A Looming Disaster by Kathryn Ramage

Story notes: This story takes place in the autumn of 1426 (S.R.)
"It's not the sort o' thing you're used to, Mr. Baggins," Mrs. Spindlethrift said apologetically. "We've no murderer for you to catch, nor missing folk to find, and I never had a fine jewel in my life to be stolen. But 'tis a puzzle to us. It's making a mess of our weaving, and that's hard on our business. Now, I hear tell you're that clever at puzzles 'n' such, so I thought as this puzzle o' ours might take your fancy-like, Mr. Baggins, and you might be so kind as to come and help us out."

"I'd be happy to," Frodo replied to his visitor. "But tell me first--what seems to be the trouble?"

He hadn't meant to resume his professional work again so soon after the end of his holiday. He and the Gamgees had returned from Buckland just after his birthday and had been home for barely two weeks. He hadn't officially taken a case since the investigation and capture of the Hobbiton Strangler last spring, and he'd looked forward to having a little more time to rest after that devastating experience. But Mrs. Spindlethrift had come all the way from Oatbarton to consult him, and he couldn't turn her away.

Mrs. Spindlethrift in her eighties, with graying curls and a careworn face, but also with sturdy limbs and a determined eye. Frodo immediately recognized her as a woman who'd seen much hard work in her life, but had prospered. He might find a dozen like her every day in Bywater or any good-sized Shire town, most of them widows who were carrying on their late husbands' businesses or had opened shops of their own. She looked incompletely dressed without an apron, but Frodo knew that such a woman wouldn't have dreamed of wearing it while paying a call on a gentlehobbit.

"It's like this, Mr. Baggins," she explained. "You must've heard how the Spindlethrifts're known for their special weaving, not just the linens and tweeds and such as anybody who's got a loom and quick hands 'n' feet can make, but fancy-work."

Frodo nodded; there were many samples of this "fancy-work" at Bag End among his own clothing.

"Did you never wonder how such fancy stuff is woven, Mr. Baggins?" asked Mrs. Spindlethrift.

"I imagine that it requires a great deal of skill and artistry." While he knew little of the craft of weaving, Frodo knew enough to be aware that the type of work Spindlethrifts was famed for--elaborate patterns woven into the very cloth rather than printed on the fabric--was a long, difficult and painstaking process, and yet the Spindlethrift mill turned out so much more of it and of a higher quality than any other weavers in the Shire. They'd achieved their reputation about fifty years ago, when old Mr. Spindlethrift had invented a fabulous machine that could weave complicated patterns at a greater speed than a weaver could make on an ordinary loom. That much was generally known, but Mr. Spindlethrift's remarkable loom was a closely guarded secret.

"That it does, Mr. Baggins, but mostly it's the cards."

"Cards?"

"That's right. They're the cause o' this trouble." Although they were alone in Bag End's second-best parlor, she lowered her voice. "I must trust on your honor as a gent, Mr. Baggins, not to go repeating what I tell you about these cards. You won't understand our trouble elsewise. I brought some along to show you." Mrs. Spindlethrift reached into the canvas bag she carried with her and extracted a large, flat parcel wrapped in plain white cloth; this, she placed on her lap to unwrap and reveal a short stack of stiff, white paper cards about fifteen inches long and three inches wide, starched to keep the paper from crumpling. Each card was bound loosely to the one beneath it. When Mrs. Spindlethrift set the stack on the table at her elbow, Frodo crossed the room and reached out to lift the top one. The rest came up after it in a sort of chain, for they were fastened together by their longer edges with pieces of waxed, white string. He also noticed that each card had rows of irregularly spaced holes punched in it.

"There, you see 'em," said Mrs. Spindlethrift. "That's the secret o' Spindlethrifts' fancy weaving. 'Twas an invention of my husband's father. Now, he was a hobbit with a mind for machines and wheels and such-like, for he started the mill when he was a lad and made us famous. Before we had these cards, if a weaver wanted to make a fancy pattern, she had to stop at every step and adjust the cross-threads on her loom to make sure the spindle passed over 'n' under the right ones and have the proper colors show in the proper places. That was how I learnt my trade as girl. It'd take me days to make a length of paisley cloth! Now, we have these here cards--at least, Spindlethrifts' does and it'd be worth a sack o' gold to any other weavers to learn our secret. But I'll tell you, Mr. Baggins, if you'll swear it'll go no further."

Frodo promised.

"Now then," she began, "you hang a string o' cards like this one here off the end o' the loom, where the cross-threads are, and afore you pass the spindle through, you see that these little hooks go through the holes punched in the card there, as you see, and grab the proper threads. Where there isn't a hole, the hooks don't go through. Once you pass the spindle, you go on to the next card and it does the same, only with different holes in the card so the hooks catch on different threads."

"Yes, I see..." Frodo murmured, fascinated by this explanation. The late Mr. Spindlethrift must have been a remarkably clever hobbit to devise such a process.

"It gets the weaving done so much quicker," concluded Mrs. Spindlethrift, "and there aren't hardly any mistakes as long as you keep your cards in the proper order."

"What happened?" Frodo asked her. "Has someone stolen the cards?"

"No, Mr. Baggins. It wouldn't do 'em no good to have the cards 'less they had the right sort of loom to put 'em on. I daresay some of our workers've carried tales over the years, but nobody's figured out how to make the same sort o' loom as Father Spindlethrift did. But somebody's been messing with our cards and putting in wrong 'uns to make a nonsense o' the cloth that's being wove!"

Mrs. Spindlethrift had brought samples of these in her bag as well, and brought them out now for Frodo's inspection. Elaborate floral patterns were spoiled by threads of bright color shooting across plain backgrounds or through the flowers. Plaids were spoiled by the same sort of problem; dashes of blue appeared in what was meant to be a bar of solid red, or lines of green showed amid the yellow.

"It's slowing us down in our work, Mr. Baggins," Mrs. Spindlethrift said as Frodo examined these samples. "When you have the threads go wrong that way, you have to stop and pull the bad bit before you can go on. That makes us fall behind, so we don't get the cloth done and out to the shops as quick as we ought to. Now, even the best weavers can make a mistake now and again, only this isn't the weavers' fault. It's in the cards, as you might say. Somebody's been putting 'em in wrong, and it's got to be deliberate."

"Are you certain there hasn't been some sort of mistake?" asked Frodo.

Mrs. Spindlethrift shook her head with firm conviction. "Maybe that'd happen once, Mr. Baggins, but you see how many pieces've gone wrong just in the last day's work before I set out to come see you--and we had just as many go wrong every day this week. Somebody's put all these wrong cards in. That takes special work, sewing the cards together one after another. Whoever it is, they're doing it to spoil our business. It's got so our weavers are afraid to go on with their work, for they don't know when another wrong un'll turn up. Won't you please come and look into it, Mr. Baggins? I'm stopping at the inn in Bywater tonight and I'll be riding home first thing tomorrow. I'd take it as the greatest favor if you'd come back to Oatbarton with me."

Frodo agreed that he would.
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