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.