Love Letters: A Frodo Investigates! Mystery by Kathryn Ramage

The next morning after an early breakfast, Sam rode away down the East Road. Frodo was still asleep, but Rosie saw her husband off at the door with a kiss and a packet of hard-boiled eggs, apples, and sandwiches to sustain him on his journey. It was more than thirty miles to Whitfurrows, and he would not reach his destination until well after lunchtime.

Although Rosie was not interested in taking part in investigations herself, she was supportive of Sam's work with Frodo. She was proud that her husband was known around Hobbiton and elsewhere as the famous detective's assistant, and frequently said so. During their courtship, she had listened to Sam's stories of his investigations with Frodo, her eyes shining with admiration. Sam always made Frodo the hero of the tale and praised his extraordinary cleverness in solving the mystery, but Rose insisted that Mr. Frodo would never have managed without Sam's help. She was sure Mr. Frodo would say just the same.

"He does," Sam acknowledged.

It was with this knowledge--that Frodo was depending on his help, and that Rosie admired him for it--that Sam set out on his errand.

He reached the Beeshive Tavern in Whitfurrows in mid-afternoon. Rather than leave his pony to the care of the Inn's stable-hands, he took it around to the stable himself, for that was where the ostler would be.

But the ostler Root was not in the stables, nor anywhere to be found. Going into the Inn and making an inquiry to the innkeeper, Sam learned that Old Palgo Root had quit his place abruptly two weeks ago and gone away; the innkeeper couldn't say to where.

Sam sank down in dismay, and considered what to do next. He couldn't ride all the way back to Hobbiton to ask Frodo for new instructions. He already knew what Frodo would want him to do: Keep looking until he found Mr. Root, or Betula, or some clue to the whereabouts of either. But where should he begin?

After fortifying himself with an early dinner and a couple of half-pints in the Beeshive's taproom, Sam began his search in the other stables around Whitfurrows, then tried the Three Badgers Inn at Budgeford, for it was the nearest. The folk he spoke to at the Badgers were most helpful. According to local gossip, Old Palgo's granddaughter had gotten into some sort of trouble with a lad, and the old hobbit had taken the girl away before there was an open scandal. A few questions established to Sam's satisfaction that the granddaughter was the same Betula Root he'd been sent to find, but no one could say where she and Old Root had gone. The most anyone could tell him was there was an aunt in Whitfurrows, and that other members of the Root family had farms in the Bridgefields, and there were more of them up around Quarry and Scary.

He tried the aunt first and learned that Betula had stayed with her for a few days, before her grandfather had taken her off. She had nothing to say about the gossip except that she didn't listen to such nonsense--and neither should he!--and suggested that Palgo and Betula might have gone to visit one of their family in the north.

Sam's journey the following day took him through the Bridgefields and up to the two northern towns of Quarry and Scary. He spoke to several more Roots, but found no sign of the ostler nor his granddaughter. "They han't been here," was all their relatives had to say.

On the third day, he visited the Buckshead Tavern just across the Brandywine Bridge in Buckland, then the Golden Perch in Stock, before turning to make his way wearily home. He would have to tell Frodo that he'd failed.

At dusk on that day, he arrived in Frogmorton, and decided to stop at the Polwygle Inn before the last leg of his journey to Hobbiton. He took his pony to the stableyard--and there was Palgo Root.

Sam blinked at the elderly hobbit, who stood quietly currying a pony near the open stable door, and he cursed himself for a fool. When he'd passed this way three days ago, he'd been so anxious to reach Whitfurrows that he hadn't stopped in Frogmorton at all. If he had, he would've found the ostler right away, and spared himself all this trouble and fruitless searching!

While Sam was not as keen a pony-fancier as some hobbits, he was fond of them, as he was of most animals, and he had tended enough ponies to strike up a intelligible conversation with an expert. Within a few minutes of entering the stable-yard, he was chatting on friendly terms with the gruff Mr. Root.

"Have you never been to the Michel Delving races?" Sam asked the elder hobbit, beginning the conversation innocuously.

Mr. Root shook his head and gave the pony he had finished brushing to a sullen-faced stable-lad before he turned his attention to Sam's pony. "I been to the races in the Bridgefields of a Highday," he said as he worked. "An't as grand as they holds in Michel Delving, I hear, but they suits me. Only, I heard tell of a pony, fast as the wind, as is owned by Mr. Milo Burrows. I'd like to see that un run."

"Oh, he's a fast un all right!" Sam agreed. "Fleetfoot, his name is, and he's done Mr. Milo proud."

The old hobbit looked keenly interested. "Seen 'm, have ye, lad? Friend of Mr. Milo's, are ye?"

"Well..." Sam hesitated. He'd be giving himself airs if he said he was Milo Burrows' friend. "I work for a cousin of his." Discretion forbade Sam from saying which cousin it was, but this connection was enough to gain Mr. Root's trust.

"I used to see Mr. Milo at the Bridgefields races when he was a lad," Mr. Root told him. "He'd come with his dad, Mr. Rufus. A keen gent for the ponies, Mr. Rufus was, and Mr. Milo's turned out the same. I hear as he doesn't come out Bridgefield-ways these days, save to visit his lady-mum."

"And what brings you so far from Bridgefields?" Sam asked. "You won't remember, Mr. Root, but we met at the Beeshive when I went through from Buckland with my gentleman last year. I was surprised to see you working here. I didn't know you'd left the Beeshive. Didn't the job suit.. ." he prompted, and lowered his voice confidentially, "or was it something else that brought you here?"

Mr. Root gave him a suddenly sharp, wary look. "Job suited fine," he replied, and was silent as he went around to the other side of the pony and briskly brushed down its flank. After a taciturn minute, he glanced up at Sam again and confided, "I had to bring my Bet away."

"Bet?"

"My granddaughter. I'm all she's got to look after her--and she an't made it easy!" He fixed Sam with a scowl over the pony's back. "Now how'd ye come to hear of it, lad?"

"Well..." Lies did not come easily to Sam, but this one was almost the truth. "When I was last in Budgeford, I heard talk of a girl named Betula Root as was in service at a grand house, and left town right quick afterwards. Would that be your Bet?"

"That'd be her," Mr. Root affirmed glumly. "I knew she'd get herself talked about! Fool of a lass gets into trouble with a young fellow- Here, you!" The old hobbit turned swiftly, finding the stable-boy lurking just inside the open doorway behind him. "Mind your own business! Be off!"

The boy slunk away across the stableyard in the direction of the Inn's back door, and went into the kitchens. Mr. Root watched him go, and snorted dismissively.

"And now she taken up with that un! At least, he's asked to marry her. I'd be glad to see Bet with a husband, only the lad's a wastrel. Lazy. He'll come to no good end, you may be sure! Never tends to his work, and he's always at the kitchens, keeping Bet from hers."

"Your Bet's working here?" asked Sam, and tried not to sound too eager at the news.

"She's a-waiting tables in the common room. If you're stopping for dinner, lad, you'll no doubt see her."

Dinner sounded like an excellent idea. Once his pony was brushed, watered, and stabled, Sam went into the common room. It was still early on a summer evening, and he found an empty table easily. After a short wait, a maidservant came to him; Sam ordered an ale and some cold beef, and when the maid brought it to him, he asked her, "Your name wouldn't be Betula, would it?"

"It would--and who're you that asks it?" she retorted.

Sam didn't answer this, but said, "I'm looking for a girl by that name. Did you used to work for a lady named Mrs. Stillwaters?"

"That's right," Betula answered warily. "You're that detectin' fellow, aren't you?"

Sam's face went red. He had expected her to be suspicious of his questions, but not to guess so quickly who he was. "I'm not the detective," he answered modestly, "but I work for 'm."

"And what's he want with me?"

"It's Mrs. Stillwaters. She's missing some property of hers-"

"I don't have 'em!" Betula protested. "I didn't take anything of hers!"

"I didn't say you did," Sam said to quiet her. There were only a few other patrons in the room, but the last thing he wanted was for them to overhear if the girl made a fuss. "Only, you was her maid, weren't you? We thought as maybe you'd seen something that'd help us. Mrs. Stillwaters's offered a nice, big reward to get her property back, and you'd come in for a piece of it if you was to point us the right way to finding it." This was not true, but when Frodo had given him his instructions last night, he'd told Sam to say this to Mr. Root, or Betula, or anyone else who looked promising. If the opportunity arose, Sam was also authorized to pay to get the letters back and he'd been given enough money to do so.

At the mention of a reward, Betula's eyes momentarily lit up, then her mouth dropped open. "I don't have 'em," she repeated, but she no longer sounded defensive, only disappointed.

"But you did, didn't you?" Sam leaned closer to her with his elbows on the table and spoke in a lowered voice. "No lies now, Miss Root. What's happened to 'em? D'you know where they are? Maybe we can get them back?"

He could see the struggle play out in her face; she wanted to say that she hadn't stolen from her former employer, but she'd been offered a large amount of money for the stolen items--which was what she'd probably taken them for in the first place. How could she resist the offer?

At last, she confessed, "I gave 'em to Jorly."

"Who's that?"

"He's the stable-lad as works here. He said he'd know what to do with 'em."

Sam recalled the sullen boy who'd been lurking in the stable, and had been listening to his conversation with Mr. Root before heading into the Inn, and whom Mr. Root had said wanted to marry his grand-daughter. He understood now how Betula had guessed who he was. "Where's this Jorly now?" he asked. "Tell him I want a word with him."

Betula hastened off to find the lad, and Sam drank his ale and ate his dinner. Some minutes later, the girl returned and gestured to summon him. Sam left his table to follow her down a long, narrow hallway that led to the kitchens. Just before they entered the kitchens, they came to another door; Betula opened this and they were outside at the back of the inn, near the stableyard. The boy stood there, waiting under the light of a single iron lantern hanging over the door.

"Here he is," said Betula. Sam wasn't sure if she was presenting Jorly to him, or him to the lad.

"Bet says you're after some things, some letters that belong to a lady," said Jorly. "She says there's a reward if we find 'em."

"That's right," Sam answered.

"So you say," the boy retorted. "Hown't we to know it's not a trick? What if we say we got these letters? Bet's all but admitted she took 'em."

"I didn't-!" she protested.

"Then how'd you come by these letters, Bet? And how'd this detective here know to come looking for you in the first place?"

Stung, but unable to argue with this, the girl shut her mouth tightly.

"It's no trick," Sam said, getting down to business. "The lady only wants her property returned, no questions asked. If you got these letters of hers, it's to your advantage to hand 'em over now."

Jorly laughed. "Well, I don't have 'em! What d'ye think of that, Mr. Detective?"

"But I gave 'em to you!" Betula cried, and turned to Sam. "I wasn't lying--I did!"

"What'd you do with them?" Sam asked Jorly.

"I don't have 'em, I tell you." The boy grinned, as if he were telling a joke. "Not anymore! I sold 'em already. You're not the only one who's a-buying ladies' letters today. I gave 'em to someone who'll make the best use of 'em... your lady'll see."

Sam was fuming. So close, and just when he'd found what Frodo had sent him to get, the prize was yanked from his grasp! He was sorely tempted to punch this obnoxious, jeering creature and wipe the smirk off his silly face... when a more fitting punishment occurred to him.

"Now that's a shame," he said. "How much did he pay you? Was it as much as this?" Sam took out the purse in his coat pocket and opened it to spill a pile of coins into the palm of his hand. Both Jorly's and Betula's eyes went wide at the gold glimmering in the lantern-light. "Not so much? Pity you didn't wait, m'lad--You could've got a lot more for your trouble."

Sam went back into the Inn to pay for his dinner, leaving the pair standing there. When he returned to the stableyard a few minutes later to retrieve his pony and ride home, he had the satisfaction of seeing Betula quarreling furiously with Jorly; the boy wasn't laughing now.
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