Chapter One: Concerning Mushrooms

It’s a well-known fact that a mushroom farmer in possession of a good crop must be in want of assistance come harvest time. Yes indeed, there’s something about a field of creamy white button-caps that just seems to bring out the helpful, neighborly side of folks. The farmer, however, is always quick to express his own thoughtful concern that his neighbors not over-exert themselves on his behalf, and politely declines any and all offers of aid. He then busies himself about the farm with the many little tasks of mushroom season—repairing fences, training watchdogs, sharpening axes—and resigns himself to lying awake nights until the harvest is in.

For when it comes to mushrooms—and it always does, sooner or later—hobbits tend to go a bit daft. Normally reasonable, level-headed folk will get up to all manner of foolishness. And believe me, in my line of work there’s no foolishness I haven’t seen…

The Steptoe sisters, Melba and Mina, didn’t speak to one another for nigh on twenty years on account of Mina wouldn’t disclose her prize mushroom pie recipe. When she passed on, she left instructions that it be buried with her. They caught Melba that very first night, heading out to the graveyard with a shovel.

I’ve seen sober, dignified gentlehobbits all but come to blows over the last helping of mushrooms. Just last Highday, at a Mathom House Preservation Society banquet, it took three hobbits to wrestle Archibald Bolger to the floor and disarm him after he went for his cousin Wilfrid with a fork. Wilfrid got a bruised elbow when his chair tipped over—but he also got the mushrooms.

Then there was pretty Opal Banks, who had to break off her engagement when it came out that the lass couldn’t abide the smell of mushrooms. She swore she would rather be a spinster all her life than cook them for a mate. Last I heard, she was still single…

As I said, a bunch of foolishness. But mushroom stealing, now…that was serious business, just about the worst crime a hobbit could commit. Old Elmo Broadfoot was fond of saying, My wife, aye. My pipeweed, maybe. My mushrooms, never! Always got him a good laugh at The Green Dragon—’cept from his missus—though I’m none too sure he was in jest.

And so when young Master Frodo Baggins of Bag End was accused of stealing mushrooms from Farmer Broadfoot, it was a mighty serious affair indeed—and a curious one. Curiouser still was how I came to be right in the thick of it, and what’s more how I came to sort out the whole mess.

But I’m getting ahead of myself…first things first, and I reckon introductions should come before aught else. The name’s Abelard Archer, Third-class Shire Post Messenger, Westfarthing, Hobbiton Postal District.

Now, that may not seem like much to be proud of, but I leave pride to those Quick-post pony boys, tearing along the Bywater Road like it was the Free Fair racetrack, scattering geese and hens every which way and setting the lasses a-twitter as they dash into town. There’s no denying they put on a good show…even if they do tend to mix up the deliveries in their haste.

Those First-class messengers aren’t much better, all puffed up with their own importance as they trot along on ponies near as fat as themselves. Don’t look to get any news from them…they’re "too busy" to pass the time with the folk on their routes.

The Second-class parcel post waggons seem to spend most of the day hitched in front of inns…so the ponies can rest up from pulling the heavy load, their drivers will earnestly explain. If you want to know where to find the best ale, just ask a Second-class messenger.

Third-class post is the slowest trip a letter can take, and the cheapest…just one copper farthing it costs, and maybe it’ll get where it’s going this week, maybe it won’t. We travel our routes on foot, after all. But lots of folk figure their news will keep, and like to save the extra pence.

Ma is continually bemoaning what she calls my fatal lack of ambition, and carrying on about how no one wants to marry a Third-class messenger, and that if she’s to have any hope at all of living to see any grandchildren before going to join my da, may he rest in peace, I’d best start seeing to it that I get myself promoted.

But the way I look at it, you enjoy life more as a Third-class messenger. When you’re walking, you have time to look around and see how the day is setting up, stop and chat with anyone who happens by, keep up with the all doings of the Shire. Why, folks on my route would be downright insulted if I didn’t stay for a cup and a chat. I usually get to hear the contents of the letters I deliver, and then some. Who’s getting married, who’s not invited to whose birthday party…sometimes I know when a new bairn is expected before its own father does. And, most important of all—I’ve collected my finest recipes on these visits, patiently coaxed from the most secretive cooks.

Among the Shire Post’s best patrons is old Dora Baggins…she being mighty fond of writing to all her relations with advice and recipes and the like. Now Miss Dora, she could well afford to send her letters First-class. But she’s a frugal old bird, and always says why should she spend tuppence when a farthing will get it there just the same?

Dora’s cousin Bilbo comes in for a lot of these missives…she seems to think he’s in particular need of all the advice she can dish out. So I spend quite a lot of time making the trip up the Hill to Bag End, which suits me fine. Mr. Bilbo and I have always got on famously…we have something in common, you see, both being bachelors. Bilbo keeps a generous table, and what’s more is an excellent cook. His seed-cake is as good as I’ve ever tasted, but his mushrooms-on-toast…well, it’s enough to make a grown hobbit weep. Just the thought of it would set my mouth watering as I climbed the Hill, sniffing the air hopefully for a trace of its irresistible aroma.

Reckon I was the first in Hobbiton to hear that Mr. Bilbo was bringing his young nephew—or cousin, I can never recollect which it is—Frodo Baggins to live with him at Bag End. When I delivered the letter from Brandy Hall (Old Rory being another of those thrifty hobbits, for all that he’s Master of Buckland), Bilbo gave it a quick read and exclaimed delightedly, "This calls for a celebration, Abelard! Rory says he’ll not oppose my desire to adopt Frodo…in fact, he fully supports it."

Even as I offered my congratulations over a glass of Old Winyards, I privately wondered what we all were in for. There were just two things I knew about Frodo Baggins. The first was that his parents had drowned in a mysterious boating accident on the Brandywine River when he was just a young lad. Folk in these parts were still speculating darkly as to the cause. The second was concerning mushrooms…

For years, tales of Frodo’s raids on the mushroom fields of Farmer Maggot of the Marish had made the rounds at harvest fairs across the Shire. Some of the stories were hard to credit, like the one about Frodo riding old Maggot’s prize bull Bandobras like a pony, and getting bucked over the pasture wall. But no one doubted the last of these episodes, recounted with great relish by Maggot himself at every opportunity, in which the farmer’s ferocious dogs had chased the young rascal off his land and all the way to the Bucklebury Ferry, finally scaring him off for good. Soon after that, the keeping of watchdogs caught on among mushroom growers in the Shire, as it never had before.

Word travels fast among farmers, especially regarding any threat to their crops. So it was that news of Frodo’s coming reached the ears of local growers long before he ever set foot in Hobbiton. You’d have thought they were expecting an invading army of ravenous goblins, not one scrawny orphan lad, from the way they frantically shored up the barricades around their mushroom fields. But much to everyone’s surprise, Frodo moved in quietly and nothing at all happened…

When naught went awry that first mushroom season Frodo was living at Bag End, everyone said that’s as he’d just arrived and didn’t quite know the lay of the land yet, wasn’t settled in enough to start right in on thieving. When the next harvest came and went and still nothing was found amiss, they said he was just lying low, biding his time till everyone had let down his guard. But by this year, the farmers had finally stopped fretting and seemed willing to accept the possibility that maybe Master Frodo was no more than he appeared to be: a nice, well-spoken, polite young gentlehobbit…a bit reckless and high-spirited, perhaps, and apt to pay too much heed to old Bilbo’s outlandish tales, but no real harm in him. Nonetheless, when Farmer Broadfoot’s mushrooms began vanishing during the night just before harvest time, suspicion fell squarely and immediately upon Frodo Baggins.

Now in my opinion they had Frodo all wrong…that tween was a good sight more than he appeared to be. Oh, not in the way they feared. I didn’t think the lad had a dishonest bone in his body, despite his mischief in Buckland. But for all that he was friendly, bright and engaging, I had the distinct feeling there was a lot going on in that one’s head that he never let on to anyone, not even his uncle. Sometimes while making my rounds I’d come upon him far from home, sitting under a tree or perched on a wall, so wrapped up in the book he was reading or the sketch he was making that he didn’t mark my approach. When he finally did glance up, for just a heartbeat there’d be a shining, faraway look in his eyes…as if he was seeing wonders the rest of us could only guess at. But then, quick as the shuttering of a window against a storm, the look would vanish, to be replaced with his usual pleasant, yet guarded, expression. He was as private a hobbit as I’d ever seen.

But what am I on about…you want to hear about the purloined mushrooms.

One morning toward summer’s end I was sitting in Mr. Bilbo’s kitchen, feeling gloriously certain that, at long last, I had discovered the secret of his mushrooms-on-toast. Eyes closed, I savored the last delectable bite. Beneath the earthy intensity of the mushrooms and the onions’ touch of sweetness I could detect a teasing hint of something else…subtle, yet unmistakable. I leaned back in my chair, flashed a triumphant look at my host, and confidently announced, "Thyme!"

Unruffled, Bilbo continued to butter a morsel of scone. "Right you are, Abelard," he said calmly.

I felt a stab of sudden doubt. He was a bit too calm for someone whose secret recipe has just been found out. Nonetheless I continued to press my case. "So now I have it: mushrooms and onions—about three parts to one, I’d say—cooked in butter with a pinch of salt and pepper. And thyme, no more than a sprig or two." I peered at Bilbo over my teacup and my confidence slipped further at his serene expression. "Well? Have I hit the mark?"

"Near, but not near enough, my dear Abelard," he replied, now openly smug. "There remains one ingredient that you have yet to name."

I set my cup down with a jolt that sloshed half the tea into the saucer. "But—that’s impossible!" I sputtered, trying in vain to recall each distinct part of that seemingly simple mix of flavors. "Chervil," I finally muttered halfheartedly, but we both knew I was defeated once again.

Bilbo only laughed. "Better luck next time, my friend," he said, refilling my cup.

"Oh come, Bilbo, won’t you tell me what it is?" I pleaded, shamelessly abandoning all pride.

"Now, Abie, what would be the fun of that?" teased the old scoundrel with a wicked grin. "No challenge, no thrill of the hunt…"

"No chance you’ll take pity on me, you mean!" I raised my cup in grudging salute, granting him the victory…for this round, at least.

A few minutes more we sat there, sipping our tea in companionable silence, then I pushed back my chair and stood up. "Well, I’d best be on my way…I’ve a good sight more letters to deliver this morning," I said with a sigh. "Miss Dora has been feeling particularly helpful of late."

"Particularly meddlesome, you mean!" chuckled Bilbo, walking to the door with me. There our goodbyes were cut short by a loud, irate voice drifting up the Hill, growing louder by the moment.

"What now," Bilbo groaned. We didn’t have to wait long to find out: two hobbits now appeared over the crest of the Hill: old Elmo Broadfoot of Netherfield Farm, and Shirriff Tom Goodenough puffing up behind him.

"Bother and confustication!" muttered Bilbo, but he called out with forced cheeriness, "Good day Elmo, Tom! What brings you two up here on this fine summer morning?"

"Nothing fine about it to my way of thinking, Mr. Baggins!" growled the farmer. "I’ve come about my mushrooms!"

Bilbo’s smile faltered. "Whatever do you mean?" he asked in an offhand kind of way that fooled no one.

"I mean I’d like to have a word with you about that young cousin of yourn, that Master Frodo."

Shirriff Tom scratched his head. "I always thought Frodo was his nephew," he ventured.

"Nephew, cousin, what matter does it make?" snapped Elmo. "All I want to know is, what’s he done with my mushrooms!"

"Now rein your ponies there, Elmo," I said. "What makes you think Frodo has made off with your mushrooms?"

The farmer’s sharp glance said this is none o’ your affair. He turned back to Mr. Bilbo as if he had asked the question. "Well, it happened like this…last night I took my usual stroll about the field afore going to bed, and all was as it should be. But this morning, whilst making my rounds, I saw right off that a whole patch of the largest, finest mushrooms had gone missing!" He folded his arms and gave us a meaningful look.

We waited. When no more information appeared to be forthcoming, Bilbo prompted impatiently, "And?"

"And what?"

"And what has Frodo to do with any of this?"

The farmer gawked at Bilbo as if he’d just asked what clouds have to do with rain. "Why, Mr. Baggins, I shouldn’t think I’d have to tell you about young Frodo’s reputation as a mushroom thief! The best in Buckland, from what they say!"

Bilbo’s brows now lowered like a thundercloud. "That was all long ago and far away, Elmo," he said stiffly. "Frodo’s not stolen so much as a mustard seed, let alone a mushroom, since he came to Bag End!"

"Now Mr. Bilbo," soothed the shirriff. "No one’s trying to unfairly accuse your ne—Master Frodo of anything too hasty-like. But when Farmer Broadfoot come to me this morning, I had to own as there seemed to be a certain, ah"…he paused, as if searching for a delicate way of putting it…"history that would warrant asking the lad a few questions—by your leave, of course."

Bilbo stood frowning and uncertain, fiddling absently with something in his waistcoat pocket. "Very well then," he said at last. "Let us ask him and be done with it, so that we can clear up this nonsense straight away!"

"That’s much appreciated, Mr. Bilbo," said the shirriff with obvious relief. "Now then…where is Master Frodo?"

"He’s somewhere about the place with Merry Brandybuck, who is visiting us for the summer. I believe I last saw them in the vegetable garden, talking to young Samwise." He raised his voice and called, "Frodo-lad!" I could tell he was anxious, but trying hard not to let on.

"Half a minute, Uncle!" came an eager young voice in reply.

So there we stood, the four of us, as Frodo rounded the bend in the garden path and then stopped as sudden as if he’d found a dragon from one of Bilbo’s tales barring his way. It seemed he’d met such a welcoming party before, and was none too pleased to see this one. Merry, who had come bounding along on Frodo’s heels, bumped into his cousin from behind and now peered around him warily.

The Shirriff stepped forward, plainly uncomfortable but bent on his duty just the same. "Now lad, no need to be alarmed, we just want to ask you a few questions…"

"Perhaps it would be better to do this privately," murmured Bilbo, with a nod toward Merry.

But Farmer Broadfoot could contain himself no longer. "You’ve been pilfering my mushrooms, you young scoundrel!" he burst out.

At these words Frodo started and went pale. His eyes flickered over to Merry, but just as quickly he looked away again and composed himself. I thought this reaction quite interesting…but even more so was his young cousin’s face: a mix of surprise, relief, and something that looked mighty like cunning. I turned to the others to see if they’d noticed, but their attention was fixed on Frodo.

We waited in tense silence for his reply. But Frodo only stared at the ground, his mouth set in a stubborn line.

"Come lad, you needn’t be afraid," urged Bilbo. "I’ve already informed them that their accusations are, of course, completely absurd!"

At this Frodo glanced up at his uncle with a pained expression…but still said nothing.

"All right, Master Frodo, we can’t be waiting all day now," said the shirriff with a touch of impatience. "Did you or did you not visit Farmer Broadfoot’s mushroom fields yestereve?"

Finally Frodo spoke, looking Farmer Broadfoot dead in the eye: "I’m sorry, Shirriff, but I can’t answer that question."

"What?" cried Bilbo. "Frodo, what’s gotten into you? You must answer, this isn’t a riddle game we’re playing here!"

Frodo made no further reply.

"Then you admit it!" roared the farmer.

"I do no such thing!" said Frodo hotly.

"What did I tell you—of course he didn’t do it!" Bilbo declared.

"I…I’ve not said that either," said Frodo, suddenly sounding a lot less sure of himself.

"Hogwash! If you don’t deny it, that’s as good as saying you done it!" growled the farmer. "Ain’t it, Shirriff?"

Shirriff Tom scratched his head. "Well, ah, now Elmo, I’m not so sure about that. Though I do allow as it don’t look good…not good at all. Now Master Frodo," he pleaded, "if you’ll just say as you didn’t do it, we can be off and not trouble you further."

But Frodo had gone silent again, shutting us all out with that familiar closed look. Merry was fidgeting nervously.

Bilbo cleared his throat. "Very well, Frodo. If you’ve nothing more to say then why don’t you take Merry into the smial to wash up for luncheon?"

Frodo caught his cousin by the hand and fled.

Once they were gone, the shirriff turned to Bilbo with a perplexed frown. "What d’you make of this, Mr. Bilbo?"

"I don’t know what to make of it," said Bilbo, by now pretty thoroughly exasperated. "But seeing that we’re getting nowhere, I think this conversation has about run its course." The old hobbit sighed, then added, "I’ll try to get to the bottom of this myself later today…perhaps Frodo will speak more freely when we’re alone."

"What! You expect me to just go on my way with no satisfaction…no assurances…no mushrooms?" cried the outraged farmer.

"Yes," Bilbo said firmly, taking him by the elbow and steering him to the gate. "As to assurances, I daresay that whatever Frodo may or may not have had to do with the disappearance of your mushrooms, it most certainly will not happen again…not that I believe he had anything to do with it at all," he hastened to add.

Still grumbling, the farmer reluctantly started off down the Hill, the shirriff and myself close behind. As we left, I exchanged one last, puzzled glance with the Master of Bag End.

Editor’s note

On Abelard’s behalf I must note that any similarity between the opening lines of his account and Pride and Prejudice is purely coincidental, given the fact that he preceded Jane Austen by several Ages. Although I’m sure he would have greatly enjoyed her work.

Chapter Two: My Investigation Begins

The sharp tang of Longbottom Leaf greeted me as I climbed the Hill the next morning. Mr. Bilbo was sitting on the bench outside his front door, a thick grey cloud wreathing his head. I knew at once more trouble was afoot—Bilbo never smoked so early in the day unless he was thoroughly out of sorts.

"Morning," I offered, careful not to suggest that it was a good one.

Bilbo merely grunted.

This was not a promising beginning, but I pushed on nonetheless. "I gather your talk with Frodo didn’t go well yesterday?"

The old hobbit looked at me sourly. "It didn’t go at all, Abie," he muttered around the stem of his pipe. "No matter how much I coaxed, pleaded, or threatened, that stubborn Baggins said not a word!"

Stubborn Baggins, was he? Thinking of pots and black kettles, I hid a smile and started to offer my sympathy when Bilbo interrupted.

"But that’s not the worst of it! That dratted farmer and tomfool of a shirriff were up here again not an hour ago—and this time they didn’t come to play guessing games."

"You mean…?"

Bilbo nodded, his face grim. "Indeed. More mushrooms missing this morning."

"Any proof that it was Frodo?"

"What more proof do they need?" he asked bitterly, waving a hand toward Frodo’s bedroom window. "With the worst young rascal of Buckland here in Hobbiton, why would they look further?"

Having no ready reply to that, I fished Bilbo’s mail from my pouch and handed it over. He began to sort through it listlessly. Suddenly he froze, clutching a letter addressed in an impeccable, old-fashioned hand that I knew well. Tearing it open he scanned its contents, then threw down his pipe and uttered a word not in common use among gentlehobbits…or any other hobbits, for that matter. It sounded like the strange, harsh tongue of the Dwarves I’d overheard at times as they traveled through the Shire.

"Dora is coming to tea this afternoon!" Bilbo explained when he noticed my startled expression. He jumped up and began pacing. "How does she do it?" he railed. "How does she always manage to pick precisely the worst time for a visit? She couldn’t have heard about the stolen mushrooms so quickly…could she?"

I thought for a moment. "Well, when I returned to the post office yesterday noon-time, Miss Dora had already been in to post this letter. Word travels fast hereabouts…but not that fast!"

Bilbo nodded glumly. "Just as I suspected. She’s uncanny, that’s what she is….and by now, of course, she’ll have heard all about it from the town gossips!" He stooped to retrieve his pipe and turned toward the smial. "If you’ll excuse me, Abelard, I think I shall go back to bed until second breakfast…or quite possibly until after tea." The poor hobbit sounded very low, and all things considered I really couldn’t blame him.

Shouldering my mail pouch, I made my way back through the front garden, passing Hamfast Gamgee mulching the rose beds.

"Morning, Gaffer," I said pleasantly, but received another grunt for my trouble. Not you too, I thought, and tried again. "It’s looking to be a fine day!"

Hamfast straightened and grimly scanned the cloudless sky. "A fair sky at morning oft-times brings warning," he intoned. "Days as start out well may yet change for the worse!"

I had heard too many of the Gaffer’s dire predictions over the years to be put off by this one. "I suppose the same could be said of hobbits," I remarked casually, curious as to how he’d respond.

He didn’t reply at first, but merely shot me a shrewd, knowing glance before turning back to the roses. Finally he said, eyes still on his work, "Don’t be looking for me to say aught agin Master Frodo. Oh, I won’t deny as I had my doubts when first he came here. But Mr. Bilbo is doing his best to raise him up proper, and weed out all the bad habits he came by living amongst those queer riverfolk out eastaways. Now that other one, that young Master Merry…" He left the thought dangling and contented himself with shaking his head disapprovingly.

As he moved off to another bed it was plain the Gaffer had said all he meant to, so without further ado I hoisted my pouch once again and headed for the gate. If I wanted another opinion on the mushroom incident, there were easier nuts to crack than that old hard-head.

I hadn’t far to go to find one, either. Young Samwise had been hovering nearby, raking up grass clippings all the time I was speaking with his dad. Watching him from the tail of my eye, I’d marked how his head shot up at the mention of Frodo’s name, spoiling all his efforts to appear that he was not hanging on our every word. Now he trotted ahead of me to open the gate.

"Thank you, Sam," I smiled down at him. "So what do you make of this business…have we a reckless Buckland thief in our midst?"

The lad blushed and ducked his head, as if not used to being asked his opinion of important matters. But there was nothing bashful about his reply. "Master Frodo would never of taken those mushrooms," he declared stoutly.

"But surely you’ve heard the stories," I prodded. "Besides, if he’s innocent, why wouldn’t he say so at once?"

Sam’s brow crinkled. "I don’t rightly know, Mr. Archer. It’s that strange, but then, he and Master Merry have both been acting a mite queer lately, if you take my meaning."

I looked at him sharply, my curiosity aroused. "I’m not sure that I do, Sam. What do you mean, a mite queer?"

"Well sir," said Sam, fidgeting a little, "I don’t like to go telling tales out of turn, but to hear Master Frodo say a cross word to his cousin, well, it’s just not his way, that’s all."

"What did he say?" I asked eagerly, feeling that we were finally making headway.

"I couldn’t make out, exactly. But just the day afore yesterday, I was weeding behind the hedge when the two of them passed by on the other side. And Master Frodo, he sounded like he was scolding Master Merry, if you can believe it!"

"And Merry?"

"He said naught at all…and that’s not like him, neither!"

I chuckled. "No, it’s not, from what I’ve seen—and heard—of the lad. But tell me, Sam, have you any cause to think their quarrel was over mushrooms?"

Sam quickly shook his head. "No, sir! Leastways, I never heard them say so."

I shrugged and turned to go, remarking, "Well, it’s a strange business, to be sure!" but was stopped once more by Sam’s plaintive voice.

"Can’t you help him, please, Mr. Archer?"

"Me?" I stared at him in surprise. "What can I do, Sam? I’m just a Third-class messenger, after all!"

"But you know most everyone in these parts, sir, and you go everywhere, too. I reckon you can find out who’s taking those mushrooms!"

It was downright unsettling to find the heartfelt confidence Sam had just expressed in Frodo now directed at me. I wasn’t used to being depended on, not that way. Oh, I could be trusted to get the Third-class mail delivered—in my own good time. But this was something else entirely, and I wasn’t at all sure I welcomed such responsibility.

"Sam, I don’t know…" I started to say, but how do you refuse a faunt gazing up at you so imploringly? "All right," I sighed. "I’ll see what I can do."

"Thank you, sir!" he cried happily, earning a suspicious glare from the Gaffer.

"Save your thanks for later, Sam…I haven’t done anything yet! But in the meantime, there’s something you can do."

Sam’s eyes grew large. "Me?" he squeaked.

"Yes, you. Keep a sharp eye out, lad…and an ear, too."

"For what, Mr. Archer?"

"For…well, for anything else that strikes you as a mite queer, I suppose."

My reply sounded feeble to my own ears, but it was good enough for Sam. He drew himself up proudly, clearly thrilled to be asked to do anything at all to help Master Frodo. "You can count on me, sir!"

* * *

I don’t often have call to make two deliveries to a smial in a single day. However, after a pleasant lunch of mutton stew at The Ivy Bush, I returned to the Hobbiton post-office to find it flooded with letters for Bilbo. The news about Frodo was now making the rounds, it seemed, and Bilbo’s relations had lost no time in letting him know what they thought about it. So after helping Postmaster Barnabas Bunce sort through it all, I headed back up the Hill with a bulging pouch, bearing messages of commiseration, advice, and no doubt an I-told-you-so or two.

It was getting on toward tea-time, and I wondered if Dora had arrived. At that moment I heard footsteps pounding on the path above me. Before I could move aside, a small hobbit hurtled into me at full speed. I staggered backwards, and had I not held a considerable advantage of size and weight over my assailant, he’d have bowled me right over.

"Whoa there, lad!" I caught the youngster by the shoulders to steady us both, and surveyed him at arm’s length. "Merry Brandybuck! What’s your hurry?"

"It’s Dora the Dragon-eater!" he gasped, trying to catch his breath. "She’s just come!"

Struggling to keep a straight face, I did my best to sound disapproving. "Is that what Frodo calls his aunt?"

But Merry was not so easily daunted. "No, but I fancy he’d like to…he’s told me the most dreadful tales about her! She makes him recite his family-tree, and raps him on the knuckles if he bungles it, and won’t let him go swimming, says it’s unnatural! And"—his voice now trembled with horror—"she thinks mushrooms are unhealthful!"

What is it about spinsters and mushrooms? I wondered, and said aloud, "I fancy Farmer Broadfoot wishes more hobbits thought the same!" I looked hard at Merry, but he only gazed up at me with wide-eyed innocence and quickly changed the subject.

"Sam warned me that she was coming up the path, so I ducked out the back door. I tried to get Frodo to run away with me, but he said he couldn’t leave Uncle Bilbo to face her alone."

"A noble sentiment," I laughed. "Very well then, I’d best go back him up!" I continued on up the Hill, leaving Merry to scurry off toward the Water.

Miss Dora was the eldest female member of the Baggins clan, its unofficial but undisputed matriarch. She was small and wiry with bright, fierce eyes like a bird of prey, and grey hair pulled back in a tight bun. She always carried a cane but I never saw her lean on it—her back was ramrod straight. Dora and I got on well, seeing how I played such an important part in dispensing her wisdom and advice to her far-flung network of family and friends. I was just as glad, however, that she was not my aunt.

"And where is young Meriadoc?" she was saying when I walked in, peering intently about the room as if she expected to discover the faunt hiding under a table. "Oh, hello, Abelard. Have you delivered all of my letters today?"

"Hello, Miss Dora. Indeed I have…every last missive."

"Very good." She turned back to Bilbo, informing him with a raised eyebrow that her question was not forgotten.

"Meriadoc?" Bilbo repeated evasively, taking the bundle of letters from me and eyeing it with alarm. "Thank you, Abie, and do stay for tea—I, ah, don’t recollect seeing him recently. You know how young lads are, Dora…"

Her stony expression made it clear that she didn’t.

"Er…yes, well, he’s off somewhere I daresay, bird-nesting, or …fishing, or swimming, perhaps…" Dora’s frown only deepened, and with obvious relief Bilbo broke off to exclaim, "Ah, there you are, Frodo-lad!"

Frodo had just entered the parlor, slouching as only a tween can. "Hello, Aunt Dora," he said politely, if without much enthusiasm.

Dora gave him a perfunctory peck on the cheek and a scathing once-over. "Stand up straight, boy!" she ordered, thumping her cane on the floor. "And get that hair out of your eyes! No one would ever guess you’ve a fair face hidden under that mop!"

Such was the force of command in her voice that I found myself squaring my own shoulders and lifting my chin…and I could see Bilbo doing the same.

Poor Frodo did his best to comply with his aunt’s orders, standing to attention and pushing his unruly curls back from his face, but he was not to be let off so easily.

"Have you been studying your family-tree every afternoon as I instructed?" Dora now demanded.

Frodo hung his head, causing his hair to immediately fall into his eyes again. "Well…perhaps not every afternoon," he admitted. He looked to Bilbo in mute appeal.

The old hobbit made a gallant effort to come to his defense. "Now Dora, family-trees have their usefulness, to be sure…but Frodo has other lessons to attend to as well, you know—"

"No, I don’t know," she retorted, "and what’s more I don’t want to! Frivolous foreign nonsense, I daresay!" Her piercing gaze fell upon Frodo once more. "Now then, nephew. Recite the paternal line of Ponto Baggins, going back eight generations!"

Frodo began well, promptly rattling off "Ponto, Posco, Polo, Ponto, Balbo," but at the sixth generation he stumbled.

Dora’s grip tightened on her cane, and I had no doubt that the only thing saving Frodo from a knuckle-rapping was our presence.

Frodo quickly put his hands behind his back, just to be safe. "I’m sorry, Aunt…I can’t remember who comes before Balbo."

"Bosco, Bolo, Bilco!" Dora snapped, thumping her cane again with each name. "I knew we should never have discontinued our weekly lessons at my smial…there are far too many distractions here." She broke off suddenly, and her eyes narrowed.

Here it comes, I thought.

"That reminds me: what’s all this talk going around the village that you’ve been stealing mushrooms? Preposterous! And you’re not helping matters, young hobbit, by keeping silent on the matter! Letting those gossiping fools besmirch the good name of the Bagginses—is that how you honor your father’s memory?"

Frodo flinched.

"That’s enough, Dora!" said Bilbo sharply.

To my surprise she did stop, but just long enough to switch targets again. "There’s only one thing to be done: Bilbo, you must go out to Netherfield Farm at once and get to the bottom of this! I’ll want a full report when you return."

Tea was a rather tense affair that even mushrooms-on-toast could do little to improve. "Sorrel?" I ventured, more from habit than anything else.

Bilbo smiled thinly and shook his head.

"You’re wasting your time, Abelard," declared Dora. "I’ve been after Bilbo for years to divulge that recipe!"

So Dora’s bullying hadn’t succeeded in this, at least. I wasn’t surprised…the close guarding of recipes is a respected Shire tradition, rivaling any family bonds.

As soon as courtesy allowed I made my farewells, grateful that my remaining deliveries gave me a ready excuse to flee.

Bilbo walked me to the door. "What can I do, Abie?" he hissed as soon as we were out of earshot of the parlor. "Dora’s right, as usual, drat her—I should visit the farm and investigate this affair. But I don’t fancy Farmer Broadfoot will welcome any Baggins on his premises just now! Besides, I daren’t leave the youngsters unattended at such a time. If anything else were to happen in my absence…" He fell silent, but his unspoken request hung in the air between us like pipe smoke.

I groaned inwardly. As if it weren’t enough to have young Samwise depending on me, now Bilbo had added his plea as well. What had suddenly made me the target of everyone’s hope and trust?

* * *

I trudged home as dusk fell, sunk deep in thought about the events of the past two days. Frodo and Merry both had behaved like hobbits with something to hide, but what? Were they partners in crime, with Frodo instructing his little cousin in the finer points of mushroom stealing? I tended to agree with Sam…it simply didn’t square with everything I knew about Frodo Baggins, and I prided myself on being a good judge of hobbit nature. Perhaps, then, Merry alone was the culprit? He adored Frodo. Was he trying to follow in his path and prove that he, too, could play the bold, clever mushroom thief, outwitting the local farmers? I just didn’t know the Brandybuck lad well enough to be sure.

Once again, I went over everything I did know. Frodo was fiercely protective of Merry. Was he trying to protect him now through his silence? But this explanation was too simple for my liking…for starters, why would Merry let him do such a thing? Surely the future Master of Buckland was raised to be more honorable than that? At one point I even found myself wondering if Sam knew more than he’d let on. Perhaps Frodo wasn’t the only one being protective….

Rubbing my aching forehead, I pondered how to manage a visit to the farmer. I was busy with my rounds; what’s more, I made precious few deliveries to Netherfield Farm, Elmo and his family all being unlettered hobbits. The occasional message they did receive had to be read aloud by me. Much as I hated to disappoint Bilbo, I began to think I would just have to tell the old hobbit that I couldn’t help him.

But as fate—or Ma—would have it, a way was found for me.

I arrived home, looking forward to sinking into my old armchair by the fire with a cup of Ma’s special-blend tea. It was not to be, however. To my surprise, a Second-class waggon stood by the front door, its hobbled team grazing nearby. I entered the smial and cautiously poked my head in at the parlor door, but found no one.

"Abie, is that you?" Ma called from kitchen. She rushed into the hall, fairly bursting with excitement. "Oh Abie dear, you’ll never guess what’s happened," she bubbled, reaching up on tiptoe to take my hat and coat. "Rudy Diggle took sick today, and someone is needed to drive his cart tomorrow! I told Postmaster Bunce that you’d be delighted to do it."

"Aww Ma," I groaned, "Why’d you go and do that?" My headache suddenly grew worse.

"Don’t you see, Abie?" continued Ma eagerly. "This is your chance to be promoted at last! Once they see how well you do with the Second-class mail…"

"But—what about my Third-class deliveries?" I objected, though it was plain that I’d already lost this battle.

"Don’t worry, dear, that’s all been arranged…Lardo is to fill in for you."

I stared at her in disbelief. "Lardo? That half-wit?" Lardo Bunce was the Hobbiton postmaster’s nephew, who was allowed to "help out" around the post-office as no one else would have him. "Ma, he scarcely knows his letters! Why, he couldn’t find his way home from the outhouse at midday…how will he ever manage my route?"

"Abie, that’s crude!" chided Ma. "Anyway, it can’t be helped now—you’re expected to start first thing in the morning. Here’s your list of deliveries."

I took the sheet reluctantly and gave it a cursory glance before tossing it on the table. Suddenly I stopped, spun around and snatched it up again. Whose name had I seen? I ran my finger down the list. There it was, right between One mated pair of geese, Gruffo Boffin, Overhill and Three sacks winter wheat, Tolman Cotton, South Lane:

One plowshare, Elmo Broadfoot, Netherfield Farm.

Chapter Three: The Terror of Hobbiton

It was slow going all morning with the Second-class deliveries. The geese took turns honking in my ear from their crate wedged just behind the waggon seat. At every inn we came to the ponies turned in unbidden, then stopped and looked back at me expectantly as if to ask, Where are our feedbags? They snorted and tossed their heads and generally acted very put-upon when I shook their reins and urged them forward.

"Sorry, girls, but no ale stops today."

By the time we came to Netherfield Farm, however, the sun was high and hot, and I was ready to concede that perhaps the ponies had the right of it after all. Drawing a damp sleeve across my brow, I thought longingly of a cool, foaming tankard of The Green Dragon’s finest.

As we jostled down the lane I noted with interest the imposing log stockade, crowned by sharpened stakes, that marched alongside us on the right. Snaking across the fields to meet it was a tall, dense hedge over which brambles with wicked thorns ran rampant—deliberately trained, I suspected. It wasn’t hard to guess what precious crop grew within these barriers. Across the road, rows of cabbages were protected by nothing more than a low, sturdy fence, sufficient to discourage an errant goat but no match at all for a determined hobbit.

At length our way was barred by a heavy gate with the words NETHERFIELD FARM carved across the top, surrounded by a border of mushrooms. No sooner had I jumped down and swung it open than two dogs bounded through, barking loud enough to be heard in the next farthing. The first was a small, spotted terrier that dashed in frenzied circles around the waggon, sending the geese into hysterics. Close behind was an enormous black hound, fully half the size of the ponies. He reared up, placed his heavy paws on my shoulders, and looked me dead in the eye.

"There’s a good boy," I said nervously. Though I liked dogs, I had discovered in the course of my rounds that they did not always return the sentiment.

Apparently satisfied with what he saw, the beast dropped to the ground, gave a final gruff bark, and began snuffling the ground around my feet. I understood quite clearly that I was not to move until further notice.

"All right, Nipper! Heel, Bane!" Farmer Broadfoot hurried through the gate brandishing a pitchfork, which he lowered when he saw me. "Why Abelard, what brings you out here with the cart? Where’s Rudy?"

"Took sick yesterday, so I’m filling in for him. If you could just sign here for delivery of this plowshare…"

Elmo marked a large "X" on the sheet and I helped him lift the heavy implement down from the waggon.

"That’s quite an impressive fence," I remarked.

"Indeed," said the farmer proudly. "Had that put up nigh on three years ago, when Master Frodo first came to Hobbiton. I was starting to think it was nowt but a waste of time and trouble…until now."

As if on cue, the gate creaked open again and Shirriff Tom emerged, mopping his face with a large handkerchief. The black dog stalked over at once and circled him, alternately whining and growling.

"Shoo!" the shirriff muttered, then looked at me in surprise. "Abelard!"

"Morning, Shirriff." I turned back to Elmo. "So you had another spot of trouble last night?"

"That I did," said the farmer glumly.

"What happened? Tell me everything you can remember."

"Here, what are you up to Abie?" demanded the shirriff with a scowl. "I already asked him all that."

"No offense, Tom," I soothed. "Two heads are better than one, as my da always said."

"Well, there ain’t much to tell that you haven’t heard before," said Elmo. "I made my evening rounds after supper, as usual, and saw nowt amiss. About seven o’ clock I locked the gate and turned in, but lay awake for a spell, tossing and turning and listening for any queer noises, or commotion from the dogs. Never thought I’d get a wink of sleep, but next thing I knew the morning sun was coming in the window. I rushed out here, and saw that a new patch of mushrooms had been picked clean! So I went to fetch the shirriff straight away."

I thought for a moment. "Is this gate the only way into the mushroom field?"

"Aye, the bramble hedge bounds it on all sides, save along the road here where I put up these stakes. Just to be sure, Tom and I walked the perimeter this morning and saw that no holes were cut through it, or dug underneath."

"Who helps you tend the mushrooms?"

"Only the family at this time of year…my lads Arlo, Tip, and Cubby, and the missus of course. Even the girls help out. I send all my hired hands to work the other crops. Hate to seem like I can’t trust ‘em, but…"

"Say no more, Elmo, we understand. No doubt we’d do the same ourselves, eh Tom?"

Eyes alight at the mere thought of owning mushroom fields, the shirriff heartily agreed. The dog was now sniffing at his breeches, and Tom tried to nudge him away with a foot.

"Bane! Leave the shirriff be!" barked Elmo. "What’s got into you?"

The hound backed off with a frustrated whimper. I gazed after him, wondering, and continued to question the farmer. "Your dogs run free at night?"

"Aye, I turn them loose in the field at sundown."

"And sounded no alarm."

"None a’tall. The thief must’ve bewitched ‘em somehow…you can see what fine watchdogs they are!"

As we talked, Bane sidled up to Tom again and suddenly, bold as you please, thrust his nose into the shirriff’s breeches pocket.

"Here now!" yelped Tom.

I choked back a laugh as the hound pulled out a mushroom, then proudly trotted over and dropped the prize in his master’s hand.

The farmer was outraged. "You, too, Tom?! Ain’t there anyone I can trust?"

"I’m sorry, Elmo!" mumbled the shirriff, red-faced. "I couldn’t help myself, being surrounded by the finest mushrooms in the Westfarthing and all....what’s a hobbit to do?"

"What indeed," sighed Elmo, plainly flattered in spite of himself. "Good lad, Bane!" he added, scratching the dog’s ears. Bane waved his tail vigorously.

This seemed as good a moment as any to make my exit—not that I’d learned much. Only one thing seemed clear: whoever was taking the mushrooms was an accomplished thief indeed.

Tom gladly accepted my offer of a lift back to town. Over lunch at The Green Dragon he chattered nonstop about the irresistible delights of Farmer Broadfoot’s mushroom field, his deep chagrin at being caught red-handed by the dog, and Frodo’s audacity in raiding the farm for a third night running. Finally he noticed that the conversation had been a trifle one-sided. "Why so quiet, Abie?"

"I was just thinking about the curious incident of the dogs in the night-time…"

"But the dogs did nothing in the night-time."

"That, my dear shirriff, is the curious incident."

Tom stared at me. "What are you on about, Abie? That’s easy enough to figure out. Frodo just managed to quieten the dogs, somehow."

"Perhaps," I said dubiously. I’d never known Frodo to have a way with dogs.

"Speaking of my good-for-nothing cousin, are ye?" broke in a surly voice from the next table. We looked up in surprise. It was Otho Sackville-Baggins, and he was drunk.

Some folks get jolly when they drink, others get mean. Otho was one of the second sort, and unfortunately for the rest of us, he got drunk a lot. He had been drinking heavily, in fact, ever since Frodo’s arrival in Hobbiton, and spent much of his time at the Dragon, bad-mouthing Bilbo and his ward at every opportunity.

I made no reply, but that didn’t discourage Otho in the least. "I’ve said all along that little river-rat was trouble, but not one of you would mark my words," he growled, taking another swig of beer and sweeping his gaze around the common-room. "Now he’s shown his true colors at last, hasn’t he? Even those wretched Brandybucks finally tired of his thieving ways and packed him off to Hobbiton!"

I was alarmed to hear some mutters of agreement among the hobbits sitting nearby.

"Well, I say this to Master Brandybuck-Baggins," continued Otho, warming to his subject now that he had a receptive audience. "We don’t take kindly to thieves here, either! He just might find himself sent back where he came from…and Mad Baggins may find he’s chosen the wrong heir!"

* * *

I stopped in at Bag End on my way to Overhill with Gruffo’s geese, which to my great relief had finally quieted down. Mr. Bilbo looked so hopeful when he learned that I’d been out to Netherfield Farm, I scarcely had the heart to tell him that mushrooms had been stolen once again, and what’s more that I had learned nothing to clear Frodo’s name. "Although, if it’s any comfort to you, I could see no way for Frodo or anyone else to get into that field undetected."

"Thank you, Abie," Bilbo murmured, shoulders sagging.

"But there’s something else…"

Bilbo’s face darkened as I told him about Otho’s remarks at The Green Dragon. "My dear cousin Otho has never forgiven me for turning up alive after my adventure, and for refusing to die ever since!" he fumed. "And he loathes Frodo even more, for cheating him out of his birthright, as he puts it. The fool has the absurd ambition to become head of two families, you see…which would give him the ridiculous name of Otho Baggins-Sackville-Baggins! So it doesn’t surprise me that he’s spreading ugly rumors about the lad, and trying to stir up trouble between us!"

With an effort he mastered his temper. "Well, I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this," he said more calmly, "but I see there’s nothing for it. For his own sake, I shall confine Frodo to Bag End until the true thief is found, and these blasted rumors are put to rest!"

My own mood didn’t improve any when I returned to the post-office that evening to drop off the cart, and learned how Lardo had fared on my route.

"Well, Abie, he had a wee bit of trouble, as it happens," said Postmaster Bunce.

"What do you mean?" I said sharply.

"Well now," he said in that slow, deliberate way of his that made me want to shake him, "Seems my nephew mixed up some of the deliveries a bit…Blossom Chubb’s and Farmer Grubb’s, to be exact."

"Blossom?" I had no need to hear more to know what was coming…though only twenty-six, Blossom was a lusty lass with a flock of suitors. She always met me at the gate to intercept her letters before her father got wind of them. "You don’t mean…?"

Barney nodded soberly. "Yep. Farmer Grubb returned the letter…to her da. Seems it said something about meeting young Garth Deepdelver at sunset down by the mill-pond. Someone was there to meet him all right, but it weren’t his sweetheart."

"Don’t tell me any more!" I groaned. I couldn’t bear to hear what other calamities the witless Lardo had visited upon my poor route.

* * *

Bilbo was as good as his word: Frodo was henceforth confined to the smial, and only permitted out in his guardian’s company. As might be expected, the lad was not overly pleased by this development. But he persuaded Bilbo to let Merry sleep in his room at night, to "keep him company," and after that appeared to accept the restriction much more readily. This set me to wondering about Merry all over again.

In any event, Frodo’s confinement did not have the hoped-for result…mushrooms continued to vanish from Netherfield Farm at a steady clip. When I delivered the mail to Bag End a few days later, Bilbo met me at the door, bleary-eyed and disheveled.

"Are you ill, Bilbo?" I asked in alarm.

"No, I’m fine," he mumbled, "just a bit short on sleep. You see, after the latest incident of mushroom snatching, the farmer and shirriff paid their daily call to Bag End and demanded to know how I could be certain that Frodo wasn’t sneaking out of the smial at night. Well, after going round and round but getting nowhere, we all agreed that I would sit up in a chair outside Frodo’s bedchamber, and that Shirriff Tom would keep vigil in the garden below his window.

"The shirriff, of course, swears that he didn’t close his eyes all night." Bilbo snorted. "If that’s so, then it must have been the crickets I heard snoring loud enough to rouse the dead! I did my best to stay awake, but nodded off just before dawn. Yet to the best of my knowledge, all remained quiet within Frodo’s room. This morning, however, the farmer was knocking at the door bright and early…and I don’t imagine I have to tell you what news he brought. I’m at my wits’ end, Abie!" the poor hobbit exclaimed, rubbing his forehead wearily. "A plague on mushrooms and mushroom farmers…and stubborn nephews, too!"

I listened to him with growing concern…such talk was not like Bilbo at all, and would have pleased Otho no end. "Why don’t you walk down the Hill with me, and bring the lads with you," I suggested quickly. "It’s market-day, and it may do you all good to get out for a while!"

"Perhaps you’re right," nodded Bilbo. "Half a minute, and I’ll fetch them."

I accompanied the three down the Hill and into the village. While Bilbo was still on edge, his young cousins were in fine spirits. Frodo in particular seemed glad to be out and about, and more relaxed than I’d seen him in some time…since this whole mess began, in fact.

Now it’s a curious thing, but the more the facts pointed against Frodo being the mushroom thief, the more folks were convinced that it was he. The thieving skills of the Terror of Hobbiton, as he had come to be known, were now almost legendary among the local farmers. As we strolled through the marketplace, I noted how the merchants and farmers in the stalls nudged each other and whispered as we passed. The lad wasn’t helping things, either, stopping at intervals and fixing his gaze on some tempting item or other, until the vendor all but leaped protectively in front of his wares.

Some did more than whisper. "Stay away from my apples, you rascal!" bellowed a farmer. "Let me tell you something, Frodo Baggins," warned another. "Stealing may get you naught but a thrashing and a scolding off in that queer Buckland, but we do things differently here—so mind yourself!"

Frodo looked unconcerned by the stir he was causing, though Bilbo bristled with indignation.

"The Terror of Hobbiton," said Merry enviously. "I wish I were the Terror of something!"

"With time and a little hard work, I’m sure you will be, Master Merry," I said.

"Now Abie, don’t encourage him!" said Bilbo.

A small hobbit lad had come up behind us while we talked, and was carefully examining Frodo’s back.

Frodo turned and regarded him curiously. "Here, what are you up to, little one?"

"Looking for your wings!" the faunt replied. "Gran’dad said you must have flown over Farmer Broadfoot’s fence, and put a spell on his dogs!"

"Come along, Frodo!" said Bilbo, taking him by the arm.

The youngster pursued us for a while, calling hopefully, "They say you can pass through the walls of your smial too, like a will o’ the wisp! Can you, Frodo?"

"Don’t answer that!" snapped Bilbo.

Merry burst out laughing, while Frodo tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin.

"Frodo Baggins, I think you’re enjoying this!" Bilbo scolded.

* * *

That evening found me back at The Green Dragon, nursing an ale and mulling over the events of the past week. Frodo’s and Merry’s suspect behavior, the dogs’ curious silence, Otho’s vicious gossip-mongering…surely the pieces of the puzzle were all there, if I could just fit them together correctly.

At the sound of Frodo’s name, I broke off my reflections to attend more closely to the chatter around me. The locals were regaling a traveler from the Northfarthing with the exploits of the Terror of Hobbiton.

"Why, just last night he struck again, even as old Mr. Bilbo and Shirriff Tom kept watch outside his chamber!" Anson Brownlock stated with authority.

"I don’t see how that’s possible," scoffed the stranger. Northfarthing hobbits are not much given to flights of fancy, and what’s more are deeply suspicious of any news from "down there"—that is, the rest of the Shire.

"Aye, but that’s the mark of a master thief, ain’t it?" Anson replied. "You’re never quite sure just how they bring it off…"

"But," sputtered the Northerner, "that’s nonsense! How could the lad be in two places at once, master thief or no?"

Anson shrugged. "If I knew, reckon I’d be the master thief then, eh?"

"Maybe he had help," put in Gus Noakes. "Maybe," he added darkly, "he had inside help, if you take my meaning!"

I had no idea if the old windbag meant help from Bilbo or from someone at the farm, but decided I’d heard just about enough. Evidently the traveler had too, for shaking his head, he bid the company goodnight and retired to his room.

"Who’s to say he’ll stick to Netherfield Farm, either?" Gus continued undaunted. "Mark my words, none of us is safe…could be my mushroom fields next—or yours, Anson!"

"Maybe he’s there now," I suggested wickedly.

"Where?" cried several voices at once.

I shrugged. "Anywhere…or everywhere, to hear you lot talk."

Silence fell over the room, save for the clink of a mug and the nervous shuffling of feet under the tables. Suddenly, Anson stood up, and made a show of stretching and yawning before remarking carelessly, "Well, I suppose I’ll be heading on home now, seeing as it’s getting late and all. Don’t want the missus to start a-worriting!" It was then all of half past six.

In short order, every farmer in the place cleared out one after the other, first taking pains to appear that they were in no particular rush. The courtyard briefly echoed with shouts of Gee-up!, the creak and jingle of harness, and the crunch of gravel, then all was quiet. I sighed with relief, ignoring the innkeeper’s glare. At least I would be spared any further tales of the Terror of Hobbiton that night.

But the peace proved short-lived. A mocking voice assailed me from the shadows by the hearth: "Very amusing, Abelard! I suppose you think that was quite the clever little trick." Only the glow of a pipe marked the speaker’s presence, but I had no need to see his face.

"Still here, Otho?"

"Aye, I don’t scare as easily as those fools!" he sneered.

"Not to mention that your own crops are all down in the Southfarthing, safely out of reach of the Terror of Hobbiton?"

Otho spat into the fire, which sizzled and flared up, illuminating his face briefly. He was scowling. "That’s got naught to do with it!" he retorted.

"As for tricks," I continued calmly, "I didn’t put any ideas in their heads that weren’t there already. As my da used to say, if folks want to believe something, they’ll believe it…they don’t need reasons."

"Never fear, Archer…they’ll have reasons a-plenty!" Otho said with a nasty laugh. He rose, knocked out his pipe against the hearth-piece, and departed, letting the door bang behind him.

I sat there a while longer, wondering what Otho had meant by his last remark, before draining my mug and leaving in my turn.

Editor's notes:

In another remarkable Age-spanning coincidence, Abelard’s remark about the dogs in the night-time presages Sherlock Holmes’ famous words in "Silver Blaze." Yet I believe that Arthur Conan Doyle can be safely absolved from any suspicion of cribbing, as it is highly unlikely that he would have had access to Abelard’s manuscript, or indeed any knowledge of Westron.

"…giving him the ridiculous name of Otho Baggins-Sackville-Baggins!"
As Tolkien explained in Letter 214, The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien, if Bilbo had died with no heir, Otho Sackville-Baggins would have succeeded him as titular head of the Baggins family. And as Otho’s maternal grandfather had died with no male heirs, the nominal headship of the Sackvilles had come to him through his mother Camellia. "It was his rather absurd ambition," wrote Tolkien, "to achieve the rare distinction of being ‘head’ of two families (he would probably then have called himself Baggins-Sackville-Baggins): a situation which will explain his exasperation with the adventures and disappearances of Bilbo, quite apart from any loss of property involved in the adoption of Frodo."

Chapter Four: The Mystery Is Solved

Matters went from bad to worse in the days following the market excursion. Mushrooms continued to disappear at Netherfield Farm, and a petition demanding Frodo’s immediate departure from Hobbiton was presented to Bilbo by the shirriff. Signed by many of the local farmers, it was supposedly authored by Farmer Broadfoot…a neat trick for an unlettered hobbit. "That’s Otho’s hand, without a doubt," I confirmed when Bilbo showed it to me. My line of work had made me something of an expert on handwriting.

"Just as I thought!" said Bilbo, angrily tearing it up.

By now I was all but convinced that the Sackville-Bagginses were stealing the mushrooms in order to turn public feeling against Frodo, maybe even cause Bilbo to disown him. But I had no idea how to prove it…nor indeed how they were managing it. In fact, I felt no closer to solving the mystery than I had on the day that Sam and Bilbo first had asked for my help. Once again, I was ready to admit defeat. But once again, fate took a hand—in the unlikely guise of the Sackville-Bagginses themselves.

* * *

"This time they’ve gone too far, Abelard!" Miss Dora looked up from the mail I had just delivered, her expression grim.

"Who have?" I inquired, though it wasn’t hard to guess.

"Otho and Lobelia, that’s who!" she snapped, passing me the document. It was an official notice requiring Dora, as Frodo’s closest kin in Hobbiton, to appear at Bag End on the morrow, when Farmer Broadfoot and Shirriff Tom would present "proof positive" of the lad’s guilt. Most surprising—and suspicious—was the news that the Sackville-Bagginses would be accompanying them. The notice was signed by Otho; at least he had used his own name this time.

I stopped at Bag End a short while later with Bilbo’s copy of the notice. "Well, Abelard, we have come to the point at last," he said with weary resignation. "I can’t imagine what ‘proof’ the S.-B.s have trumped up, but I shan’t be sorry to hear it. The situation has become intolerable, and now Frodo will have to explain himself! You’ll come, I hope? Since you were here when this trouble began, it seems only fitting that you should be present at the end as well."

"Of course I’ll come," I promised, wondering uneasily if he would expect me to pull the real thief out of my mail pouch.

* * *

At the appointed hour Dora and I climbed the Hill and entered Bilbo’s front garden. A large black dog was frisking about Sam as he weeded, trying to coax him into a game. Sam, under the disapproving eye of his da, giggled at the dog’s antics. I recognized the hound as Bane, and wondered why the farmer had brought him along.

When he saw me, Sam hurried over and whispered, "I did it, Mr. Archer—I kept watch, just like you said I should, and last night I saw something I think you should know about. I can’t say as I understood it, but I think it might be important!"

There was no time to hear more; Bilbo was already at the door to meet us. "You’d best join us then, Sam," I said.

Overhearing this, the Gaffer frowned. "’Tain’t his business to be in there, for all he’s been fretting over the young master!"

"But Sam may be needed for questioning," I hastened to explain, catching Bilbo’s eye.

"Quite right, Abelard," he said with a brisk nod. "Master Hamfast, by your leave we will borrow your son for a short while."

"Very well, Mr. Bilbo," said the gardener reluctantly. "He ain’t much use this morning anyhow, yawning and half asleep as he’s been though he won’t say why. Mind you behave yourself, Samwise, and wipe your feet on the mat!"

Bilbo now showed us into the parlor, where the others were already gathered: Frodo, Merry, Shirriff Tom, Farmer Broadfoot, Otho and Lobelia, and their scrawny son Lotho. That made eleven of us in all, not counting the Gaffer, who was pruning the lilacs under the open parlor window with special care…such care, in fact, that the task proved to require his presence in that spot for the whole of our meeting.

Merry was fidgety, Frodo strangely calm. Lotho appeared more nervous than either of them, I noted with interest, though with that one it was hard to know if it meant anything in particular…he always had a furtive air about him.

Lobelia strutted over to us, wielding her umbrella like a scepter and making no effort to hide her triumphant glee. "Well Dora, come to see this young scoundrel get his comeuppance, have you? Or perhaps you’re here to help him pack his belongings? It’s clear he’ll never fit into proper Hobbiton society!"

"Don’t be a fool, Lobelia, Frodo’s not going anywhere," Dora shot back. "I’m well aware of your ambitions, but let me assure you that it will be Highday the First of Summerfilth before I see you mistress of Bag End!"

I hid a grin. Score one for Dora the Dragon-eater.

Lobelia and Dora were now standing nose-to-nose on the hearth rug, and for one wild moment I thought they were going to have at it on the spot with umbrella and cane. I, for one, would have been hard put to predict the outcome of such a duel. Lobelia was younger and meaner, but Dora was more agile, and considerably angrier.

Bilbo jumped between them. "Now now, dear ladies…let us all compose ourselves!" They rounded on him with identical glares so fierce that the bold adventurer actually stepped back a pace or two.

"You keep out of this, Bilbo!" growled Dora. "As for Frodo’s shortcomings," she continued, turning back to her adversary with a zealous gleam in her eye, "if it’s anyone’s place to speak of them, that would be Bilbo’s or mine—most certainly not some meddling upstart from Hardbottle!"

Frodo rolled his eyes, plainly wishing his family wasn’t quite so keen on their criticizing rights to him.

"Let’s get on with this," cut in Otho. "Shirriff, I believe you have something to announce?"

"For once we’re in agreement, Otho," said Bilbo. "Sit down everyone, please, so that the shirriff may proceed with his duty!"

Standing in the center of the room, Tom cleared his throat. "Good hobbits," he solemnly declaimed, "you have been summoned here today to hear formal charges of mushroom thievery brought against Master Frodo Baggins, who since the 22^nd of September, 1389, has been living at Bag End under the guardianship of Mr. Bilbo Baggins, his uncle…that is, his cousin…" He trailed off and appealed to Bilbo. "Beg pardon, sir, but I’ll be blessed if I can ever keep straight just what exactly is your relationship to the lad!"

‘Look here, it’s very simple," said a gruff voice. We turned toward the window in surprise: it was the Gaffer. "Master Frodo’s ma, poor Mistress Primula, was Mr. Bilbo's first cousin on his mother's side; and Mr. Drogo, Master Frodo’s da, was his second cousin on his father’s side. So Master Frodo is Mr. Bilbo’s first and second cousin, once removed either way, as the saying is."

Dora and Lobelia looked impressed, and not a little envious. It was one thing for a hobbit to know the lineage of his own extended family for umpteen generations back…in fact, it was expected. But it was quite another for a gardener to have memorized not only his own, but his master’s family-tree as well.

Bilbo beamed. "Right you are, Master Hamfast. Couldn’t have said it better myself!"

Dora gazed pointedly at Frodo, who blushed and slid down in his seat.

"Er…yes, thank you, Gaffer," said the shirriff with some chagrin. "As I was saying, under the guardianship of Mr. Bilbo Baggins, his cousin. I will now submit to you undeniable proof that this young miscreant has been boldly and wantonly stealing mushrooms for the past fortnight. All that remains is to bring him to justice!" he finished with a theatrical flourish.

Merry, who had been growing more and more agitated as the shirriff spoke, suddenly burst into tears. "Please don’t punish Frodo for what I did!"

"Merry, no!" cried Frodo.

But there was no stopping him. "I’m sorry, Uncle Bilbo!" he sobbed. "I promise I’ll pay you back from my pocket money for every mushroom I ate!"

"Pay…me? Whatever for, Merry-lad?" said Bilbo, taken aback.

"For—for the mushrooms I’ve been pinching from your cellar," he quavered.

"What!?" Bilbo leapt to his feet.

"From the cellar?" said Frodo in confusion. "But—you acted so frightfully guilty, Merry, when I found you with those mushrooms. So when the shirriff and Farmer Broadfoot showed up here the very next day, and you never said anything, I thought…"

Merry hung his head. "I was afraid you’d tell Uncle Bilbo, and then I’d be sent home," he sniffed, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Dora tsked, and passed him a handkerchief. "But then…when Farmer Broadfoot thought it was you taking his mushrooms, I hoped—I hoped maybe you’d be sent home."

"But he is home!" said Bilbo with a puzzled frown.

"To Buckland," explained Frodo. "O Merry! After all this time, does it still hurt that much?" He swept up his cousin in a fierce hug.

"Apparently you’re not the only one who thought he’d be sent back to Buckland," remarked Dora, glaring at the Sackville-Bagginses.

Shirriff Tom scratched his head. "I don’t understand."

"I believe I do," I said. They all stared at me. "Master Merry wouldn’t tell his cousin where he had gotten the mushrooms. So when Farmer Broadfoot’s mushrooms went missing, and suspicion naturally—if, perhaps, unjustly—fell on Master Frodo, he spoke not a word of denial because he was trying to cover up for his young cousin, whom he believed to be the culprit. Have I got it about right?"

Frodo nodded reluctantly.

I turned to Merry. "And you, Master Meriadoc…you continued to let Frodo catch you with Bilbo’s mushrooms, rightly guessing that if he thought your ill-gotten treasure was from Netherfield Farm, he would continue taking the blame for you…and perhaps, as a result, be sent away from Hobbiton—back to his Brandybuck kin."

"Very touching," sneered Otho. "But all it proves is that there are two mushroom thieves in this smial! Must be a Brandybuck family trait."

Frodo sprang up, eyes flashing, but Bilbo clamped a hand on his shoulder and dragged him back down again. "The only real thief here is me," he said firmly, "and I’m not referring to mushrooms. But come, Frodo, why didn’t you defend yourself? Once you had Merry confined to your room at night and knew he could not possibly be stealing Farmer Broadfoot’s mushrooms, why in the name of wonder did you remain silent? Surely you must have realized that by doing so you were feeding all the rumors and suspicion!"

Now it was Frodo’s turn to hang his head. "I wanted to find out what I was going to do next," he admitted.

Bilbo looked startled. "What do you mean?"

"Everyone was telling such splendid tales about me—how I was such a clever, daring thief and a master of escape. I hadn’t done anything like that since leaving Buckland, you know, and, well…it was rather exciting to hear all the talk. I hated to own up that it wasn’t me after all," he ended sheepishly.

Bilbo shook his head, a wry smile on his lips. "So you fancied yourself a character in a story, did you? Stick to your books, Frodo my lad, that’s a safer way to go adventuring!" Suddenly he frowned. "But Frodo! What if I had sent you away?"

"I knew you would never do that, Uncle Bilbo!" said Frodo, his voice sweet and trusting.

For a heartbeat Bilbo seemed torn between throttling Frodo and embracing him. Then he melted, throwing his arms about the lad and blinking back sudden tears. "My dear boy!"

"But it was Frodo, I tell you, I’m sure of it!" insisted Otho, unmoved by this tender scene.

Dora’s eyes narrowed. "Just why are you so sure?" she demanded. "Shirriff, you said you had proof. Let us hear it!"

"Er, yes, of course," faltered Tom, gamely trying to shake off his befuddlement. "I hereby call as witness Master Lotho Sackville-Baggins!"

Lotho rose, and stood awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I overheard those two talking last market day," he mumbled, jerking his head toward Frodo and Merry. "I was hiding behind the apple stall, listening to every word they said, though the fools never knew it."

That I believed…Lotho had a reputation as a sneak.

"Frodo was bragging to that Brandybuck about stealing mushrooms from Farmer Broadfoot," he continued, eyes fixed on the floor, "and—and how he had hidden a bunch where no one would ever think to look: in a hole in the garden outside his window!"

Frodo stared in astonishment at his accuser.

"He never did!" shouted Merry.

"What sort of proof is that?" sniffed Dora. "It’s just Lotho’s word"—and it was plain how much stock she put in that—"against theirs."

But I suspected that the tale wasn’t all told…and it seemed Bilbo did too. "The claim is easy enough to prove or disprove," the old hobbit remarked with a shrewd glance at Otho, "if we knew where to search."

"That’s where my dog comes in," said Farmer Broadfoot eagerly. "Bane has the keenest nose for mushrooms this side of the Brandywine! You saw how he sniffed out the one Tom pinched from my field," he said to me. Tom turned bright crimson. "Bought him from old Maggot himself, I did, seeing as Nipper was getting on in years."

So we all trooped outside. Bane was sitting amongst the lilacs, studying the Gaffer’s every move with great interest and not at all deterred by the scowls and mutters directed at him. On seeing us, he came loping over at once. Frodo shrank away from the huge beast—recalling, I imagined, unpleasant encounters with Maggots’ dogs.

"Find the mushrooms, Bane!" ordered his master.

At the word mushrooms the hound’s ears pricked. He bounded forward a few paces, then put his nose to the ground and began sniffing purposefully, advancing on the flower beds below the bedroom windows. Suddenly his whole body stiffened. Giving one short, excited bark, he commenced digging frantically in the loose, dark soil.

"He’ll ruin the roses!" cried the Gaffer in horror, lunging after him.

Bilbo put out a restraining arm. "Wait," he said, intent on the dog.

Now Bane was whining and worrying at something in the dirt. Farmer Broadfoot strode forward and, stooping, lifted a bundle wrapped in sackcloth out of the hole. We eagerly crowded round and watched him unfold the muddy parcel, then gave a collective gasp. There, nestled in the folds of cloth, were some dozen large, plump mushrooms!

My heart sank. Had Frodo been lying all along—playing us for fools? And yet his bewilderment now, as he stood blinking at the cache, surely seemed genuine. Was he really that cunning?

"There’s your proof, Bilbo!" crowed Otho. "Satisfied at last?"

Bilbo paled, but his voice was steady. "Let us go back inside and discuss this in a civilized manner."

In silence we filed back into the parlor, where Farmer Broadfoot set the confiscated mushrooms on a table by the hearth. Once all were seated, Bilbo turned a grim face to his ward. "Very well, Frodo," he said heavily, "what do you know about these mushrooms?"

Frodo hesitated, stealing a glance at Merry. But his cousin only shrugged and shook his head. The tween took a deep breath, then lifted his chin and squarely met Bilbo’s gaze. "I know this looks bad, Uncle, but upon my honor as a Baggins—"

Dora perked up at this and leaned forward in her seat. But to her obvious disappointment, Frodo’s heartfelt speech was abruptly cut short.

"That’s what I saw, Mr. Archer!"

Startled, I looked down at Sam, who had seated himself next to me and was now tugging urgently at my sleeve. "Sorry for speaking out of turn, sir, but I saw someone digging in that very spot last night, then putting summat in the hole and covering it up again. Only…it weren’t Master Frodo as did it."

"Well, who was it then?"

"Master Lotho!"

"He’s a lying brat!" yelled Lotho.

A loud, vicious snap made everyone jump. The Gaffer was glowering at us from the window, pruning shears in hand. Lotho scurried behind his mother.

"I have never known Samwise to be anything but honest," declared Bilbo, turning a cold eye on the Sackville-Bagginses.

"Honest, eh? What honest lad would lurk outside his master’s smial in the dark?" blustered Otho, but I noticed sweat breaking out on his brow.

Sam went red to the roots of his hair. "Begging your pardon sir, I didn’t mean no harm by it!" he said to Bilbo. "But seeing as…well, Mr. Archer did say as how I was to keep a sharp eye out for anything queer and all…"

"Pay no heed to Otho, lad…your vigilance has proven invaluable!" Bilbo reassured him.

"Thanks, Sam," said Frodo, smiling at the youngster. "I can always count on you, can’t I?"

Sam smiled back shyly.

Bristling with indignation, Dora confronted Otho and Lobelia. "So it was you all along! Putting your son up to stealing the mushrooms, and planting them here to discredit Frodo…I never thought even you would stoop so low!"

But while she was speaking and the Sackville-Bagginses were stammering their denials, my attention was drawn back to the mushrooms. I walked over to the table and picked one up to examine it more closely. "Just a moment, Miss Dora!" I exclaimed. "If I’m not mistaken, these mushrooms prove that while the Sackville-Bagginses may be guilty of falsely implicating Frodo, they are innocent of thievery."

Dora frowned. "Whatever do you mean, Abelard?"

"Yes, what?" echoed Lobelia anxiously.

I confess I was enjoying the moment. "Take a good look at this mushroom," I continued, holding it up and turning it slowly before my fascinated audience. "Note its smooth, unblemished appearance…so typical, of course, of wild mushrooms—but not of the cultivated variety!" I moved to the window and handed the mushroom to the Gaffer. "Am I right, Hamfast?"

"Aye," he confirmed. "A farm-grown mushroom would be bruised all over by so much handling, and being buried and all. This beauty’s wild, all right!"

"But…that doesn’t make sense," objected Bilbo. "Why use wild mushrooms? If one were trying to cast suspicion on Frodo, the best way to do it would be with mushrooms bought at market—if possible, Farmer Broadfoot’s own."

"True enough," I agreed. "But you fail to take into account one important fact: the Sackville-Bagginses would never spend good money on mushrooms they wouldn’t be eating themselves…what hobbit would, after all?" I glanced at Otho for confirmation and he grudgingly nodded, relieved to be cleared of the theft.

"Oho, penny-wise and pound-foolish!" chuckled Bilbo. Lobelia stirred angrily, but for once had nothing to say.

"We seem to be going in circles," complained Dora. "If not Merry, or Frodo, or even the Sackville-Bagginses…then who WAS stealing the mushrooms?" She looked at me expectantly, but having just absolved the chief suspects, I was fresh out of ideas.

The shirriff cleared his throat. "I’ve been thinking…" he announced.

I winced. Now we’re in for it.

"…about what Abelard here said to me the other day," Tom continued, "about the dogs in the night and all, and realized that he was on to something. Now at last I know who did it!" He paused dramatically, gazing at each of us in turn, then raised his arm and pointed…straight at Farmer Broadfoot!

A stunned silence filled the room, then it was broken by a sudden, violent wheezing and choking. Whirling toward the window in alarm, I saw the Gaffer doubled over, gasping for breath.

"Someone help him!" cried Dora.

"No ma’am, he’s all right," said Sam quickly. "He’s just laughing, is all."

"Oh!" Dora’s bemused expression was mirrored by the rest of us. The Gaffer being such a dour old chap, I reckon no one could recall seeing him laugh before.

I was hard put to suppress my own rising hilarity at the farmer’s outrage over Shirriff Tom’s remarkable pronouncement. "Oh, why don’t you go out and hunt for stray cows, Tom," he said disgustedly, regarding the shirriff with profound contempt. Even Lotho was snickering now.

But despite the absurdity of the shirriff’s accusation, there was something about it that nagged at me…something about the dogs. Suddenly the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. "Wait!" I cried. "I believe that Shirriff Tom is not so far off the mark as you might suppose."

"Now just a—"

"Hear me out, Elmo. As Tom said, I did remark on the dogs’ curious silence on the nights your mushrooms disappeared. And, I believe that he is quite right in surmising that the thief had to be someone quite well known to them."

"Well known…?" said the bewildered farmer.

"Yes indeed, none better. But there is one test to make before we can be sure. Elmo, call in your dog, please."

Farmer Broadfoot stepped out of the hole and whistled, and in short order returned with the hound at his heels. Bane was panting with excitement at being indoors, his claws skittering on the polished floor.

"Now offer him a mushroom."

"Are you daft, Abie?" Elmo exclaimed, but nonetheless he held out a mushroom to his dog. The beast just gazed up at him, unmoving.

I guessed the problem straight away. "Elmo, would you set the mushroom on the floor and leave the room for a moment?"

The farmer shook his head and muttered, but did as I requested. No sooner had he left the parlor than Bane pounced on the mushroom and devoured it, then sniffed hopefully at those remaining on the table. Without a doubt, this was a highly intelligent animal.

Elmo now rejoined us, and his eyes widened in shock as I described Bane’s behavior. "When did you say you acquired this dog?" I asked the farmer gently.

"Well, let’s see now…I reckon it was a fortnight last Hensday."

"And when did your mushrooms begin to disappear?"

"Why, it was—that is—you don’t mean…?" The farmer’s jaw dropped. "This is the mushroom thief!? A watch dog what likes mushrooms? Then…Maggot knew! He said he would let me have him for a song, as a token of his regard and to promote goodwill between the East and West farthings, or some such claptrap. Why, that double-crossing snake…I’ll kill him, and the dog too!"

Sam threw his arms around the hound protectively. Bane licked his face.

Frodo burst out laughing, then joined Sam on the floor and gingerly patted the dog.

Merry began edging toward the mushrooms.

"Very clever, Abie," remarked Bilbo. "However did you deduce it?"

"Well," I said, thinking back over all that had happened, "once Frodo and Merry were confined to Bag End, their innocence was clear…for despite popular opinion Frodo could not sprout wings or walk through walls! My suspicion then fell on the Sackville-Bagginses, until the mushrooms proved their innocence. I admit I was completely stumped after that…before Tom mentioned the dogs. I had seen first-hand that no one could get past them without setting them off. And as my da always said, if you toss out all that couldn’t happen, whatever’s left, no matter how far-fetched, must have happened."

"Your father was a very wise hobbit," observed Bilbo thoughtfully.

Dora rose, tucking her cane under her arm. "Thank goodness that’s all cleared up!" she said briskly. "Well done, Abelard! Although I must confess I don’t understand all this fuss over moldy, unhealthful mushrooms—no offense, Elmo!" She kissed Frodo and Bilbo, patted Merry on the head—nearly causing him to choke on a mushroom—and nodded to the others. Pausing in the doorway, she issued a parting shot at Lobelia: "Oh, and I wouldn’t go measuring your furniture just yet, Lobelia dear!" and swept out of the smial.

Tom chuckled.

"Stop your sniggering, young fellow," Lobelia snapped. She rapped him sharply on the head with her umbrella, then stormed off down the Hill, husband and son in tow.

Tom rubbed his head and glared at me, as if daring me to say something. Well, I’m always game for a dare…

"Never laugh at live dragons," I offered.

"Your daddy again?" said the shirriff dryly.

"Nay," I grinned, "that’s one of Mr. Bilbo’s."

Editor’s notes:

"Look here, it’s very simple," said a gruff voice…
The Gaffer said much the same thing in "A Long-expected Party," FOTR:
"You see: Mr. Drogo, he married poor Miss Primula Brandybuck. She was our Mr. Bilbo's first cousin on the mother's side (her mother being the youngest of the Old Took's daughters); and Mr. Drogo was his second cousin. So Mr. Frodo is his first and second cousin, once removed either way, as the saying is, if you follow me."

"…it will be Highday the First of Summerfilth before I see you mistress of Bag End!"
As explained in a footnote to Appendix D, LOTR, Highday (Friday) is the only weekday on which no month begins in the Shire Calendar. Summerfilth is a non-existent month, a play on Winterfilth (October). Therefore to say that something will happen on Highday the First of Summerfilth is akin to saying "when pigs fly."

"And as my da always said, if you toss out all that couldn’t happen, whatever’s left, no matter how far-fetched, must have happened."
Regarding the astounding similarity of this remark to that of Sherlock Holmes in The Sign of Four ("How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?"), please see editor’s notes, chapter three.

Mushroom notes:

The meadow mushroom, Agaricus campestris, is a beautiful white edible that is closely related to the cultivated "button mushrooms" (Agaricus bisporus) sold in grocery stores. As its common and Latin names suggest, it comes up in meadows, fields, and grassy areas after rain. It is recognized by its habitat, its pink gills (covered up by a thin white membrane when the mushroom is young), which become chocolate brown as the mushroom matures, its quickly collapsing white ring, and the fact that it does not discolor when bruised.

Agaricus bisporus, like most cultivated foods, is not nearly as flavorful as its wild relatives. Stem: 2-8 cm long; 1-3 cm. thick; sturdy; more or less equal; smooth or with small scales below the ring; white, often bruising brownish; with a ring that sometimes disappears in maturity. Flesh: White and firm; usually bruising and staining brownish.

Source: http://www.mushroomexpert.com/agaricus_campestris.html

Next week: Another mystery is solved.

Chapter Five: Another Mystery Is Solved

In the end I managed to persuade Farmer Broadfoot not to kill the dog, or Maggot either. Had to buy the animal from him to do it, though. I did try to give Bane to the Gamgees, as Sam had taken such a fancy to him, but Hamfast said they could "nary afford a beast with such expensive taste in vittles." And so I found myself the owner of a genuine mushroom hound.

"Bane just doesn’t suit you," I told him as he sat gazing up at me with his head on one side and his tongue lolling out. But he refused to answer to any of the friendlier names I tried out on him, and so Bane he has remained.

In any event he has proven to be a fine companion on my postal route. I have no more problems with other dogs—Bane’s enormous size disguises the fact that he is actually quite peaceable in nature. Ma spoils him rotten, of course…no doubt as payback for all the grandchildren I persist in not providing her.

From that day on, Miss Dora started being just that little bit nicer to her nephew. Perhaps it was because he’d led the S.-B.s to make such fools of themselves, or that he’d tried to protect his cousin Merry. Dora was always a great one for family loyalty. Whatever the reason, she began calling Frodo a credit to the Bagginses. I do believe she’s eased up on the family-tree lessons, too.

For the remainder of his stay at Bag End, Merry continued to look as if he was hatching some new mischief or other. He probably was. I reckon he’s keen to earn his very own "Terror" title.

I have a friend for life in Sam, who happily greets Bane each morning when we stop at Bag End on our rounds. Even the Gaffer pauses from his chores now, leaning on his hoe to talk mushroom lore with me.

Once he got over the indignity of being laughed at by the Gaffer and rapped on the head by Lobelia, Shirriff Tom grew quite proud of his role in solving the mystery, holding forth many a night at The Green Dragon. "…and that’s when Abie said I believe that Tom is not so far off the mark as you might suppose," he’d fondly recall to his rapt audience. "After that everything was cleared up in no time. Isn’t that right, Abie?"

I’d nod, smile, and raise my tankard in salute, while Otho would snort loudly into his beer from his corner by the fire. Tom became something of a hero among the other shirriffs, who began approaching him with new problems to solve. I reckon it’s better not to know what answers he gives them.

No more was heard of the Terror of Hobbiton. If Frodo missed the stories of his daring crimes, he did not let on, and became known once more only as the polite young gentlehobbit of Bag End. And yet…

One morning not long after the mushroom affair, I came upon Frodo unawares, reading. He was sprawled in the shade of an apple tree far from Bag End, back braced against a crumbling stone wall. Intent on his book, his face was aglow with the excitement of the tale.

Frodo looked up as I approached and quickly put the book aside. Watching the fire fade from his eyes, I felt that for once I didn’t want to be shut out of his private world.

"So what’s it about, then, that book of yours?" I asked.

Frodo gave me a sharp sideways glance, as if he wasn’t sure whether I was in jest. I fancy he didn’t often hear this question. "You really want to know?"

"I really do."

"Well…it’s about a hero of Men, Túrin Turambar, who lived in an age of great deeds and sorrows, and about his battle to the death with a golden dragon…"

As he talked, his bright eagerness gradually returned. I found myself thinking, once again, that there was more to this lad than met the eye—a spirit, perhaps, that would not long be content with youthful pranks, farmers’ tales, and storybooks. Frodo has other lessons to attend to, Bilbo had said, and I reckon family-trees don’t stand a chance against the lure of true Adventure. Frodo well may prove Bilbo’s heir in more than name.

* * *

The next time I had elevenses with Bilbo, he tried to press a gold coin upon me as an expression of gratitude for my efforts.

"I couldn’t accept that, Mr. Bilbo…it’s against the Shire Post code!" I protested, pushing it back into his hand. After several attempts he reluctantly subsided, and I believed that to be the end of the matter.

But one evening, Postmaster Bunce called me over when I came in from my rounds. "Well Abie, turnabout is fair play," he drawled.

"What do you mean?" I asked patiently, knowing there was no use in rushing him.

He held up a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. "This one’s addressed to you, for a change. Mr. Bilbo dropped it off not an hour ago."

"Strange," I mused, gazing down at the familiar, spindly characters. "His birthday’s not for a month yet. What could he be giving me?" I set the package aside, much to Barney’s disappointment. It would keep until I got home—I had the morrow's deliveries to sort.

That evening, with Ma hovering behind me, I set the parcel on the kitchen table and removed the wrappings to reveal a small wooden box. My anticipation mounting, I lifted the lid.

"What?" I stared, mystified, at a small, shriveled brown nut, perhaps half the size of a walnut. Was this Bilbo’s idea of a joke? I was so used to his ways, I sometimes forgot that most folks thought him quite eccentric.

"Gracious me!" exclaimed Ma, peering over my shoulder. "Now there’s something I haven’t seen in many a year…not since I was a small lass, at the Free Fair with my folks! Nor thought to again, neither."

"But…what is it, Ma?"

"It’s called a nutmeg, Abie! Brought over mountain and river from faraway lands, a rare and precious spice guarded by the Wereworms of the Last Desert!" I raised my eyebrows at her. "Or so the merchant claimed, anyhow," she amended.

"A spice?" I picked it up and sniffed it warily. It had almost no scent at all…perhaps a faint musty odor, but that might have been from the box. "Doesn’t seem any too special to me," I said, wondering if Bilbo had picked it up somewhere on his travels.

Ma looked smug. "Ah, but you have to know how to treat it, don’t you?" She bustled away, rummaged in a cupboard for a few minutes, and emerged triumphant waving a small metal device I had never noticed before. It looked like a tiny cheese grater with a hinged door at one end. "At that Free Fair those many years ago, the merchant sold my mum a nutmeg, and this here gadget to go with it. Said the one was no earthly use without the other."

Fascinated, I watched Ma grasp the nutmeg and scrape it firmly over the sharp teeth of the grater. After a few moments, she set it down, then carefully unlatched the little door and poured out a fine, pale powder into a bowl. She held it out to me. "Smell."

I brought it to my nose, and this time was stunned by the powerful fragrance. It was rich, aromatic, and unlike anything I had ever smelled before. Anything except…

I fell into a chair and started laughing. Bane tried to stick his muzzle in the bowl but Ma snatched it away just in time. "Oh, no you don’t! This stuff is more precious than gold! What’s so funny, Abie? And what do you think—can you imagine cooking with it? It’s a bit of an odd flavor, as I recollect, but it grows on you."

Oh, I could imagine all right. For the instant I smelled it, I knew: it was the mystery ingredient in Bilbo Baggins’ famous mushrooms-on-toast.

* * *

And now you know the whole story. Ma said that I ought to write it all down while it was fresh in my mind, as it would make a fine tale to read to my grandchildren. I pointed out that she was putting the cart before the pony, and that was a mistake all right, as it just set her to moaning and wailing all over again about how no one wants to marry a Third-class messenger, how I had no ambition, and how any day now she would go to join my da, may he rest in peace, without ever having a grandchild to dandle on her knee...

Anyhow, I’ve done as she suggested in the hope that it will quiet her complaints for a while, or at least give her something else to do in pointing out my writing errors. I’m not too sure who’ll ever read it, unless I start producing those progeny that Ma’s hankering for. And now I’m going to write down what I really want to: the recipe for mushrooms-on-toast.

For this dish, it’s best that the mushrooms not be too fresh…you want to wait until they’ve gone a bit dark and ragged around the edges. The flavor is stronger then, you know. Chop up very fine a good amount of them, stems and caps alike, along with some onion.

Ma is looking over my shoulder—I wish she wouldn’t do that, she just made me blot the page—and says I must put in amounts. Now this is a point we’ve never seen eye-to-eye on…while amounts may be proper and right in baking, I don’t see that they much matter in a dish like this. But Ma is still glaring at me. Very well then…

Chop up very finely one pound of mushrooms, along with half an onion. (Ma just cleared her throat.) All right, half a largish onion, that’s the best I can put it.

Melt a chunk of butter—that is, a tablespoon of butter, maybe two—in a large heavy pan, then throw in all the mushrooms and onions, a pinch of salt and pepper, a sprig of fresh thyme, and a grate or two of nutmeg…take care not to use too much of this last, a little goes a long way. (Ma has just gone to take the kettle off the fire, so I’m writing very quickly before she can tell me I’m being too inexact again.)

Take care that your fire is not too hot—nor too cool—as the mushrooms must now cook steadily for some time. They will begin to give up their juice, and now you must keep them simmering until all the juice has cooked away, giving them a stir every now and then. Toward the end you must take care not to scorch them. As soon as you no longer can see small pools of liquid in the pan, and the mushroom mixture has formed a kind of thick, dark mass, you must take the pan off the fire. Once it’s cooled a bit, it’s ready to enjoy. Oh, mind you don’t forget to throw away the sprig of thyme.

I’ve found that there are many things you can do with this dish besides put it on toast. It makes a wonderful base for mushroom soup or sauce, and a fine grilled sandwich with cheese and sliced tomato. I’m sure you can think of lots of other uses of your own.

Just writing this out has made me so hungry for mushrooms-on-toast that I’m going to have to stop now and make some straightaway. I see that Ma has left the nutmeg and grater lying suggestively on the kitchen table. Bane is sitting next to me, thumping the floor with his tail and looking up hopefully. I do believe that dog can read my mind.

Finished this twenty-ninth day of Winterfilth, 1392
by Abelard Archer
Third-class Shire Post Messenger
Hobbiton-by-the-Water

Editor’s notes:

Mushrooms-on-toast—Those familiar with French cooking will recognize this dish for what it is: duxelles. But may the ghost of John Ronald Reuhl perch on my headboard and rail all night against the Norman Conquest if I ever use a French word—let alone a French food term!—within the borders of Middle-earth. Besides, I’ll bet the Brits make it too, but won’t call it that.

In addition to button mushrooms, brown-capped crimini mushrooms (not a different species, just a variety of agaricus bisporus) are excellent for duxelles, as their flavor is more pronounced than the white variety.

If you have no fresh thyme, I don’t advise substituting dried…it has quite a different effect. Better just to leave it out. On the other hand, ground nutmeg is perfectly acceptable if you don’t have a whole nutmeg and grater. Just be careful to use a very small pinch…as Abie said, a little goes a long way!

One last note of caution: duxelles should never be fed to dogs, as onions can make them very ill. I’m sure Abie knew this, and only let Bane eat plain mushrooms.

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All thanks and praise to Permilea, beta extraordinaire, for making this a better story and pushing me to be a better writer. You can find her own wonderful stories here: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/462656/

To Miss Austen, Sir Arthur, and the Professor: thanks and sorry.

© 2007 K. Barreto, aka Inkling. Plot and original characters are the property of the author. All else the property of the Tolkien Estate.