A Hobbitian Inquisition
Being the observations of Applecider Bolingbroke, Deputized Bounder of the Northfarthing Watch, Second-Class, for the use of Lancogard North-Took, Deputy-Shirriff, in the official record of his investigations.
(As recorded in a code of her own making, with invisible ink made of lemon juice, hidden on the back of a recipe for Dwarven pancakes, in her traveling book of balladry, anecdotes, and cookery),
NOT TO BE DISSEMINATED OR COPIED, OR I’LL PUT A LIVE SPIDER IN YER COFFEE!!!
Hobbits be about as plain an’ sensible a Folk as yeh be wont to find in the world, an’ regarding the maudlin matter o’ the Elf Miss Sergie’s intended, a Mister Cutch Crane [hereafter Subject “C”], t’were a relief ter finally speak forthright with Deputy-Shirriff Lance North-Took on the subject
(Hobbits being given ter speakin’ more direct than Elfs, and nae always needin’ about 87 syllables an’ 104 variations on the vowels ‘u’ an’ ‘i’ ter say so much as, “Pass the salt, please.”)
Dep.-Shir. North-Took an’ I rendezvoused according ter his instructions at th’ Plough. We put back a rack o’ lamb with gravy an’ a pint apiece, so’s not ter approach the matter light-headed an’ empty-stomached.
Which were a good thing in hindsight, as Lance may as well’ve dropped a loaded beehive on me:
Regardin’ the big lad’s identity. Me momentary flicker o’ fancy were sadly quashed. The general build an’ hair color were in keepin’. But most notably, he were given ter daubin’ red lacquer on ‘is toes, so’s ter make Miss Sergie laugh. An’ them toes were bright as a candied cherry. Twixt that, an’ the betrothal ring, I glumly concede the final nail be driven home (meanin’ no bardic allegory by it).
But that were nae what I meant by droppin’ a live beehive.
FIRSTLY:
‘C’ had no direct blood. But ‘e were near ‘nuff as Kin ter two folks in Bree: a lady what runs a wayhouse fer waifs up by Combe, an’ a chap what live over th’ scholar stair in town. Lance, in his duty of informin’ the next o’ kin, made it over ter Bree, and wouldn’t ye know? ….. BOTH o’ these were up an’ vanished themselves!? Like smoke from a quenched oven fire.
That were the proverbial point when the branch started groanin’.
Now I has it from Miss Sergie that last she heard from ‘C’ were the 12th o’ the last month. Lance, in ‘is Bounder capacity, were made privy by th’ constables in Bree, that both these Big Folk friends went missing on the 16th.
Which do put a constraint on ‘is wanderings: th’ Bounders be sure he were dead two weeks a’fore they found ‘im. IF (an’ I do say “If”) ‘e were up ter Bree, ‘ow far could ‘e ‘ave wandered in that time, an’ still end up dead in the Scragdells, two weeks before the 28th when ‘e were found?
But that brings me ter what Lance had ter say SECONDLY:
On th’ subject of death, it were on record as a maulin’ ter the face by wolfs or screechy Gobbos what skulk up in the Scrags. But, as Lance says ter me? Thar were no wounds ter the body or limbs.
I says ter HIM, if ‘C’ were tore up by a Shire wolf, sure as pie they’d have EATEN him, aye? Or tore ‘im up beyond a recognition.
Which means ‘e were killed by a very small means ter the head. An’ he bein’ the burly sort that he were, thar be a limited number o’ means that come ter mind:
- Thar be an arrow-shot. But if that were so, the backside o’ the head’d be a wreck. So thar be out.
- Thar be the option o’ another Bard comin’ along, an’ playing ‘Haargon the Dwarven Hunstman’ in E-flat major (that’d kill a body quick, if 'e were properly flanked). But he’d be bleeding from the ears, in that case.
- In me own estimation, that leaves face-punchings, face-stabbings, laying eyes on Posey Atwood in that new dress ‘o hers, poisonings, chokings, or suffocatings. An’ I dinnae think ‘C’ ever laid eyes on Posey Atwood.
But if the branch were already groanin’, this be the point where yeh start hearin’ suspicious buzzing noises, cause here comes what Lance said THIRDLY:
True thar were no maimery, but … thar were also no blood about ‘is head. AN’ … under the eaves o’ the fir trees …. Thar be horseshoe marks. An’ not Shire pony shoes: Big Folk’s horses shoes.
I says ter Lance, just you hold on there two ticks; were he sayin’ Mister ‘C’ were a PLANT!?
THAR be the point where the live beehive hit ground.
I swear, either Lancey-boy were under orders not ter say so before, or he may be given ter a Bardic nature ‘imself – cause I SWEAR I heard the sound ‘o low bass brass in me head.
SO! Ter conclude the proverbial beehive drop:
Now we gots a missing person, preceding two other missing persons (still unaccounted for), killed in a manner most subtle – possibly then maimed up ter hide it? – an’ then brought from OUTSIDE the Shire, an’ dumped there, all within about 2 weeks? Do I gots that right?
(The investigator hereby pauses fer a swallow of Woolly-Foot stout. Oof.)
Big Folks proximal ter th’ Shire be found either in Breelands, or th’ Northcountry, what lie beyond Oatbarton. I says ter Lance, ye’d be harder pressed than gingerbread under a rolling pin ter sneak a body on a full-size horse from Bree clear up ter the Scrags without every nosey Hobbit ‘tween Stock an’ Brockenborings noticing. He says aye, tha’ were true. An’ here we find ourselves thinkin’ very much on the same lines:
That ‘C’ were kilt up ter Northcountry, an’ brought south ter OUR yard!!!
Bullroarer’s Bunions, it make a mind stew.
Herewith, then, be our approach:
Dep.-Shir. North-Took will set a line of inquiry up ter the Oatbarton Watch, an’ pore over their record fer th’ past month, in search of odd encounters of note, an’ may even proceed to Dwaling.
B2ndC Bolingbroke (thar be me) will repair ter the ovens ter prepare a most alluring pie, an’ take it up ‘th Fields ter capitalize upon her acquaintance with one Mister Sir Halros o’ th’ Green-hood, what keeps an eye here’bouts fer them Tall Folks’ Bounders in th’ Northcountry.
Thar be shady dealin’ of both a professional an’ personal note here’bouts, an’ we nae be ones ter stand fer it.
Fer justice, like pie, be best served with gusto.
LET THE HOBBITIAN INQUISITION COMMENCE!!!!
