Turlo Droppot, master of the scrivener shop in Michel Delving, received the parcel Frodo handed him and carefully unwrapped it to examine the slender, leather-bound volume of poems and nursery stories within. "Yes, we can certainly make as many copies of this as you like, Mr. Baggins." Mr. Droppot spoke in a broad country accent, but he chose his words with particular care when speaking to well-educated gentlehobbits, such as his present customer. He was tall and more thin than most hobbits in their middle years, and nearsighted. There were permanent bluish-gray ink-stains on his fingers, and one or two fresher inkspots on his waistcoat. "It isn't your own work, is it, sir?" he asked as he held the open book close to his face. "This ink looks very old, and the handwriting's not like yours at all. Is it another of old Mr. Bilbo's books?"
"No," Frodo answered. "It was written by my mother, Primula Baggins. She used to read these poems to me when I was a child. I discovered this old book at Brandy Hall when I was visiting my family there last summer." Mr. Droppot bowed to Frodo's Brandybuck relations. "You must take good care of the original while it's in your possession. Will fifty copies be too many?"
Mr. Droppot's eyes went wide. "That's a lot of copies, Mr. Baggins."
"I have a lot of children I'd like to give them to. In addition to the Gamgee children, there are my nieces and nephews: Mrs. Whitfoot's children, the Burrows's younger children--I'm certain the older boys won't be interested in nursery rhymes--Eudo and Eudora Burbage, Fatty and Flora Bolgers' little girls, Pearl and Reg Took's four sons and Ferdi and Peri's daughter, my cousin Celie Brandybuck's children, my cousin Melly Took's little boy, Diamond and Isigo Pumble-Took's new baby, and some of my more distant connections in the Southfarthing."
Mr. Droppot's head bobbed down to show his respect as Frodo spoke each name, for the Shire's finest families were among them. He'd never seen any of these hobbits, except for Angelica Whitfoot and Milo Burrows, but Frodo's continued patronage of his shop made him feel closer to the highest social circles.
"The remainder," Frodo concluded, "I would like to put out to be sold to the Shire at large." The scrivener's shop had shelves at the front particularly for this purpose, along with writing paper, blank notebooks, inkpots, and bundles of writing quills. Frodo had already sold copies of Bilbo's poems translated from the Elvish, as well as one or two short accounts of his cases. "I hope it won't be too arduous a job for your scribes, Mr. Droppot."
"It won't be hard on us at all, Mr. Baggins! I daresay my scribes'll like copying out a bit of children's poetry for a change. They always like working on whatever you bring in. What we mostly do is write out Mayor Whitfoot's proclamations when he's got something for the whole Shire to know about. That's a hundred copies or more! Now that's boring work. Once we put Mrs. Baggins's poems on our shelves, the folk here in Michel Delving will be happy to buy it. Though I hear some say, Mr. Baggins," Mr. Droppot tentatively suggested, "that they wish you'd write more about your investigating. Tales about Elves and things that happened long ago are very interesting, to be sure, but hobbits like reading about the Shire, and they like hearing about mysteries getting solved. You might tell them how you caught a murderer like that awful Mr. Stillwaters, or the Strangler near Hobbiton, or the one we've been hearing so much about lately, the Bog-monster. You'd sell a great many copies of a story like that! Folk all over the Shire are interested."
"I'll consider it," Frodo answered. While Mr. Droppot had deliberately chosen investigations that didn't involve members of the Took or Brandybuck families, he couldn't know that these three cases were just as personally painful for Frodo.
"I think we can do you proud on this job, Mr. Baggins." The scribe returned his attention to the business at hand. "Same size as the original, in a nice calfskin or kid cover? Perhaps you'd like to write a bit about Mrs. Baggins and how she read these to you, to go up in the front? That'd be nice for your readers. And will you be wanting pictures to go with your mother's poems?"
"Why... yes, please," Frodo agreed. "Mother drew her own illustrations. Can they be copied?"
"Certainly! Ink drawings or colored in?"
"The originals are ink, but I think I'd prefer colors. They'll look more cheerful. Is color very expensive?"
"Well, sir, paint always costs more than plain black ink, but a large run of copies with color pictures won't cost much more'n a small one. Mr. Prattley has to mix up the paints in the same pots either way. Mr. Prattley's our best artist. I'll introduce you, and you can talk with him about the pictures to decide what suits best." Carefully holding the book of poems between both hands, Mr. Droppot invited Frodo to accompany him into the scribes' workroom at the back of the shop to make this introduction and discuss other details necessary to begin the work.
Frodo had been in the scribes' workroom before. It could be a busy place when all the scribes were working at once, as they might be for one of the Mayor's proclamations. Today, there were only three people seated at the slanted desks set beneath large windows for the best light. One was a tubby, middle-aged hobbit who smiled as he wrote, and smiled more broadly when he looked up from his work and saw Frodo. Another was an older grey-curled hobbit who leaned close over the table to peer at his work. Frodo remembered these two from his previous visits; they had made copies of Bilbo's poems and his true account of the tragic death of Lady Aredhel. Like their employer, both had spots of ink on their shirt cuffs and stains on their fingers--problems Frodo often encountered himself during long writing sessions. The third scribe was a young lad whom Frodo hadn't seen before. The youth seemed less occupied with the task on the desk before him than the older scribes; he wasn't writing, but sat dabbling his quill in the inkpot on his table while he gazed up out of the window at the bright blue spring sky.
In a nook at the back of the room stood a fourth hobbit, another middle-aged male. The stains on his shirt-front and fingers were more colorful than the writing hobbits', for he was working with a mortar and pestle, grinding some greenish substance into powder. This, Frodo guessed, must be Mr. Prattley. Mr. Droppot introduced the two, then left them to discuss illustrations while he told his scribes about the upcoming work. All three were soon smiling at the announcement.
While Frodo sat with Mr. Prattley, a young woman entered the workroom from the binding room beyond. She was Mr. Droppot's niece Jewel, who had come into his care when she was a little girl. She lived with her uncle in a smial behind the shop and ran errands for him, such as delivering completed orders. Frodo thought that she was about to embark on a delivery, for she carried a willow-bark basket containing a number of flat, square, parcels wrapped in paper and bound in twine. As she went past, her uncle took her by the arm and spoke to her in a low but unmistakably scolding tone.
Mr. Prattley glanced up from the preliminary sketches he was copying from the original book of poems to find that he no longer had Frodo's full attention. "Ah, now, you mustn't mind our family quarrels, Mr. Baggins," the artist murmured. "He means well for the lass, but of course a girl has her own mind about such matters."
"What matters?" Frodo wondered. He'd observed on previous visits that Mr. Droppot was very proud of his niece and somewhat protective of her.
"The lads," Mr. Prattley explained. "The master's picked out one he likes for her, a good lad whose father runs the furrier's shop down the way. But Miss Jewel won't have none of him. Master Droppot thinks there's another lad she meets in the town when she's out and about." Jewel had gone out on her errands through the front of the shop by this time and Mr. Droppot was turning to them to see how they were getting on. Prattley, feeling that he'd already gossiped too much, resumed his sketching and said no more.
Once Frodo had approved several of Mr. Prattley's sketches to be reproduced in ink and watercolor paint, he borrowed one of the writing desks to work on a short preface about Primula Baggins, the whimsical poems she had composed for her son's amusement, and his wish to share them with the children of the Shire. While he was writing, Jewel returned, her now-empty basket carelessly hung on one elbow as she hastened past the row of desks and went straight into the binding room. When Frodo had finished, he accompanied Mr. Droppot into the binding room. He and the master binder, a sturdy hobbit named Hutch, were already well acquainted and Mr. Hutch decided what was needed for this new order as soon as it was described.
"A children's book? You'll want something cut small, for little hands, but sturdy. Kid's no good. Beg your pardon if you said otherwise, Master Droppot, but it's so. Kid is fitting for ladies' poetry-books like your mum's here, Mr. Baggins, but little uns handle a book more rough'n ladies do. And kidskin's white as snow. It'll show dirt. Little uns have dirty hands, even when they're reading. It's a good vellum you want, sir, soft and a sort o' yellowy creamy color. Romy!" Mr. Hutch called to his apprentice, who was standing at the cutting table behind the door. "Bring over some of the calf sides for Mr. Baggins to look at."
Romy, a blushing lad in his early thirties, looked startled and seized several large pieces of calfskin from the deep shelves behind him. With both hands full, he rushed forward to present these samples to Frodo to examine.
"We'll start to work on your books as soon as the paper is cut to size and the scribes in today finish the writing they're doing now," Mr. Droppot informed Frodo after the calfskin had been approved for the book covers. "I've sent for the other scribes and they'll begin tomorrow. Mr. Hutch'll start his binding once the writing's done and the pictures are put in place. We can have the first copies done for you before the week is out. My Jewel will bring them round to you if you're going to be in Michel Delving that long. Are you staying at the Whitfoots?"
"No, I'm at the White Chestnut inn," answered Frodo. Sam had come with him to Michel Delving to bring Elanor and little Frodo on a long-promised visit to the Whitfoots. The twins had been left at the Old Place under Peony's care. "I expect to be there until the end of the week. Miss Jewel can deliver the first copies to me, but I'll come back here to the shop again before I leave the town in any case and take whatever further copies you have finished."
"Very good, Mr. Baggins! Here, what's this?" As they headed toward the binding-room door, Mr. Droppot stopped to pick up a small piece of paper on the floor near his toes. As he stood straight again, he turned the paper over to read the writing on one side. "Oh. It's another one of these!"
"One of what?" Frodo asked of out politeness more than genuine curiosity, but his curiosity was sparked by Mr. Droppot's reply.
"One of these bits of peculiar writing I sometimes find lying about the shop. I don't know who writes them, but it's a waste of ink and paper and if it's a joke, 'tisn't a funny one."
"What do you mean, 'peculiar' writing?" asked Frodo. "Does it look like it might be a code?" He'd dealt with coded messages in another case several months ago.
"No, sir." Mr. Droppot handed Frodo the piece of paper to read it for himself. "You see, it's in the Common Tongue plain enough, only it doesn't make any sense!"
Frodo read:
"Many years luck overcomes vicious eagles.
Forget little yellow worms in the hill.
Many eagles! Many, all rosy red, yawning.
My eagles!"
And below these lines of nonsense, three more words were written in bold block letters:
"Yellow every sunset!"
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The Master Scribe's Mystery by Kathryn Ramage
Story notes: This story takes place in the spring of 1427 (S.R.).
