From Applecider Bolingbroke, being sent by Quick Post from the Ivy Bush at Hobbiton-Bywater,
To Lancogard North-took, Hon. Deputy-Shirriff of the Northfarthing, at his lodgings at the Plough & Stars, Brockenborings:
~~~
My dear sir,
I were in receipt of your letter at Waymeet, and as the day were young, having now a direction in which to cross paths with yeh, I took to the road again directly.
Jonagold gave it a good hard push, but bein’ already worn by her trek through the Rushock, she were in want of a rest by the time we come ter Hobbiton. So she be stabled with Bogo Chubb, an’ I be seein’ the late afternoon out at the Ivy Bush (maybe thar be useful gossip here. I’m keeping me ears open).
I be preparin’ meself ter act with decorum as befits an’ assistant investigator, but having not yet inked me name to yer appointment, I’ll say to ye in a personal capacity that yeh be entirely right:
Even just after the nice Elf chap at Duillond sent the falcon, it did occur to me that th’ bardic allegory vis-à-vis lasses standin’ on clifftops were a poor choice of example (the lyrics be of a Rohirric ballad I heard in the Pony once), especially where Miss Sergie be concerned. As it were a private letter, an’ given our mutual concern fer its principle topic, I bear yeh no grudge if ye chose to burn it straightaway.
I dispatch this note by Postman Grubb’s last run fer the day, and I hopes ter be on the road again first thing come morning (I even packed the vittles fer a Second Breakfast on the road, so’s to not linger about the Ivy). If Jonnie keeps up a good pace, I could hope ter be in Brockenborings by the time of After-Supper noshes.
Eagerly anticipating our meeting,
Applecider Bolingbroke
P.S. Level with me square, Lance: We are sure it were HIM...??
The body being’ mangled beyond recognition, with only a token on his hand fer identification straightway gave me pause fer thoughts of another bardic trope that be slightly less common, but can lead ter nasty twists:
The true-hearted warrior, or the greenhand sailor lad, or what-have-you getting’ himself waylaid, injured, captured, robbed, or skiddin’ down a mountain in a storm (no really), an’ having his True Love’s Token lost, or taken from him (there be plenty of examples, be they rings, cloaks, ribbons, necklaces, or pins), only fer his Love to see it on the person of his wrong-doer, an’ assume the worst – Thar be a thing what gets writ about often enough, as to make a bard want more than one datum afore drawin’ conclusions.
Elfs dinnae ascribe a monetary value ter jewelery in the same way as othr Big Folk, but by any Man's estimation, that thar ring would draw eyes if some dishonorable sort were lookin' ter make heaps.
Not that I propose exhuming the poor sod – likely he be wormsmeat by now – but I do trust there be some record o’ what manner o’ clothes he wore, or a broad guess as ter his height, or build, or hair? Them gauntlets under which yeh found the ring, maybe were saved as a record of evidence?
I could see this turning into a whole new circus if he were to turn out ter be elsewise.
But I hear the Postmaster’s horn blowing for last dispatch. More to be discussed later. Hastily, A.B.
