡¯t get left alone.


    It was early afternoon by the time he reached the address he¡¯d copied from the form. Lexingdale Drive was a long street with three-storied townhouses on either side, designed primarily as an advertisement for how big these folks¡¯ coin purses were. The idea of actually living in them was a secondary concern. This was the kind of neighborhood where if your nose was attuned enough, you could take a big sniff and actually smell the gold in the air as sure as if coins were being minted nearby. There was an element of competition about the whole thing, too. Many of the homeowners had hired landscapers to sculpt their bushes, resulting in a neighborly topiary feud. Just to his right, a pride of leafy lions was staring out onto the street. From the house across, a herd of green elephants gazed back. You could almost hear their trunks trumpeting. The gentle murmur of conversation from a garden party or two was carried throughout the street by a gentle breeze. Mick had never expected his target to live in a place like this.


    ¡°Fraud pays, I guess,¡± he murmured as he reached the house in question, before reminding himself to keep an open mind. Fraud wasn¡¯t necessarily a given. The presumption of guilt was a slippery slope. Whoever lived here, they could well be an innocent person who¡¯d simply lost their billiard¡¯s club token.


    By now, he was well practiced at giving the guards¡¯ knock. Three firm rap-rap-raps brought someone to the door. When he saw who it was, you could have knocked him over with a feather. Fair or not, any thoughts of presumption of innocence left his mind.


    ¡°Mick Mulroon, as I live and breathe,¡± she said.


    Lena Coarty looked surprisingly different to when Mick had last seen her at her cottage. Gone were the more obvious tokens such as her country clothes, but something more indefinable had changed, too. She just looked less¡­rural. She was the kind of person who gained a kind of social camouflage from her surroundings without having to do much to achieve it. Back at her cottage, she¡¯d worn a countryside look. Here on Lexingdale Drive, all she needed was a glass of wine and a sense of presumption and she fit in like a velvet glove.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    How did she do it? Maybe it was an ability that she got from an illicit skill tree token. Mick could really do with getting his hands on one of those to see how they worked. Understand your enemy, and all that. Unfortunately, any criminal competent enough to study for an illegal skill tree also set their tokens up to break upon removal from their token bracelets. That wasn¡¯t such a hard thing to arrange if you knew a dodgy tokenmaker.


    ¡°Would you like to come in for a brew?¡± said Lena, stepping aside.


    ¡°Don¡¯t mind if I do.¡±


    ¡°How¡¯ve you been?¡±


    ¡°Good, thanks,¡± replied Mick. ¡°You?¡±


    ¡°Ah, you know. Keeping myself occupied. Birdwatching. Collecting antique jewelry. Nice, legal hobbies.¡±


    Refusing to rise to the bait, Mick said, ¡°It¡¯s good to have interests. I like billiards.¡±


    This provoked no response from Lena. As they walked through the hall, hemmed in either side by huge vases that cost more than Mick¡¯s annual earnings under Mr. Leabrook, Lena explained that this wasn¡¯t her house; she was a lodger. Her ex-husband¡¯s brother ¨C her ex-brother-in-law, basically ¨C owned the place, and Lena looked after it while he was on one of his frequent business trips. He was a molasses salesman, dealing in huge quantities of the stuff and selling it to bakeries and restaurants across Easterly. He let Lena stay here so the place appeared occupied while he was away. Her presence as a flesh and blood system of security took the place of paying rent.


    ¡°Liam just doesn¡¯t want the place to look empty while he¡¯s on his travels,¡± she said. ¡°Doesn¡¯t want to attract criminals.¡±


    ¡°No, that¡¯d be terrible.¡±


    Mick still didn¡¯t trust Lena enough to  accept a beverage that she had to add things to or stir, so he took a glass of water from the water pump. They sat at a counter in the kitchen. Taking into account the cooking area, dining table, and middle island, there was more marble in this room than a king¡¯s tomb.


    ¡°So, how can I help?¡± she said. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me those birds have been stealing again.¡±


    Mick had already thought about how to approach his interview. He didn¡¯t have any evidence linking the owner of the billiards club token to the false food safety rating. So a patron left a bag containing food safety sigils in a tavern that later got sent an F rating. And what?  The presence of a token in a bag proved nothing ¨C a half competent solicitor would just say that the knapsack owner must have found the sigils and picked them up out of curiosity.


    Sipping his water, he brought ¡®Chapter 9 ¨C Interrogation and Questions¡¯ of Starter Sleuthing to mind. There was a framework for interviews, a roll of twine for sleuths to follow so they didn¡¯t get lost. What was the first thing? Right ¨C establish rapport. Easier said than done, given his distaste for Lena¡¯s company, but he just needed to keep the Sunny Caf¨¦ and poor old Spruce in mind.


    ¡°This is a nice place,¡± he said. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t mind living here myself.¡±


    Lena blew on her coffee. ¡°All you have to do is marry a man, find out he¡¯s a gambler who refuses to change, get divorced, and stay on good terms with his brother.¡±


    ¡°Right, sure. I¡¯ll bear that in mind. Been up to much since we last spoke?¡±


    ¡°Let me see¡­I got into spoken word poetry. There¡¯s a club on Wessex Road, past the Oak Tree tavern. You ought to drop by one day.¡±


    Attending an evening of spoken word poetry was maybe the last thing in the world Mick wanted to do. Saying so wouldn¡¯t made for very good mortar in his brick wall of rapport, though.


    ¡°I¡¯m sure it¡¯s a powerful experience. Me? I like playing billiards. You ever played?¡±


    ¡°Never,¡± said Lena.


    Mick tried to pierce her expression, work out what she was thinking. This was the problem with her; she was hard to read, and even harder to disbelieve. She could tell you the clouds were raining chickens, and it¡¯d have a ring of truth.


    ¡°There¡¯s a club down on Knapper¡¯s Street. Heard it¡¯s good,¡± he said.


    ¡°Oh, that place? Liam goes there sometimes, come to think of it.¡±


    ¡°Your brother-in-law?¡±


    ¡°Ex-brother-in-law, yes.¡±


    So Mick had laid the trap, and Lena had deftly hopped over it and then flung it in her ex-brother-in-law¡¯s direction. The problem was that the club membership form had belonged to a L. Turner. Why the club had allowed someone to write their first name as ¡®L¡¯ was beyond Mick, but they had, and that was that.


    ¡°What¡¯s your old married name, if you don¡¯t mind me asking?¡±


    ¡°Is that a guard question, or a Skinny Mick question?¡± said Lena.


    ¡°Could be either.¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s not a state secret. I used to be a Turner.¡±


    <ol>


    <li>Turner. No ¡®Mr.¡¯ on the form, no ¡®Mrs.¡¯ So it could belong to either Lena or Liam. Mick couldn¡¯t contradict anything she had said so far. What did Starter Sleuthing say to do next in an interview? Let¡¯s see¡­ There was establishing rapport, then¡­right. Ask indirect questions.</li>


    </ol>


    ¡°I called by the Knapper¡¯s Street club. Fancied a game of billiards. Wouldn¡¯t let me play without a member¡¯s token. You believe that?¡±


    Lena shrugged. ¡°Those kinds of places like to keep out the ruffians.¡±


    ¡°It wasn¡¯t exactly the Emeraldvale Hotel. The only food they served was fried potatoes.¡±


    ¡°Nothing wrong with a basket of fried potatoes. Hits the spot.¡±


    Mick agreed with her, actually. ¡°I s¡¯pose serving food is a minefield, though. So many things you have to get right. It¡¯s not just about how well you cook stuff. There¡¯s ordering ingredients, making sure you get a good food hygiene rating¡­¡±


    He eyed her now, looking for a reaction, but Lena¡¯s poise was a huge, stone boulder that it would have taken a horse-pulled carriage to shift even an inch.


    ¡°Things are getting tough for businesses these days,¡± he carried on. ¡°You heard about how lots of eateries are getting scored low by the Food Safety Board?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s unfortunate,¡± said Lena. ¡°Though, hygiene is important. I s¡¯pose places that score low are to be avoided if they can¡¯t keep their kitchens clean.¡±


    She¡¯d given him nothing so far, damn it. Then again, Lena Coarty had probably been interviewed by members of law enforcement more times than Mick had had hot dinners. And he had had a heck of a lot of hot dinners. No sense getting too disappointed that she hadn¡¯t cracked right away.


    He moved onto the next stage of an interview: propose a hypothesis and see how the target reacted. Trying to act casual, he blew on his drink before taking a sip. Only when the cup reached his lips did he remember he was drinking cold water, but Lena didn¡¯t seem to notice.


    ¡°If you ask me,¡± he said, ¡°something funny¡¯s going on. So many eateries all getting poor scores. Tell me something; what do you think a person would gain by falsifying ratings and sending them out to places?¡±


    ¡°I couldn¡¯t even begin to imagine.¡±


    ¡°Put yourself in their shoes. The kind of person who¡¯d do that. Y¡¯know, a criminal.¡±


    ¡°A criminal¡¯s shoes? Don¡¯t think I¡¯d like the fit.¡±


    He was getting nowhere. That was plain to see. Best not to waste any more time or energy on it. His decision made, he stood up. Time for the final part of an unsuccessful interview; give the target one last out.


    ¡°Well, that was a damned tasty cup of water. Think I¡¯ve taken up enough of your time, Ms. Coarty. Anything you¡¯d like to tell me before we finish?¡±


    She shook her head. ¡°Don¡¯t think so.¡±


    ¡°Alright, then. I¡¯ll be seeing you.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t doubt it.¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 50

    <h2>50</h2>


    Despite her not giving him an inch during their conversation, Mick left the townhouse cupping his hands around a flickering candleflame of optimism. Getting a warrant to arrest Lena Coarty and search the townhouse was feasible if he explained everything he had uncovered so far. The only problem was that it wasn¡¯t beyond the realms of possibility that Lena would skip out of the city before he got permission to start the search.


    If that happened, what did he have? A bag with no owner, a house belonging to a businessman. That was all. Lena¡¯s name wasn¡¯t on a tenancy agreement or anything like that, and if there was any forgery equipment inside, then she¡¯d probably used gloves while handling it. Connecting her to any of this would be like trying to lasso a wild horse while blindfolded.


    His best bet was cracking Lena under a more concentrated interrogation. Once he got her singing, all the other circumstantial stuff would be like a backing chorus. But how did you crack a stone like Lena Coarty? He supposed you just needed the right hammer. Somewhere in that townhouse was the hammer.


    Yup, that was the key to it. He needed to get a warrant to search the house, and he needed to make sure Lena didn¡¯t skip town in the meantime. But how would he do both?


    There were no benches here on Lexingdale Drive, since the occupants didn¡¯t want to give people a reason to linger. Leaning against an acorn tree, he kept an eye out for guard patrols. The Full Striding guardship had a promise; every single street, avenue, or alleyway in the city would play echo to a guard¡¯s footsteps at least once per day or night. This promise wasn¡¯t always kept, of course, but then, guarantees dreamed up in a boardroom rarely were. He only had to hope that today was a day when the guardship stayed true to their vows, and that this street hadn¡¯t been patroled already.


    As long a day as it had been already, Stakeout Stamina kept Mick as alert as a meerkat as the hours went by. At five minutes to midnight, footsteps drew his attention. It wasn¡¯t Lena Coarty sneaking out of the house; instead, it was a leather armored guard striding down the street, toward him.


    He moved away from the tree. ¡°¡¯Scuse me, fella,¡± he said.


    The guard jumped a little. He evidently hadn¡¯t expected anyone to be lurking on this kind of street at this time of night. He immediately adopted a straighter, more authoritative posture.


    ¡°Can I ask what you¡¯re doing here, sir?¡±


    Mick showed him his guard badge. ¡°I need you to do me a favor. Head back to your station, tell them what I¡¯m about to tell you, and come back with a search warrant.¡±


    The guard peered at the badge. ¡°You¡¯re the same rank as me.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a sleuth in training.¡±


    ¡°Until then, you¡¯re technically a guard. I don¡¯t see why I¡¯d take orders from you. I¡¯ve still got half my patrol to do. I can¡¯t just go running off to do your errands.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t you help a guy out? See that house there? Well, there¡¯s a lady inside, and she¡­¡±


    Mick explained everything to the guard, whose name was Henny Ramsbottom. He¡¯d worked as a Striding guard for thirty-six years, he said. He ought to have been a desk sergeant by now, but he was happy patroling the streets. The minute you got chained to a desk was when you dipped your quill in death¡¯s ink and started writing your own obituary. Trust him on that.


    ¡°Right¡­¡± Mick said. ¡°Anyhow, you can see my dilemma. I need to search that house. But if I go, Ms. Coarty might slip out, and then there¡¯ll be no chance of catching her.¡±


    ¡°Seems like you¡¯ve run into her three times in the last year alone. If I was a betting man, I¡¯d say it¡¯s more likely you¡¯ll see her again than not.¡±


    ¡°Even so, I just need to wrap all this up and put my friend¡¯s mind at rest. If I can get a nice cell for Lena Coarty in the process, it¡¯d be like getting two sweet rolls for the price of one.¡±Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡°All well and good, so why don¡¯t you run along to the station, and I¡¯ll wait here?¡± said Henny.


    ¡°What¡¯s the difference?¡±


    ¡°My feet are aching like you wouldn¡¯t believe.¡±


    ¡°Fine. Just don¡¯t take your eyes off that house,¡± said Mick, then added, ¡°Please.¡±


    Not that Mick was keeping a list, but if he was, he¡¯d have marked Henny Ramsbottom down as a trustworthy member of the Full Striding guard force. When he arrived back from the station forty-five minutes later, Henny hadn¡¯t moved an inch from his position on the street.


    ¡°One warrant signed and ready,¡± said Mick, displaying the sheet of paper. ¡°Let¡¯s go see what¡¯s inside Nine Lexingdale Drive.¡±


    ¡°Allow me,¡± said Henny, when they reached the front door. He gave the guard¡¯s knock. It was a fine piece of door knocking ¨C firm without being overly loud, each rap-rap-rap echoing with experience.


    ¡°Very nicely done,¡± said Mick.


    Henny brushed his knuckles on his guard coat. ¡°Thank you kindly.¡±


    Inside, Henny kept an eye on Lena, entertaining her by telling her some of his many patrol stories. Meanwhile, Mick searched the house and found what he¡¯d half expected. In one of the spare bedrooms, underneath a bed, he discovered a bunch of forgery equipment, a stack of stolen letters from the Food Safety Board with the sigils removed, and a leather bag bulging with gold coins. He was still some way from connecting Lena to it, but the find was enough to justify taking her to Elmshore East station for questioning.


    All the main interview rooms were full thanks to a plot that had been foiled earlier in the evening involving four men, two women, three cows, and a stick of dynamite. As such, Mick had to interview Lena in a supply room on the east wing of the station. It smelled strongly of chalk, so much so that it brought to mind the Knapper¡¯s Street billiards club. There were no inspectors, sleuths, or detectives available to accompany him, so he had to make do with a duty guard called Jimmy Ripple, who rarely spoke more than one word, and even that often came out as more of a grunt. This, Mick soon learned, was how he¡¯d earned the nickname Soliloquy Jimmy. He soon found himself wishing Lill Gill or Henny Ramsbottom were there.


    ¡°Right then, Ms. Coarty. Just have a few questions to ask, and then we¡¯ll see what¡¯s what,¡± began Mick.


    ¡°Ask away,¡± she said. Sitting in the chair opposite, slouched back and with her legs crossed, Lena looked like she could have been getting ready for a face peel and foot rub at a beach retreat.


    For this interview, Mick decided to begin with a more direct approach. He asked Lena about the forgery equipment. About the fact that he¡¯d found her billiards club token in a bag that also contained black gloves and some tampered Food Safety Board sigils.


    ¡°Nothing illegal about a pair of gloves,¡± she said.


    ¡°And the sigils?¡±


    ¡°I collect them.¡±


    ¡°Ah. So the bag was yours, then?¡± said Mick.


    This threw her, but only momentarily. ¡°Nothing illegal about owning a bag.¡±


    He carried on, directing his questions this way and that. The only thing was, Lena had an answer for everything. It was clear to him that at some point, she¡¯d sat down and imagined all the questions she might get asked about her scheme if she was caught, and she¡¯d reasoned out answers that were plausible. And that was all they had to be ¨C plausible. The onus was on Mick to prove anything.


    If his questions were gold coins, then his coin pouch was emptying by the minute. Finally, Mick put his hand inside and found it empty. Worse, Lena seemed to realize it, too, and her demeanor had grown smugger and smugger as the interview wore on. Soliloquy Jimmy was no help, either; he might as well have been a statue wearing guard leathers.


    As spent as Mick was, he did have one more thing to ask.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go back to the townhouse. Your brother-in-law¡¯s place,¡± he said.


    ¡°No problem. I¡¯m ready to go.¡±


    ¡°No, we aren¡¯t going there physically, Lena. I mean let¡¯s talk about it. About something I noticed about the place when I was searching it. In the hall.¡±


    ¡°Oh, the vases. Liam¡¯s idea of style. You can¡¯t account for taste.¡±


    Mick shook his head. ¡°Not those. There was some mail left out near the front door.¡±


    ¡°¡­there was?¡±


    ¡°In white envelopes. Same color as the little table they were resting on. Easy to miss, I s¡¯pose. Only, I had a little look at them, and something stuck out to me. Namely, that they weren¡¯t addressed to an ¡®L Turner¡¯. So while I was getting a search warrant, I had a little look at the Striding property records. Turns out the townhouse is owned by a lady named Phillipa Sue. She works for a company that sells agricultural equipment. Often on the road, she is. Touring farms, selling them new tinkered plows and the like. She¡¯s gone for months at a time. A person could break in, stay there for a while, and nobody would say a thing. Not even the neighbors. Not if you told them you were minding the place for her.¡±


    ¡°Letters in the hall?¡±


    ¡°There is no brother-in-law, is there, Lena?¡±


    ¡°No comment.¡±


    Mick grinned. ¡°That tells me all I need to know. Isn¡¯t that right, Guard Ripple?¡±


    ¡°Hmph.¡±


    ¡°See? Even Soliloquy Jimmy thinks you¡¯re backed into a corner like a¡­ rat that just got¡­uh¡­backed into a corner.. How about you make this easy on yourself, Lena?¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 51

    <h2>51</h2>


    There was no more satisfying a moment in his career ¨C short as it had been so far ¨C than when Mick was able to take the Food Safety Board letter that Lena had sent Spruce, and rip it up in front of him.


    Over a free burger and fried potatoes, Mick told Spruce everything. About how Lena had been sending these official-looking letters to eateries, then waiting for a week or so to let the owners worry and fret, before approaching them in person. Telling them that she worked for the Food Safety Board, and that she could arrange to have their ratings changed¡­for a price.


    ¡°And to top it all off,¡± said Mick, ¡°She spent a while scouting out a bunch of houses in the city, where she knew the owners would regularly be away for a while. Found them all listed in an address book she stuffed under a mattress. She goes from house to house, breaking in and living there for a while, then leaving before the owners get home.¡±


    ¡°So all this worry I¡¯ve had¡­¡±


    Mick put his hand on his friend¡¯s shoulder. ¡°I know. But at least there¡¯s no problem with the caf¨¦.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t thank you enough, mate. How much do I owe you?¡±


    Mick couldn¡¯t believe what he was about to say. The Mick Mulroon from even a few months ago couldn¡¯t have thought these words, let alone utter them. ¡°No charge. You¡¯re a friend! Doesn¡¯t feel right getting paid for your misery.¡±


    ¡°You must have spent ages on this.¡±


    ¡°Put your coins away. I¡¯m not walking out of this empty-handed. The Lena case, and all the stuff with the six Connors¡­along with my other jobs¡­ well, it¡¯s been enough to get me my last two skill trees. Simple Deduction and Simple Interrogation. Now I¡¯ve got them all.¡±


    Spruce smiled. You couldn¡¯t have described him as a relaxed person right then, even with all this business over with. He was still too flushed with adrenaline and the remnants of worry. But he looked better than before.


    ¡°So that¡¯s it? You¡¯re a fully classed sleuth?¡± he asked.


    Mick took a big bite of his burger, chewed, and swallowed. ¡°Not quite yet. There¡¯s something I need to do, and then there¡¯s the graduation ceremony. But almost.¡±


    The commuter cart to Full Striding gave Mick ample opportunity to review his skill trees for maybe the tenth time. He just never tired of looking at them. He had all five of them now. Technically, there wasn¡¯t a collective noun to describe five trees specifically, but Mick liked to think of them as a copse. A nice copse of sleuth skill trees, their leaves nice and green from the sunlight of experience.


    Pushing up his right sleeve, he set his Simple Interrogation and Simple Deduction skill trees in the slots of his token bracelet, and then gave them a quick tap. Token text filled the air in front of him. Percy Tattersall was sitting on the seat opposite Mick, and he wouldn¡¯t be able to see the token text. It would look as if Mick was just staring intently at him.


    ¡°I¡¯m not looking at you,¡± he said, preempting an awkward situation. ¡°My token text.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Right.¡±


    With that dealt with, Mick studied the text again, savoring the feeling of pride it never ceased to give him each time he read the words.


    Skill Tree: Simple Deduction


    Level: 1


    <u> </u>


    <u>Abilities:</u>


    Mental Corkboard


    You can keep all your evidence, notes, and observations on a corkboard inside your mind, meaning you always have all the intricate details of a case to hand. With more experience, more cases can be held.


    Pattern Recognition


    Enhances your ability to pinpoint patterns in evidence that a cursory glance might miss, teasing out clues from obscurity.


    Skill Tree: Simple Interrogation


    Level: 1


    <u> </u>


    <u>Abilities:</u>


    Detect Lie [Passive]


    The more experienced you become in questioning people, the more obvious lies become to you, even from practiced truth jugglers.


    Effective Questioning


    When formulating questions, you can compare different ways of wording them, and Effective Questioning will tell you which is likely to be most effective in each situation.


    Sleuth Bonus: Sense EmotionUnauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    You pick up on signs of particularly strong emotions that may hint at a possible line of questioning.


    There they were, then. His last two skill trees. He had all he needed to be a sleuth now, and it was just a matter of watering his trees over the course of a career by using his abilities and closing cases. Of course, he was joining a race that some people had already started years ago. There were sleuths out there who were already master ranked at his age. Still, better late than never.


    All that remained was one last thing to do, the first part of which saw him leave the commuter cart station and head through Full Striding to an old scrapyard. It wasn¡¯t the most aesthetically pleasing of places, with its walls made of tin sheets capped with barbed wire, and the ever-present smell of grease in the air.


    When he tried the gates of Sammy Lee¡¯s scrapyard, however, he found them locked. He headed across the road, to a small warehouse where a Striding Gazette vendor stored their stock. The vendor was sitting outside sorting newspapers into stacks and then tying them with twine.


    ¡°Any idea where Sammy Lee is?¡± Mick asked.


    The vendor was tying twine around a stack of newspapers. He didn¡¯t look up from his work. ¡°Sammy who?¡±


    ¡°Lady from the scrapyard across the road. Loves carriages.¡±


    ¡°Never heard of her.¡±


    Mick activated his Effective Questioning ability from his Interrogation skill tree. Using the same base query ¨C Have you seen Sammy Lee? ¨C he had the ability manipulate it this way and that to see which would be most effective with the vendor. According to the ability, a friendlier approach would work better with this man.


    ¡°Let me grab one of those stacks for you,¡± he said, helping the vendor load his papers onto a wagon. ¡°Woo, these are heavy.¡±


    ¡°Thank you kindly.¡±


    ¡°Worked here long?¡± asked Mick.


    ¡°Oh, twenty, thirty, forty years. Who gives a damn? Ever look back and think, ¡®Just what the heck have I done with my life?¡¯¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t say that. How are folks going to get their news, if not for you?¡±


    The vendor waved his hand dismissively. His palm was smudged with ink from the newspapers. ¡°Yer talking bull manure. But I appreciate it.¡± He put his hands on his hips and glanced at the scrapyard. ¡°Haven¡¯t seen Sammy in days. Aside from that, though, couldn¡¯t say where she is.¡±


    ¡°No problem. Thank you.¡±


    Mick realized that he didn¡¯t know the slightest thing about Sammy Lee. Not where she lived, which taverns she frequented ¨C if any ¨C nor anything about her life that didn¡¯t involve tinkering with old wagons and carriages. Then again, he¡¯d never stopped to ask, either.  He¡¯d turned up with Lill one day, got her to be his official mentor, and then showed up periodically to get her to sign a form or two.


    He stood there for a moment and tried to think of everything he knew about Sammy Lee. He gathered all the observational odds and ends and pinned them to a corkboard in his mind. He tried to recall anything of significance she¡¯d ever told him and tease any kind of meaning out of them, tried to find patterns in the things she¡¯d said.


    I know she drinks hazelnut coffee. That¡¯s her favorite. And she spends so much time in the yard that odds are she buys coffee and other groceries from a store nearby, rather than walking far for them.


    With some diligent searching, he soon learned that there was only one place near Sammy Lee¡¯s scrapyard that sold hazelnut coffee; a store named Three Cheeses which sold general groceries in one half of the building, and had a long cheese counter taking up the other. Three Cheeses turned out to be a modest name for the place. The owner was a hassled-looking guy with thinning hair and wobbly jowls, who had to divide his time between manning the grocery counter and dashing across the store and slicing and bagging cheese, depending on the needs of his customers.


    ¡°Please tell me you don¡¯t need cheese,¡± he said, seeing Mick enter.


    ¡°Afraid so. Need some nice, strong cheese, and then I got a bunch of groceries to buy from the other side of the store.¡±


    The owner looked between the two counters positioned at opposite sides of the store.


    Mick couldn¡¯t keep it up. He grinned. ¡°All I need is an answer or two, if you don¡¯t mind.¡±


    The store owner didn¡¯t know where Sammy Lee lived, nor would he have given up the ex-detective¡¯s address if he did. There was such a thing as customer-cheese monger confidentiality, didn¡¯t he know? Mick said he didn¡¯t. In any case, the grocery store owner was comfortable telling Mick that Sammy liked to drink at a tavern on the western edge of town, called the Horse and Carriage.


    ¡°The Horse and Carriage? Of course she does. Thanks, matey.¡±


    The Horse and Carriage wasn¡¯t much of a place. A generous person might call it cozy and quaint, while someone of a meaner disposition might liken its layout to that of a public toilet. Sure, you had to duck your head as you walked in, but the place wasn¡¯t small for the heck of it. This was a drinking hole for carriage drivers, retired or otherwise, and it was almost as old as the city itself. If you threw the stone of time behind you far enough it might land a few hundred years in the past, when carriage driving was only open to a race of folk called the Kin, who¡¯d left Easterly a while ago now. The Kin were small, by all accounts. The tallest of them was lucky to get to four feet. This tavern had been built for their liking, and now that it was a building of historical importance with a green plaque outside, they couldn¡¯t change its layout to suit its newer, taller patrons.


    Mick found Sammy Lee enjoying a pint of Bishop¡¯s Regret over in a snug in the corner. He bought himself a bottle of cherry beer. He didn¡¯t want a full glass; he needed to get the commuter carriage later, and didn¡¯t want his bladder filled with beer. Carriage drivers absolutely hated it when customers asked for a loo break.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t this a coincidence?¡± said Mick.


    Sammy Lee looked up. ¡°Can¡¯t a lady enjoy a beer in peace?¡±


    ¡°Just need you to sign off on skill tokens. I¡¯ll even buy you a drink to ease the pain of having to do mentor duties.¡±


    While Sammy looked over Mick¡¯s skill tokens, he went to the bar to buy her another glass of Bishop¡¯s Regret. Handing over his coins for a glass, he felt the last vestiges of his old skinflint self leave him. Just how many drinks had he bought people lately? How many meals had he treated folks to? Then again, he had found that when you were generous, people often reciprocated. Not that that was a reason to do it, but it was nice either way. A coin spent on a friend was better than having it sit in a jar collecting dust ¨C notwithstanding the very real need for pension provisions and rainy day funds.


    He and Sammy had a drink and a chat, after which Sammy was a little drunk. Not falling over, but you wouldn¡¯t have trusted her to drive a carriage. She insisted that Mick accompany her to the scrapyard, where she showed him a wagon she¡¯d recently finished restoring. In big, white letters she¡¯d dabbed, ¡®Sammy Lee Deliveries.¡¯


    ¡°Deliveries?¡± said Mick.


    Sammy rapped the side of the wagon with her knuckles. ¡°All this wagon restoring, it¡¯s got me in the mind that I¡¯d like to actually use them. This beaut was a plague wagon, you know. From the Striding outbreak a couple of hundred years ago.¡±


    ¡°Three hundred and six,¡± said Mick. The outbreak of the Striding Coughing Plague was one of the many things he¡¯d read up on and stored in his memory palace.


    ¡°All the same. They used to collect unfortunates and store them on this very wagon.¡±


    Mick edged away from the wagon, causing Sammy to laugh.


    ¡°We¡¯re talking centuries ago, for saints¡¯ sakes. You just said so yourself.¡±


    ¡°Still. They used to pile corpses on this thing, huh?¡±


    Sammy nodded. ¡°And now I¡¯m going to deliver groceries to people who live in the city outskirts. Oldies like me, sick people, you know the type. Pathetic sorts. Anyone who can¡¯t get to a store.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re a vision of empathy.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m taking ¡®em their groceries, aren¡¯t I?¡± said Sammy.


    ¡°Thought detective pensions were pretty decent?¡± asked Mick, wondering why someone like Sammy would want to start working an exhausting job at her age. Not that there was anything wrong with it, but she¡¯d earned her retirement.


    ¡°I¡¯m not charging a single coin! Like I said, all this work I do fixing things up just to let ¡®em sit there. Why grow flowers if you never stop to smell their petals?¡±

 Small-Town Sleuth – Chapter 52

    <h2>52</h2>


    It was the High Summer crafter¡¯s market, one of the busiest days in Sunhampton¡¯s calendar. Not only was the north-facing market plaza filled from end to end with stalls, tents, and the people selling things from them, but the procession of traders and vendors had spread onto Coiner¡¯s Way and beyond. The roof slates of the shops and townhouses nearby were scorched by the heat of the midday sun, and the air was almost dense with a sugary mist comprised of fried doughnuts and cinnamon stick aromas.


    Mick cut a path through the throngs of tourists and shoppers, reminding himself that as much as he hated rare days like this when his beloved Sunhampton was so busy, these occasions were a boon for local store owners. Mr. Leabrook trailed behind him, not being so generous in his evaluations.


    ¡°Hey! You! Pick that wrapper up or I swear to the saints I¡¯ll¡­¡±


    ¡°Calm down,¡± said Mick. ¡°She¡¯s just a little girl. She¡¯s, what, four years old?¡±


    ¡°Oh, I¡¯m sorry, I forgot it was perfectly fine to litter if you were below a certain age.¡±


    ¡°Just take deep breaths.¡±


    ¡°What are we doing, anyway? You know how I like to stay in my office on days like this.¡±


    ¡°Got something to show you.¡±


    He led Mr. Leabrook to the northeastern part of Coiner¡¯s Way, where a vendor had set up shop with a wooden table and two chairs. This bloke was a little different from the rest of the marketers who¡¯d flocked to Sunhampton; he wasn¡¯t selling a physical product, but instead, a game of chance.


    Mr. Leabrook read the sign out loud. ¡°¡¯Beat me at Five Dice and win fifty gold.¡±


    Five Dice was a simple game that most people in Easterly had played at least once in their lives. You and an opponent each rolled a six-sided dice. The person with the highest number won. If it was a draw, you rolled again. Whoever won three out of five rounds was the overall winner. It was a game of pure luck, and as such was often used to settle disputes where all options were equal, such as ¡®where should we eat tonight?¡¯


    ¡°He¡¯s charging five gold to play him at Five Dice,¡± said Mr. Leabrook, clearly unhappy with what he was seeing, ¡°Yet pays fifty gold to whoever beats him? It¡¯s a fifty-fifty game, is it not? There¡¯s something fishy going on here. He¡¯s using loaded dice.¡±


    Mick shook his head. ¡°I checked him out. For one thing, he showed me his license from the Easterly gambling commission. He¡¯s a certified game of chance vendor, which means although he can play games where the odds favor him, he can¡¯t outright cheat or manipulate them.¡±


    ¡°Do I need to explain to our resident sleuth that just because people aren¡¯t allowed to do something, doesn¡¯t mean they won¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°He lets folks bring their own dice. See on his sign? Using loaded dice wouldn¡¯t be enough of a sure thing for him to risk paying out fifty gold.¡±


    ¡°Magery, then,¡± said Mr. Leabrook. ¡°The man¡¯s a mage of some sort.¡±


    ¡°That could have worked, but it isn¡¯t what¡¯s going on here. Watch him for a while.¡±


    Mick and Mr. Leabrook stood in the middle of a crowd that was ever-present around the Five Dice vendor¡¯s table, even if the cast that made it up kept changing as new people joined it and others drifted off elsewhere. The chance of making fifty gold for a five gold outlay on a game of pure luck was too good to be true for many folks, and one by one they took their seats next to the vendor and paid tribute to the saints of fate.


    Over the course of twenty games, the vendor didn¡¯t lose a single time. When unhappy patrons accused him of cheating, a big, burly man wearing brown leathers towered over them, reminding them that they had voluntarily paid to play the game and had been allowed to supply their own dice. This settled the crowd down some. Then, in the next game, the vendor lost.


    Mick nudged Mr. Leabrook. ¡°No point seeing any more of this. He¡¯ll go on a winning streak for a while now, and then lose again. Follow me.¡±


    The pair walked across Coiner¡¯s Way to where Mr. Leabrook had first shown Mick one of the little imp statues hidden in a brick cavity. ¡°See where it¡¯s pointed?¡± said Mick.


    ¡°In the direction of the dice man.¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s not all.¡±


    Mick led Mr. Leabrook to the second statue by Rolls and Dough bakery, and then across Coiner¡¯s Way yet again to a third one that he himself had found, after some thorough investigation.


    ¡°Now do you see?¡± he asked.


    Mr. Leabrook absentmindedly played with the bottom of his tie. ¡°The three statues seem to point at the dice vendor, but from different directions. I don¡¯t understand.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re three statues called the Tri Imps of Yarmouth, otherwise known as the Blessers of Fortune. I read about ¡®em in the library. ¡®If the statues enjoy unbroken stares, the point where their gazes meet will enjoy great luck.¡¯ When I read that, it made everything pretty simple. We knew where two of the statues were. Just needed to find the third, mark the spot where their stares met, and see who turned up to capitalize on it.¡±


    ¡°Our dice man.¡±


    Mick nodded. ¡°Not just any dice man. Recognize him?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Oh, of course you don¡¯t. You don¡¯t know Lena Coarty, do you?¡±


    ¡°Afraid not.¡±


    ¡°Well, this is Billy Coarty, her cousin. Their family just can¡¯t seem to stay out of trouble. They¡¯re just not very good at it, is all. Anyway, watch this.¡±


    Mick took from his pocket a thumb-sized vial of alchemically formulated dissolver that he¡¯d gotten from Janey Morgan. He used the pipette to let four drops fall around the base of the little imp statue. A few tendrils of foul-smelling smoke rode in the air. Unlike before, when Mick tried to move the statue now, it didn¡¯t resist. He put it in his pocket.


    With the imps¡¯ stares broken, the dice vendor suddenly found that fate had turned against him. Watching from the crowd, Mick and Mr. Leabrook witnessed him lose three games in a row, win a fourth, and then suffer one more defeat. At this point, he seemed to twig that something wasn¡¯t right, and simply packed up his dice, table, and chairs, and disappeared into the crowd before anyone could stop him. What he didn¡¯t realize, though, was that Mick had already reported him to the gambling commission, and he¡¯d soon be stripped of his license.


    Three days later, in a surprise to everyone, Ma and George announced they were getting married not in the distant future, but very soon. For Mick, their announcement consisted of inviting him for breakfast at the Sunny Caf¨¦, buying him a Mick Special, and then delivering the revelation that they were going to the Full Striding registry office in a few days¡¯ time.


    ¡°Bit quick, ain¡¯t it?¡± said Mick.


    ¡°Get to our age, and you either do something quickly, or before you know it, you¡¯re dead,¡± said Ma.


    ¡°Come off it. You¡¯re not that old.¡±Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    ¡°Let¡¯s not make a big fuss. I¡¯d like you, Kiera, Granny Wells, and Zip to be there. It¡¯d mean a lot to me if you could act happy about this.¡±


    ¡°You sure about this, Ma?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sure.¡±


    ¡°Then fine, I¡¯m happy. It¡¯s all well and good by me. George is a decent bloke.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± said George.


    Weddings at the Full Striding registry office were usually brief affairs, catering to people who didn¡¯t want to spend their life savings on a day¡¯s celebration. Mick didn¡¯t begrudge folks a wedding, but he tended to agree with this point of view.


    Ma said she was too old to be wearing a big, white wedding dress, and in any case, the symbolism of such a color no longer applied to a woman with two children who was getting married for a second time. Instead, Mick bought her a nice dress of her choosing from a store in the posh part of Striding, and also treated himself to a new suit. He¡¯d normally just raid his wardrobe and scavenge together something vaguely smart-looking if he was going to a wedding, but this was different, it was Ma and George. And besides that, she¡¯d asked him to give her away. He wanted to appear at least a little bit presentable.


    ¡°No fuss,¡± Ma said to him the evening before the ceremony, the morning of it, and ten minutes before their agreed time slot.


    ¡°No fuss,¡± agreed Mick.


    He kept to that promise. Mostly. The only thing he arranged that might be described as a fuss was to have a spotted sparrow fly into the registry office bearing George and Ma¡¯s rings, and deposit them in Mick¡¯s hand. Ma looked delighted when it happened, while George stared at the winged animal in wonder as it performed its role and then exited with a squawk and a flap of its wings.


    ¡°It¡¯s technically an ex-con,¡± Mick whispered to Kiera, who was sitting next to him. ¡°Remember I told you about the missing jewelry? Anyhow, they¡¯re all at a sanctuary, now, the birds. I went and had a word with the sanctuary folks.¡±


    The rest of the ceremony was nice and authentic, if a little functional. Then again, that suited Ma. She and George were insistent that they didn¡¯t want a celebration afterward. All they wanted was to go for a meal at a pub near the registry office. Ma, George, Mick, Kiera, Zip, Granny Wells, as well as Beth and Les, George¡¯s adult children.


    George gave a quick speech, and Mick got over his dislike of public speaking and gave an even quicker one telling everyone how great his ma was. With that done, beers and wines were drunk, food was eaten, and a lovely time was had by all.


    A couple of weeks passed with Mick getting a few odds and ends here and there. No major cases. Mostly just ones so dull they wouldn¡¯t even make the Sunhampton newspaper.


    One weekend, he and Lill Gill met up in Full Striding, where they then took a commuter carriage to a village west of the city, named Ridgethorpe. Twenty minutes¡¯ walk from Ridgethorpe along a muddy bridleway was an animal sanctuary. Though, this was no normal sanctuary.


    ¡°You ready for our graduation?¡± asked Lill as they walked toward a huge sign bearing the words ¡®Ridgethorpe Mimic Sanctuary.¡¯


    ¡°I just have to turn up, don¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°You need a cap and gown. Don¡¯t you know that?¡±


    ¡°Never been to a graduation before,¡± answered Mick.


    ¡°We can stop by a store when we get back to the city. I still need to buy mine. Oh ¨C don¡¯t forget that you need to buy tickets for whoever¡¯s coming to see you graduate.¡±


    ¡°I have to buy those as well?¡±


    ¡°Well, you can ask your guests to pay you back,¡± said Lill, ¡°but I don¡¯t think that¡¯s quite the done thing. It¡¯s tradition, right? The person graduating buys the tickets.¡±


    Mick did some mental calculations. He needed tickets for Ma, George, Kiera, Zip, Lee Hunter, Spruce, Nell, and Sammy Lee. Sammy was the most surprising name on the list; she¡¯d told Mick that she wanted to be there, and could he make the arrangements? He¡¯d answered that yes, he could.


    So that was eight tickets, assuming he didn¡¯t need to pay for his own, and Lill was saying that custom dictated he, as the person graduating from the token program and the new owner of the sleuth class, had to stomach the cost.


    He half wondered if he should ask them all to pay him back, but it didn¡¯t feel right. Maybe he could trim the guest list a little? But no, that¡¯d feel even worse. His friends and family wanted to see him graduate, and not everyone had that kind of luxury. He was just going to have to put his hand in his pocket and dig deep. Actually, when he really thought about it, it didn¡¯t feel bad at all. There were worse things to do with your gold.


    ¡°There was something I wanted to ask you,¡± he said. ¡°Remember our first day at the token exam?¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    ¡°This might sound weird, but the back of your neck was all red. I was just wondering why?¡±


    Lill stared at him, puzzled. ¡°I was wearing a necklace the night before, and it must have reacted with my skin. That¡¯ll teach me for going cheap.¡±


    ¡°That simple, huh?¡±


    Taking out his notebook as they walked, Mick quickly drew a line through an entry.


    <u>Mysteries to take a look at</u>


    The Lady with the Red Neck


    Reaching the mimic sanctuary, they told the receptionist who they were and why they were there. Yes, Lill answered him, they did have an appointment. After a twenty-minute wait, they were greeted by Rex Mallard, one of the sanctuary trainers. Rex was tall, tanned, and very toned. He wore sand-colored khaki shorts and a similarly colored short-sleeved shirt with a ¡®Head Trainer¡¯ badge pinned above his right breast. He smiled wide and freely, and looked like the kind of person for whom the saying ¡®love what you do and you¡¯ll never work a day in your life¡¯ was written about.


    ¡°You¡¯re the detectives?¡± said Rex.


    ¡°A sleuth and an inspector, actually.¡±


    ¡°Beg your pardon. You¡¯re the ones who found the mimics?¡±


    Lill tipped her head sideways at Mick. ¡°It was him.¡±


    ¡°Well, they¡¯re nicely settled in now. Follow me and you can see them.¡±


    Mick had never visited a mimic sanctuary before. He didn¡¯t quite know why he was here now, really, only that he hadn¡¯t seen Lill in a while, and something in his head told him maybe he ought to go check on the creatures and see how they were getting used to their new life.


    ¡°How many mimics do you have here?¡± said Mick, as they walked along a corridor and toward a set of wooden doors at the end.


    ¡°Twenty-seven,¡± said Rex.


    ¡°That¡¯s a lot of mimics.¡±


    ¡°Our sanctuary is on the smaller side, believe it or not.¡±


    ¡°You get a lot of ¡®em recovered like the five I sent to you?¡±


    ¡°From illicit breeders? That¡¯s where most of our mimics come from. Sad. Very sad.¡±


    ¡°At least some of them wind up here, though,¡± said Lill.


    Rex pushed open the double doors to reveal a huge expanse of land covered by various different types of terrain. There was a forest, marshland, hills, and even a manmade river winding in a circle around the enclosure, the water kept flowing by a series of wheels and pumps. Surrounding it was a clear wall made from a material that seemed to shimmer blue, indicating the presence of mana. It was some kind of protection to keep the mimics from escaping, most likely. Regular cages and bars didn¡¯t work for a creature that could copy a butterfly¡¯s form and flutter to freedom. As such, there was also a see-through roof preventing an aerial escape. He wondered if the ground had some kind of mana in it, too, to stop them from adopting the form of a mole and digging for freedom.


    Rex peered at the enclosure. ¡°Now, the five that you found are¡­let¡¯s see here¡­¡±


    He took out a slate from his pocket. Mick didn¡¯t know a great deal about artificery, but he knew this slate was artificed by how a map appeared on it, and on that map were lots of names moving around.


    ¡°We tag them,¡± said Rex. ¡°You can never be too careful. Ah, here we go. Follow me.¡±


    They took a clockwise route around the enclosure, finally stopping at a section near a huge rock that stood bigger than a house. Underneath it, five cats were curled up together in the shade.


    ¡°That them?¡± asked Mick.


    Rex nodded.


    ¡°How come they¡¯re cats?¡±


    ¡°Mimics often revert to a base form that feels comfortable to them. One that feels right, you might say, though their brains don¡¯t exactly work like that. Anyhow, these are the ones you saved from the house near Sunhampton.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t know they could turn into cats, though.¡±


    ¡°They most likely couldn¡¯t, until they came here. Probably acquired the form from one of our other mimics. Can¡¯t really do much about that, unfortunately.¡±


    Mick kneeled right up by the see-through enclosure walls and watched the mimics all curled up together. No chains in sight, no reason for them to have to take the form of a postmaster and make a bid for freedom. He stayed there longer than he intended, finding a strange sort of peace in watching them.


    ¡°Mick, I¡¯m going to get a coffee,¡± said Lill. ¡°You want one?¡±


    ¡°Please,¡± he said.


    One of the mimics stretched out its cat legs. Disentangling itself from its family, it looked around, blinking in the light. Then, its gaze settled on Mick. They stared at each other for a while, man and mimic. Mick wondered if it remembered him. If it resented him, maybe, for foiling its scheme back in ¡®hampton.


    Slowly, the mimic approached him. As it neared, its form began to change, turning from a cat into a little terrier dog. It reached the enclosure wall so that it and Mick were right by each other, separated only by an inch of material. The mimic dog looked just like the one he¡¯d always pictured having in his head. It was uncanny, really. The mimic gave a happy little yap, and sat on its haunches, staring at Mick and wagging its tail.


    ¡°If you¡¯re telling me you like it here, then you¡¯re welcome,¡± said Mick.


    After a pub dinner at a tavern near Ridgethorpe and two commuter wagon journeys, he arrived back in good old Sunhampton just as Douggie Fernglass was lighting the lamps on Coiner¡¯s Way.


    Rather than go straight home, he instead went to his office to finish some paperwork on a case. When he unlocked the door, he found a little envelope waiting for him. He picked it up and took it to his desk, where he sat down. On his desk were his five sleuth skill tree tokens. Nearby, still in a paper bag, were his cap and gown for the upcoming graduation ceremony.


    Tearing open the envelope, he took out a card. On it was an illustration of a man holding a magnifying glass. Written underneath it were the words, ¡®Happy Uncle¡¯s Day.¡±


    ¡°Uncle¡¯s Day,¡± Mick said aloud. ¡°Didn¡¯t even know such a day existed.¡±


    Inside the card, Zip had written him a short message. ¡®To Uncle Mick, thanks for everything. Looking forward to your graduation. I¡¯m very proud of you. Love, Zip.¡¯


    The End of Book 1