What Makes A Detective.

Chapter 1

Toby Smart hated being wrong. Mainly because he was hardly ever as such, unless he was arguing with his older brother Tarquin, in which case he was blatantly wrong by default, being younger. But this time he was actually wrong, in normal day society, and frankly, he wished the ground would just open up beneath him and swallow him whole.

The issue came from a paper he had been forced to write at school. In it, for reasons Toby would rather have kept to himself, he had quoted Hansel and Gretel, a fairytale he had been sure had been written by the Grimm Brothers, except now his decidedly pig-headed, pig nosed English master was informing him quite firmly that Hansel and Gretel had been written by Hans Christian Andersen, and as of such, his point was entirely invalid. That on its own made no sense either, in Toby's not-so-humble opinion, and as of now he was walking home, sulking majorly. He didn't even have Tarquin to rant to, as his brother was staying behind for extra tuition-he was wanting to go into law. Toby didn't like law, he found it altogether too stuffy, but he knew his brother's sharp wit and even sharper tongue would come in handy in a courtroom, providing he got that far.

The bakery was bubbling with life as Toby came in the shop entrance, automatically trading his schoolbag for an apron, and was about to roll up his sleeves when his mother caught him.

"No, Tobias!" she snapped firmly, floury hands folded over her chest. "I know you like to help, but there is a thing called syrup and another thing called cotton, and if they end up smushed together with a sprinkle of cocoa powder and a school tie, I will not be impressed."

Toby scowled at her, partly because she had used his full name but mainly because he was already decidedly annoyed. Despite this, his mother seemed to realize there was something the problem.

"Toby, what is it?" she sighed. "School?"

Toby saw no reason not to tell her.

"Who wrote Hansel and Gretel, Mother?" he asked, secretly praying for her to give the same answer as he had.

"Hans Christian Andersen" his mother replied, after thinking a while. "I assume it was him. I'm not entirely sure, to be fair..."

Toby scowled again, threw his apron on the floor, and stalked out. He really hated being wrong.

Ten minutes later, he was back down in the bakery, plain clothes on and a faked, shop-assistant smile plastered on his face. The fun thing about working in the bakery was that people would believe anything you lied about, providing you made it convincing enough. Toby had never forgotten the day when he had managed to pass a failed carrot cake off as a glorious sticky toffee pudding, and it had been snaffled up by Mrs. Archer from down the street before Tarquin or his mother had time to tell her the truth. Granted, he had been sent to his room without supper, but, Toby had decided, it had been worth it. These days, he usually just lied about ingredients, in order to make sure that the stuff he wanted to eat later stayed on the shelves. It was amazing how many people refused to buy things centred with Tarquin's homemade jam, he'd found out.

Speaking of which...

Toby's fake smile brightened as Mrs. Llewellyn, (a stroppy, sour, sadistic string bean of a woman with an addiction to gossip and an allergy to peanuts) strode through the door, slinging her bag on the counter and surveying the spread before her as she stroked her tiny moustache. You couldn't really see the moustache from a long way away, but her affinity for stroking it sort of drew the eye, Toby knew.

"I'll take these" she drawled, flicking her wrist at a little box of perfectly formed rose cupcakes, the flowers on which Toby had spent hours making. Due to this, he had become rather protective over who they were sold to.