19

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 – 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.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

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 – even if by proxy – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – I don’t want it back.”

Item received: Starter Sleuthing, by S H Watson.