Being a letter from Applecider Bolingbroke, dispatched on tawny wings from her lodgings at Chubb Stables & Hostelry, Hobbiton-Bywater, The Shire, to Lancogard North-Took, Hon. Deputy-Shirriff of the Northfarthing.
Salutations an’ all me respects to the Honorable Bounders: May the feathers in their tidy little caps be ever jaunty.
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My Dear Sir,
I hopes this message finds ye in good health, an’ pray you pardon the delay in me response to yer Bilious Brain-Teaser. Yer letter arrived in Elflands at precisely the wrong time, as I meself were in absentia:
Our Mister Halros got word one of ‘is mates over the Brandywine, a Mister Amlan, needed “unknown” faces fer a spot o’ surveillance in Bree. I ‘spect I might’ve been gatherin’ intel on some dodgy network, but Mister Amlan were parsimonious with the details. Stainin’ me hair oak brown (fair hair turns heads, but gingers always stick in memory, the sayin’ goes), I took up in a cheap room in the Stone Quarter twixt the garrison an’ Beggars’ Alley.
Mister H did warn me most work the Dúney Bounders ask o’ their ‘free agents’ be of a dull nature, an’ dull this certainly was. Playin’ a humble laundress, me job were to sit in the fountain square observin’ the daily flow of humanity, notin’ the comin’s an’ goin’s of certain individuals as I washed an’ rung. Havin’ a run of town fer sake o’ deliverin’ linens, I’d leave notes written in milk on back o’ the weekly bill of an affluent gentleman livin’ over Scholars’ Stair. His laundry would have small folded papers the trouser pocket; I dropped ‘em in the alms bowl of an old man under the Ironmonger’s Gate who didn’t look as if he could tie a bow unaided, let alone read.
Mister Amlan says he got what ‘e was lookin’ for outta me drudgeries – whatever it was, I were never the wiser, but thar be the nature o’ things. Still I were glad when the charade were called off after two months. Me small menagerie were livin’ with Mister Amlan’s senior, a Mister Saeradan, what keeps a small house outside town servin’ as headquarters to the Bree Rangers’ network.
Eero an’ Maddie were thrilled to see me. Jonagold were wholly indifferent.
Makin’ it back to Elflands I found yer letter in care o’ Mister Merethir (a local Elf-Gardener what’s been keepin' an eye on me kingsfoil cultivation project with a fair amount o’ curiosity), an' read it as soon as I 'ad the kettle bubbling.
Now then!
About this “Bad Beer” Fiasco o’ yers, Lance.
It bothers me.
An’ not merely fer thought of subpar taste, scourge of any good Hobbit’s palate.
The problem, put mildly, is both too systemic, an’ yet too simple.
A batch o’ bad lager, anyone could write off as incidental. The malt weren’t roasted through, the tun didn’t ferment, the barrel-wood weren’t cured right, maybe Gertrude Grubb just had a poor growin’ season.
But thar be the nub of it. The Fox & Fiddle gets its grain local, as do the Roarin’ Bull; I doubt the grain in any Shire pub travels more than ten miles afore it enters the hopper. Redahild Goodenough’s a top-notch brewer. She knows who she buys from, an' the number o’ farms an’ glebes in Yondershire are finite. T’wouldn’t take much detective work ter track down a culprit source.
The simplicity makes me suspicious. If callous intent to offend the taste buds of Nobottle an’ Long Cleeve be at work, the scheme be sloppy to the point of comical.
I dinnae buy it, Lance. It’s too obvious. Somethin’s brewin’ deeper. ... So to speak.
The puzzler be what benefit could be gained by taintin’ the Fox’s lager in so obvious a manner? Business scheme? Some rival lookin’ ter tempt patrons elsewhere? Botched smugglin’ operation? Dodgy seed supplier (Nobottle en’t taken ter orderin’ farmwares from anyone new lately, ‘ave they)?
... or is somethin’ so gossip-worthy as a plunge in beer quality, mayhap, a front ter distract attentions from Some’ut Else?
Hum, Ho, and furthermore: Hum.
I assume the contemplations in that deductive noggin o’ yers already has most ‘o these musings mused upon by now; you en’t one ter sit idle.
What be the state o’ things since last ye wrote?
Should you require assistance what cannae be had from yer fellow Officers o’ the Bounds, auxiliary help may be closer than yeh know. With Bywater Farmers’ Faire underway, I’ve made tracks to Shire-lands with a (very) long list o’ Proper Hobbitian Sundry upon which to stock up fer the comin’ season. Lodgings at the Ivy Bush be available fer neither love nor ready money durin’ Faire days, so I’m rentin’ a few nights from Bogo Chubb (he keeps an airy loft over the stables with a score o’ simple beds fer the odd traveler. It be comfy enough, though five o’ me fellow hostel denizens snore like distant thunder).
If Thuringlim needs ter find me, thar be a sizeable maple tree just over me window.
Till then I’ll chat up the Faire fer any pertinent gossip; word’s sure to’ve spread. Which gives me pause fer thought, now that I come to it. I feel the germination of a new Idea formin’ ...
With equal parts curiosity and concern – an’ with all me compliments to yer good self, an’ all Bounders what serve – I remain cordially yours,
Cider Bolingbroke
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