Over dinner, Sam reported the information he'd gained in the taproom. "The dead hobbit, Malbo, wasn't from around these parts. He came to Gamwich at the end of last summer, looking for work. You heard how he worked--farms, gardens, 'n' such."
"And made more money at games, according to your new acquaintances," said Frodo. "Did he have any family hereabouts whom we can speak to?"
"Not that I heard tell of."
"What about friends?"
"Those were his friends, the lads you met."
"They didn't have very much good to say about him from what I overheard," Frodo observed.
"No, nor before you came in to hear," Sam agreed. "Aside from the cheating, they say he was the type to borrow money and not pay it back. He'd let you stand a round of ales, but hardly ever stood one in his turn even when he'd just won his game. He was good for a laugh or a bit of fun, but he won't be missed."
"He sounds like a thoroughly bad lot, but could he have 'wanted hanging,' as Mr. Applegrove said? It's rather extreme to see such an old saying put into practice. Malbo Glossum might've been a doubtful character, to be sure, but he must've stirred up some very hard feelings for someone to take so much trouble in getting rid of him." Frodo considered the matter while he finished his soup. "They aren't telling us all they know, Sam," he said at last. "It's because we are who we are--the Famous Detective and his friend, the Chief Sherriff of Bywater. Sometimes, I think we did better at this sort of thing before we were so well known for it. Everybody knows what we're up to when we ask questions these days. They're willing to talk to us, but only up to a point. Then they shut up tight."
"You think they know who did it?" asked Sam.
"They think they do. Pandro Applegrove might, if that talk of his wasn't mere bluster. Mr. Woodbine surely does. Whether or not they're right remains to be seen. We'll have to find out what they're keeping secret, somehow. It might be worthwhile to try them again, Sam, one at a time instead of in a group. They might be inspired to confide. And Merry and Pippin can try when they get here. They aren't known in this part of the Shire, and may have more success in prying among strangers."
Sam was alert at these last remarks. "Are Master Merry and Pippin coming?"
"I thought they'd welcome an adventure after a quiet winter," Frodo answered. "I wrote them at Brandy Hall before we left Bag End. I don't know if Pippin's there--he's been back and forth between Crickhollow and his family at Tuckborough so often lately that I've lost track of him. If Pip's at home, and if Merry isn't too bound by his duties to Buckland to leave it for a week or two, he'll pick up him along the way. Or else, if Merry isn't free, I hope he'll forward my letter and Pippin will come alone." As he tore a piece of bread off the loaf and crumbled it between his fingers into his soup bowl, Frodo made some calculations. "Depending on how fast they ride, it'll take them two or three days to reach us here. They won't write and reply. You know how they are. I suppose they'll just show up. Sam..." He looked up from his bread-crumbling to meet Sam's eyes and ventured cautiously, "you aren't going to be jealous and make a fuss while Merry's here, the way you did at Long Cleeve, are you?" The last thing he wanted was to repeat that emotional fiasco in the middle of an investigation.
"Not if Master Merry behaves himself," Sam promised.
"From the letters he's sent me, he and Pippin seem happy enough with their present arrangement. As long as that's so, Merry has no reason to go astray and come flirting after me. And I won't go chasing after him, so you've no need for concern." A small smile twitched at the corner of Frodo's mouth. "If we are too tempted by each other's proximity and can't restrain ourselves, you'll have to do the restraining, dear Sam. You can tie me to our bed every night to make sure I don't leave it to go sneaking down the hall to Merry's room."
Frodo was joking, but Sam went red and became flustered. They'd discussed this kind of thing before, more seriously, and he was never comfortable with it.
Before they could engage in a conversation on the subject now, the maid came in with their main course. "The sherriff's here to see you," she announced as she set a large platter of mutton and new potatoes down on the table between them. "Dad's told 'm you're at your supper, but he asks to come in as soon as it's convenient."
"I think we can spare a minute," said Frodo. "If he hasn't had his dinner yet, we've plenty to share. Show him in, please... Maisie, was it?"
"That's right, sir. Maisie Bloomer." She bobbed, then went out to fetch the shirriff.
From the description of the Gamwich shirriff from the hobbits in the taproom, Frodo expected him to be a pompous and self-important character; to the contrary, Dondo Punbry seemed overawed and somewhat intimidated once he was in the presence of the famous detective. Where some sherriffs were jealous of Frodo's infringement on their jurisdiction as local peacekeepers, Dondo immediately professed himself ready to hand things over and provide whatever assistance he could.
"I only did the littlest bit o' investigating after that Malbo was found hanging at the Gamgees' yard, Mr. Baggins," he told Frodo deferentially, twisting his red-feathered cap in his hands as he spoke. "I stopped as soon as I heard that Ham was writing to his brother, Chief Gamgee here, and asking you to come. There's no Chief Shirriff in these parts nearer'n Nobottle. It seemed more fitting I leave it to you."
"What did you find?" asked Frodo. Sam invited the sherriff to sit down and join them.
Dondo reported as he helped himself to a thick slice of the mutton. "Malbo was last seen here the night afore he died. He'd been playing at dice, winning they say, and was drinking more'n he should. `Twas a wonder he could stay on his feet long enough to get out the door, they say."
"Who says?" Sam asked him.
"The usual lot." Dondo waved a hand in the direction of the taproom.
"The same lads who're here tonight?"
"More or less. It's the same crowd as comes in nearly every night, regular-like. Gamwich isn't so big a town, and there aren't many places a lad can go for his drop of ale and some fun after a day's work."
"Do you know where he was going?"
"Home, I guess."
"Where was that?"
"Malbo had a room at Mr. Holeman's down the lane."
"Did anyone leave the inn with him that night?" asked Frodo.
"No, he went out alone, Mr. Baggins," answered Dondo. "Pocket full o' coins, wobbling on his feet. If he'd been robbed and left lying in a ditch with his head busted in, it'd be no surprise. But to find him a-hanging! The money was still in his trouser pockets when Ham 'n' me took him down."
Frodo had to agree that this was remarkable.
"And none of the regular lads, or anybody else here, went out just after he did, or just before?" Sam asked.
"Not as I've heard tell," said Dondo, more cautiously than before. "Here-" he looked from Sam to Frodo and back again with concern. "You're not saying it's one of those lads?"
"It's too early to say who it might be, Sherriff Punbry," Frodo explained. "But that's the sort of question we must ask if we're to find out what happened. You do understand?" Dondo nodded. "Good. You won't mind telling us a bit about them, will you?"
"No," Dondo answered reluctantly.
"What about Pandro Applegrove?"
"The Applegroves is a respectable family," said Dondo. "They own the largest orchard in these parts. Mr. Sandro Applegrove, Pandro's dad, runs it. Pandro's the only son."
"Silvanus Woodbine?"
"Now Mr. Silvanus's a newcomer hereabouts. That is, his dad, old Mr. Woodbine, bought a piece of farmland off the Applegroves and came here to live with Mr. Silvanus when he was just a little lad. A widower, old Mr. Woodbine was, and come from up north, so they say. Old Mr. Woodbine passed on last year and Mr. Silvanus runs his little bit of a farm himself now. We've come to think of him as old Gamwicher, same as anybody who was born here. You can't say it was him or Mr. Pandro, Mr. Baggins. They was here half an hour or more after Malbo left that night and went out together--they said so themselves when I asked, and Mr. Bloomer says so too. He saw them to say goodnight."
Frodo accepted this, and went on to the next name. "Tully Digby?"
"Oh, Tully's all right!" Dondo assured him. "He's a friend o' mine. Him and his dad have a little farm to the south of town. They aren't so well off as Mr. Silvanus and the Applegroves, but they do all right. He's kin to the Gamgees," he added for Sam's benefit. "Lots o' folk hereabouts are. Mrs. Gamgee, as is mother to the two Gamgee lads you met tonight, was born a Digby and is Tully's dad's sister."
"And what about those Gamgee lads?" asked Sam.
"You're not suspecting your own kin, Mr. Gamgee!"
"Remember what I told you, Sherriff," Frodo chided him. "We have to ask. It doesn't necessarily mean we suspect anyone yet."
Appeased, Dondo answered, "They got a good-sized farm on the road half-way to Tighfield, and a good-sized family to look after it--mother and dad, grand-dad, uncle and aunt, and cousins with little-uns. They're good lads, if they an't quite settled down yet. You'll find them here most days, earlier'n they should be."
"When did they leave the Mousehole on the night Malbo died?" asked Frodo.
"Near an hour afore Malbo left, but they've got a long walk home."
"And Tully?"
"He didn't come in that night at all, Mr. Baggins."
"Thank you, Sherriff Punbry," said Frodo. "Tell us now: had there been a brawl here that night? Any sort of quarrel?"
"Not that night, no. Oh, there was fights before, on other nights. You know how such lads can be when they've had a drop too much and take their playing too seriously. Whenever it happened, I'd go in and break it up, unless I was there already, off my duty."
"You weren't here?"
Dondo shook his head. "But there wasn't no quarrel. I'd swear to it. Somebody've told me."
This line of inquiry exhausted, Frodo tried another. "You mentioned a Mr. Holeman. Can you tell us where he lives? I'd also like the names of some of the other people Malbo Glossum worked for after he came to Gamwich last year. I understand from the- ah- usual lot that he didn't have a regular job."
The shirriff was glad to give them all the names he could recall. Sam took a small memoranda book and slate pencil from his coat pocket, and diligently wrote them down.
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