48

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 – the Jones girls were in a lot of trouble – 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 café 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 Café 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 – 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 café 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 – which he’d had to cook himself - in the café, 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 café 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.”

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“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 – 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.

Evidence Recovered:

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 Café 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 – 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.