The Golden Perch Inn

[Tiffany Aching]

‘My goodness!’ Miribelle’s face was a study in dismay and distaste as she edged herself around the commotion and over to her friend’s table. ‘What’s going on this morning, Master Tavaro?’ she inquired, taking the seat he offered. ‘I did hear something as I entered about Cook gone missing.’ She leaned over and scooted her carpetbag well beneath the chair. ‘Here I’ve only been gone the night and had hoped for a bite of second breakfast and a hot mug of tea . . . and oh my, what do I find!’ The inn in a commotion, the Shiriff asking questions, and that scoundrel Mungo laid low by dear old Penstemon Greenhill!!’

She sniffed a little as she watched him being escorted toward the Shiriff. ‘A pity, that Mungo! Shame of the Brandybucks. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been outlawed from these parts.’ She turned back toward the Elf. ‘What’s he done now?’ She frowned as a sudden thought assailed her. ‘Oh, no! Don’t tell me he’s the one who’s got something to do with Miz Cela’s disappearance!?’

As Miribelle waited for the Elf’s answer her eyes darted about the room looking for one of the servers. There were none in sight. ‘Ah well, looks like there’s no hope of that tea and breakfast now,’ she thought to herself seeing the table piled with near empty skillets and teapots scattered here and there in disarray.

[Noinkling]

Mungo stopped abruptly and yanked his left arm from his guard’s grip. ‘You got me well enough looked after, dontcha, you two?’ He snaked his right arm from the other guard’s grip and bent over a bit to rub at the backs of his legs. ‘Stupid old sow!’ he growled turning to glower at Granny Greenhill. He stood up hunching his shoulders this way and that to ease the sting of the whack she’d given him after he’d fallen.

‘Shoulda followed the first of my druthers and passed the Perch on by. Always too many busybodies here. Shoulda kept on hoofin’ it downriver; that’s what I shoulda done.’ He looked from one to the other of his guards, but neither of them appeared to be paying much attention to his ‘shouldas’.

Mungo’s cap, askew from his recent fall, slipped off his head and thumped to the floor. He picked it up and slapped it soundly against his leg, as if to knock off what dirt it might have gotten from the dusty boards. It was a vain attempt since there were layers of grime already embedded in the cap and what dirt there was dislodged was really the dust that flew up from his breeches. He smoothed back his greasy curls and shoved the cap firmly back on his head.

He glanced slyly from one to the other of his escorts, sizing up whether he might be able to escape. No chance! Both pairs of eyes were fixed firmly on him. With a resigned sigh he smoothed down his raggedy tunic and limped on toward the Shiriff and that loudmouthed Ranger.

‘Din’t do nothin’!’ he said, coming to a halt in front of Rusty Smallburrow. Mungo hitched his thumbs in the waistband of his breeches and puffed out his chest like a feisty little banty rooster.

‘Didn’t say you did, Mungo,’ the Shiriff replied. ‘Though I’m sure if I looked close enough there’d be something you’d not want the light of day shone on.’

Mungo narrowed his eyes and dropped his gaze to the floor. ‘Whatcha want, then?’ he mumbled.

‘Miz Cela Brandybuck’s gone missing, disappeared,’ Rusty continued. He shook his head as Mungo started to protest his innocence. ‘Now I’m not saying you had anything to do with it. But . . . . I’m supposing you were out last night, like most nights. On business, of course.’ Rusty cleared his throat meaningfully and went on. ‘What we want to know is if you heard anything or saw anything as you were out and about. Anything that could help us find Miz Cela.’

Mungo scraped his foot on the floor and pursed his lips. ‘Mighta,’ he answered. ‘Now I’m not saying I was doing anything but passing by, but I did find myself coming up the west bank of the river last night . . . .’

Before he could continue, the Shiriff asked, ‘The river? You mean the Brandywine, yes? You were coming north up the Brandywine?’

‘Yeah, sure, the big river it was. And north. Anyways, like I was saying I was stepping along at a fair pace when I heard some voices drift over the water. I stopped, and peeked careful like out through the bushes. Was a little cloudy, you know; moon’s light was weak through ‘em. There was a boat with three fellows in it. Leastways it looked like three fellows; they all had cloaks on and the hoods pulled up. Their faces were all in the dark. One was rowing; the other two were talking, arguing some. Couldn’t hear what exactly.’ He paused for a moment, nodding his head at the memory. ‘Coulda been a female voice I heard from one of them. Hard to tell. Didn’t that Cela have kind of a low voice? Anyway, the boat and whoever was in it passed by pretty quickly – what with the current and the hard pulling of the fellow doing the rowing.’

Mungo shrugged his shoulders at the end of his story. ‘Yep, that’s about all there was to it. Like I said, they was moving like a hot knife through butter now wasn’t they?’ No need to elaborate further he cautioned himself. They only want to know about Miz Cela. No need for them to know what he’d been about at the time.

[Envinyatar]

Mungo seemed to have finished with his brief tale of what he’d seen last night. Too brief for the Ranger’s liking.....there were some details that needed to be ferreted out, he thought.

‘Now you said you were coming up the west bank of the river last night,’ Hithadan began, stepping forward toward the Hobbit. ‘Where were you exactly when you saw this boat and its passengers?’ He fixed Mungo with an expectant look, his brow raised in emphasis. A knowing little smile flitted briefly at the corners of his lips. ‘It would be most helpful, you can see can’t you? For us to know how far this party is ahead of us.’

Hithadan sat down in a chair quite near the Hobbit, his grey eyes steady on Mungo’s face.

[Noinkling]

The Hobbit pulled the cap from his head and ran a grubby hand through his hair. Followed close on by him twisting the poor old cap in his hands in a rather nervous manner.

‘Come on, now, Hitch!’ Shiriff Rusty urged. He tapped his foot expectantly on the hardwood floor. ‘You wouldn’t want us to have to be looking to hard at where you might have been and what happenings were going on ‘bout then, would you? Wouldn’t go well, if you were thought to be guilty of holding back our investigation and then found to have had a hand in something on the shady side, too.’

Mungo felt as if he were trapped twixt two snakes. Poisonous snakes. Their eyes fixing him with a hungry look. And it was no help that the ranger had tweaked a smile. He squirmed, feeling much like a coney about to be pounced on.

‘Well, right, then,’ he managed to mumble. He sucked in the corner of his lower lip considering the events of the past night. ‘You see, I was down near Hays End, now, wasn’t I . . . . and that’s when I seen what I did. The boat and those three. It was ‘round midnight, I reckon. And it was a brief look I had at them. I was high-tailing it . . . . er, that is, hurrying, you know, cuz it was going to be a long trip on foot back to Stock. Had some business here that needed to be got to.’

Mungo stopped abruptly, realizing he was heading toward them knowing some unnecessary details. What ‘business’ he’d had hoped to finish at the Inn had most likely been scared off by all this morning’s hubbub anyway.

‘So, there you have it. Don’t know much more than that.’ He settled his cap back on his head and gave a quick look about the room. Nope . . . . no hope of seeing who he needed to be seeing here.

[Rose]

Granny watched the exchange between the ranger, the shiriff, and that bad piece of work, Mungo Brandybuck. ‘Hitch, hmmmmph!’ she murmured into her mug as she raised it to her lips. ‘Oughta be “hitched” – to a wagon and drove outta these here parts.’ She took a swallow of ale and sat the mug down. ‘Though,’ she thought, shaking her head what she’d said. ‘Wouldn’t seem charitable to wish him on anybody, anywhere.’

Penstemon stood up from her chair and drew herself up as straight as her old spine and the aid of her walking stick would allow. ‘Say,’ she said aloud, emphasizing her words with a thump on the floor with her stick. ‘May be we ought to get some of the lads together, and you Master Shiriff, and go after Miz Cela. From all accounts from that fellow,’ she went on, ‘it doesn’t look as if Miz Cela were struggling against these other two. That is, if it really was her and not just some chance sighting. Be nice, though, to know where she’s got off to, wouldn’t it. And why, though that might be poming noses into places they don’t need to be. Just be good to know she’s alright.’

She looked toward the innkeeper. ‘I’m sure Master Boffin here would let out his ponies to you.’

[Mithalwen]

A waggonette drawn by a liver chestnut cob approached the inn from the direction of Woody End. Not a remarkable event in intself save that the passengers the Laicirith twins and the driver their aunt, Mithalwen, returning them to what she had drily referred to as the "scene of their crime". It had been useless to point out that if their aunt had let them explain that they had an arrangement with the inkeeper when she had recaptured the truants, they would not now have needed to have to come and apologise for breaking it. But they had grown used to apologising. Until this morning Mithalwen had silenced with a glance just about any utterances that did not start with "sorry" yet it had seemed to have done little to placate the group of pilgrims they had been travelling with until they had slipped off and made their way to the Golden Perch.

Only as their aunt had prepared to take her leave of the pilgrims, who would remain a little longer at the Woodhall, Carantilion had tentatively explained that they had been meant to be earning their keep at the inn by providing music and that they might have been missed. A tart comment about "letting more people down" was followed by the turn east to Perch rather than westwards towards Lindon. It was not the happiest party. Both twins could still sense their Aunt's wrath and it did not help that they still had not made up their differences.

The elfwoman had found her nephew Carantilion first and his attempts to warn his sister had been foiled by fact that she had ignored his attempts at osanwe kenta thinking he was merely trying to apologise. Since then the twins had been kept under close supervision and had had little opportunity to converse even if they had had the inclination. Carantilion, already haunted by the memory of their father's damning opinion that his children were good-for-nothing wastrels, and the knowledge that their escapade had only confirmed this in the eyes of his aunt and the company they had journeyed with had taken the harshest wound from the righteous anger of his twin. He wasn't used to her being cross with him and had found refuge from his misery only in sleep during their time at Woodhall. Curled up in his cloak he could wander the paths of memory where his sister was a genial companion and usually the leader of the mischief.

He sighed and gazed at Enpauriel who sat beside their aunt on the box seat. Her back gave no indication that her fury had abated and he tried to settle himself more comfortably amongst the many boxes and packages that filled the back of the waggonette. He poked into a couple of them and found various items clearly of his aunt's manufacture - all kinds of stuff made from metal or wood - household items and trinkets. His curiosity got the better of his caution.

"I have all this "stuff" with me because I was on my way to Bree to meet a trader and sell it when I got a message that my beloved nephew and niece had gone missing and would I please come directly and deal with it ... so I turned back and found you and consequently the merchant is unmet and my goods are unsold...and the reason I am selling it was that I needed to clear our space for my visitors - It is amazing how much clutter one accumulates over the yeni... These are oddments and experiments. " Mithalwen was a maker of musical instruments by preference but crafted also whatever of life's more mundane necessaries were required and was particularly skilled in delicate work. "I am not sure what I shall do with them now" . She continued as they reached the inn yard.

Mithalwen handed the girl some coins. "Enpauriel, go and find Mr Boffin and apologise, pay him for the room if he held it and arrange for rooms for us all for tonight and stabling for Bracken - and storage for the trap. Oh but offer him his pick from this lot by way of an apology too" she added inspired by the idea that there were some wooden plates that might make fine serving platters for halflings.

"Carantilion, take Bracken round to the stables but first help me down with this" - she indicated a long but suprisingly light trunk .

"We're staying here?" asked the twins united in thought and voice again at last.

"Why yes, I don't think I am quite ready to go home yet but I couldn't pretend to be shocked, disappointed and outraged a moment longer so I really had to get out of Woodhall".

"So you aren't angry?" The Cirs responded amazed.

"Well I can't say I am pleased exactly ...and while some of your party are very old friends of mine, they do seem to have forgotten what it is to be young. Compared to what your uncle Cirion and I used to get up to it all seems quite harmless - though quite inconsiderate. Besides I want to hear you play" She said having replaced the stern expression fixed since their meeting with a wide grin.

The twins exchanged glances forgetting their quarrel for a moment as they realised that there was some truth in the tales of Mithalwen's wayward past.

"But I will tell you about that some other time - Oh it is so lovely to see you again! When did you get so tall?" she added , embracing her nephew and niece - " Go and do what I have asked and I will order some food and you can tell me why you aren't talking to each other - I can understand why you didn't talk to me but that is harder to fathom."

The twins glanced at each other again and went about their separate errands leaving Mithalwen to enter the inn alone.

It had been near deserted when she had gathered up the Cirs but now there was a whole host of folk- including a ranger and one of her own kindred as well as several hobbits. Something was clearly going on and she drew less attention than she might . She put her trunk down softly by the wall and lingered by the door wary of interrupting something she didn't yet understand.

[Tam Lin]

‘Please, allow me to fetch us some tea, Miz Rushybanks.’ Tavaro made his way to the tables where the food and drink had been set out and scavenged about for a pot that was still warm. Luck was with him as he managed to find a small pot with a cozy on it and the contents still fairly hot. There were no eggs left, but he managed a plate of toast and a pot of butter and one of strawberry jam.

‘Here we go,’ he said, returning to the table with his treasures. ‘I didn’t see sugar or honey or any cream for that matter, so we’ll have to make do with just plain tea.’ He poured a mug for the Hobbit and refreshed his own. ‘I thought you might be hungry, and hoped this might just take the edge off it.’ He pushed the toast toward her followed by the butter and jam.

‘I take it you know this fellow they are talking to, this Mungo. He does look a bit on the rough side. But he’s been quite cooperative from what I could see and hear. A little plain in his facts, though.’ He took a sip of his tea. ‘From what I understand, he’s not got anything to do with Mistress Cela’s disappearance, but it does seem he was out and about much of last night and did happen to see and hear something which might have some bearing on where she’s gone.’

Tavaro watched as Miribelle nibbled at a piece of toast and sipped at her own mug of tea. ‘I heard you say it was a wonder he hadn’t been outlawed from these parts. And I was wondering, what exactly you meant by that.’

A movement in blues and greys at the entryway caught his attention as he waited for the Hobbit to explain. Someone new had come in, an Elven lady. She hesitated for the moment at the door, her attention on the commotion in the common room. Tavaro wondered what had brought her to this little inn. She had brought in her own trunk, he noted; she seemed to be traveling alone. How unusual.

He turned his attention back to his tablemate. She had finished her bit of toast and had leaned in a little toward him, speaking in a low voice about the Hobbit in question. Mungo, it seemed, was a very interesting character and a notorious one it seemed in these parts. Tavaro topped off Miribelle’s mug of tea and encouraged her to go on.