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.