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.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  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.