Chapter 2: Day Two

By the following morning, rumour had made the rounds that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins was not only dead, but dead in a very suspicious manner and that Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took themselves were investigating the case. The original tale, fairly modest as far as tales go, had quickly become embellished with all sorts of highly imaginative additions such as a whole set of silver cutlery gone missing or an umbrella fight with a disgruntled neighbour, yes, even with a muttered hint that Sharkey wasn’t as dead as had been hitherto assumed and had come to take his revenge on the old lady. It had, indeed, become a tall tale, notably taller than most folk who lived in that village.

As Merry and Pippin walked towards the house shortly after a combined first and second breakfast, they were accosted by a plethora of hobbits in a variety of manners, ranging from the seemingly concerned to the downright nosy.

“Could I be of any assistance, Mr Took? I have seen suspicious individuals in the village of late -”

“Oh, be quiet, Sandy Boffin, just because you don’t like your in-laws doesn’t mean they’re suspicious! Don’t listen to him, Mr Brandybuck.”

“What are you going to do about it, Mr Took? Will there be an arrest?”

“Has anything been stolen, Mr Brandybuck? I’ve heard as there was this whole set of jewellery, pearl necklaces and all…”

“It was that Camelia Burrows, wasn’t It? I’ve never trusted her.” 

Since the two hobbits thus addressed made very little in the way of a reply, a sizeable group of villagers began to follow them to see if information might not be obtained by simply hanging on. When they reached Lobelia’s garden gate, Pippin turned round to this random entourage and raised his hand.

“There is no need to worry,” he said. “Everything is under control. I suggest you all go back to your homes now and leave the case to me and my friend Hastings…” Pippin hesitated and looked momentarily befuddled. “…to me and my friend, hasting over from the inn as quickly as we could this morning,” he finished lamely.

The crowd appeared to have half a mind to hold its ground, but under the indignant stare of the two most impressive hobbits in the Shire, it reluctantly dispersed.

Inside the smial, the self-appointed sleuth and his sidekick  were greeted by Mr Bracegirdle, a rosy-cheeked middle-aged hobbit who had spent, it has to be assumed, a rather uncomfortable night in one of the guest rooms. He had paid heed to Pippin’s urgent appeal the previous evening not to move or otherwise disturb the body of the “victim,” as Pippin expressed himself, but now he felt obliged to point out that this might not be feasible for much longer, especially if the fine weather continued. Already, keeping the flies away was becoming a bit of a problem.

“You have two days to do whatever you think is necessary,” he said with as much authority as a Bracegirdle could muster towards a Brandybuck and a Took. “We shall have the funeral on the third. It isn’t decent to wait longer.”

“But -”

“He’s right, Pip. Mr Bracegirdle, we are very grateful for your understanding. This must be an unsettling time for you. Of course we will respect the family’s wishes.”

“Thank you, Mr Brandybuck. And now, if you will excuse me, I need to spend some time in the study. There are a lot of matters to arrange.”

“Of course, Mr Bracegirdle.” Merry opened the door for Lobelia’s cousin and closed it behind him.

“I hope you have a plan,” he said to Pippin once they were alone. “You know very well that by now half the Shire expects you to solve this “case” as you call it. I wouldn’t be surprised if the Shirriffs didn’t even turn up again.”

“Hm.”

Pippin paced about the room and peeked into various corners that had escaped his scrutiny the day before.

“We should ask ourselves,” he said and brandished a shiny metal object, “why there is a hatpin stuck in the pincushion. And here, look, why is this porcelain cat lying on top of this pile of letters?”

“A paperweight?” suggested Merry. “Really, Pippin, I don’t see where all this is supposed to lead.”

“We have to think about the clues, Merry. They are the key to the mystery. Once we fit all the clues logically together, we will get our solution. We have to use the little grey cells.”

“You mean the lockholes?” said Merry, aghast.

“No, I mean…well, I’m not sure what I mean. But listen, Merry, the porcelain cat could be the murder weapon. “

“If you really think it was murder then lots of things could be the murder weapon, Pip. A frozen leg of mutton, for example, and then the murderer could have eaten it up afterwards.”

“How could you freeze a leg of mutton? And in September, too? No, no, that makes no sense.”

Pippin knelt down beside Lobelia’s body and inspected her fingernails, then he stood up again and stared up at the ceiling.

“Is there something wrong with your upper lip, Pip?”

“My lippip?”

“Your lip, you dozy muffin. You keep stroking it and making that strange twiddling movement with your fingers.”

Pippin frowned and squinted down on his hand, which had indeed just been engaged as Merry had described.

“Now that you mention it, Merry, yes, I do feel a little odd under the nose. Somehow naked, if you know what I mean.”

“No, Pippin, I confess I do not have the remotest idea what you mean.”

Unperturbed, Pippin picked up the porcelain cat and weighed it in his hand.

“This is what I think,” he said. “Doctor Hornblower said she was hit with a hard object. I don’t think it was this cat, after all, because it’s so round and smooth, and besides, I think it would have shattered. It would have been something with an edge. Think of the beer tankards at the inn. They’re round, but they have edges at the top and bottom. You could hit someone quite fatally with such a tankard, I’m sure. The motive must be blackmail. That would be just like Lobelia. She found out a dark secret about a well respected hobbit. She began to send blackmail letters and in her greed demanded more and more money until the hobbit in question was desperate. He arranged to travel through the village in the company of a friend, who was supposed to provide an alibi, and went to the inn. There he ordered three tankards of beer for his friend so that halfway through the meal, the friend had to seek the privy. While the friend was away, that hobbit took one of the tankards, ran up to Lobelia’s smial, climbed in through the window and hit her over the head with the tankard. It makes perfect sense. It was you, Merry. You slew -”

“But I didn’t, Pippin! It makes no sense at all. You only had one pint and you didn’t go to the privy at all.”

Pippin sighed.

“I know. It was just my conclusion. I suppose I’ll have to begin all over again. I hadn’t taken the hatpin and the fingernails into account anyway.”

“The fingernails?”

“She has two broken fingernails, and a splinter of wood under one.”

“So what astute conclusions do you draw from that?”

Pippin ran his fingers along the hatpin. He leaned his elbow on the windowsill and looked out  into the garden.

“I would say the murderer never entered the smial. He came to the window and lured Lobelia over with a request to see one of her hatpins. Lobelia refused, put her hatpin firmly into her pin cushion and instead came to the window and waved her walking stick at the hobbit. She and the intruder became involved in a fight, during which he wrestled the stick from her and hit her over the brow. Yes, that’s it, Merry. The murderer must have been someone Lobelia knew, otherwise she’d probably not have come to the window at all. It must be someone who is prone to playing silly practical jokes like asking old ladies for their hatpins, and it must be someone who has some experience in fighting. Also, it would have to be a tall hobbit, because the window, as you can see, is fairly high above the ground. So, you see, Merry, it’s all perfectly clear. I did it myself.  I slew -”

“But, Pippin, how could you have done such a thing?”

“I didn’t, Merry. But my logical conclusion -”

“Your conclusion, Pippin, is anything but logical. Lobelia might have attacked the ruffians with her umbrella, but she wouldn’t wrestle with you if you came to speak to her at her parlour window, no matter how silly you might be.”

With a downcast expression that would have melted the icy heart of a Baked Evendim, Pippin returned to his meanwhile customary seat and pulled at his hair. Soon, however, his featured brightened up again.

“I know, Merry! The motive! The motive is really important. Who would have a motive to kill Lobelia?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Pip. It’s not like hobbits to kill people, but I have to admit that if anyone was likely to have a lot of enemies, it would be Lobelia. So in that case I’d say, anyone who knew her had a motive.”

“Exactly, Merry. And the better someone knew her, the stronger the motive. That must be it. Can you imagine spending years and years in the same smial with her, with her constant nagging, her unreasonable demands, the dour face? It would drive anyone to distraction. It’s totally obvious to me now. It was Otho.”

“Otho? But he has been dead for over ten years!”

Pippin sighed again. “I just don’t seem to get the hang of this. Maybe the second murder will give us more clues.”

“What makes you think there will be a second murder?”

“Isn’t there usually?”

“Pippin! There aren’t usually any murders in the Shire!”

At this point they were interrupted by a knock at the front door. It was the senior shirriff who apparently had run out of reports to write and thus felt obliged to return to the scene of the crime. He touched his cap, nodded at Merry and Pippin and shook hands with Mr Bracegirdle, who had just emerged from the study

“My sincerest sympathy, Mr Bracegirdle,” muttered the shirriff. “It is a most distressing case. I am only glad that Mr Brandybuck and Mr Took have been so kind to take over the investigation.”

“Um,” said Merry, “I wouldn’t exactly say that we…”

“Oh, Mr Brandybuck,” said Mr Bracegirdle, “there’s no need to be so modest. Pillars of the community you two are, I always say, and may I add, on behalf of my whole family, that we have every trust in you bringing to light, um, whatever there is to bring to light.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr Bracegirdle,” said Pippin. “And I can assure you that we will. In fact, the investigation is almost complete. We have -”

“However,” interrupted Merry and began to pull Pippin away by the arm, “we are finished for today and will return to the inn for our dinner. Good night, Mr Bracegirdle. Good night, Mr…?”

“Underhill,” replied the shirriff.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” mumbled Merry.

“Pardon?” Shirriff Underhill looked confused.

“Nothing. Good night.”

“We’ll be back first thing in the morning and confirm the final details,” shouted Pippin over his shoulder as Merry hurtled him down the garden path. “Good night!”

Merry shook his head.

“That’s a fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Pip!”