Chapter I I I
The Spawn of Morgoth

After luncheon I went out to call on Mr Milo Brockhouse at his isolated home on the moors. The Orc-hunter’s accommodation was spartan and cramped by hobbit standards; no more than a tunnel dug into the bare hill behind it, with a small parlour and a bedroom on one side, and a kitchen and scullery upon the other. I was admitted by a strikingly handsome young hobbit of five and twenty with the same black hair and penetrating eyes as the explorer that I had come to visit. He made no effort to disguise the feelings of antipathy he evidently held towards me, and uttered the one word ‘Bracegirdle’ as he flung open a door and stood back to let me pass.
The parlour was littered with maps and manuscripts and an untidy assortment of boxes which I surmised contained the artefacts Brockhouse had collected on his many foreign journeys. The explorer waved me impatiently to a seat by the fireplace and sat down opposite me in an ancient, leather armchair. At least I hoped it was leather, and not the skin of the terrifying orc whose head glared down at me from above the fireplace, its lips drawn back in the snarl of rage that had evidently been its last emotion.
“A trophy?” Mr Brockhouse,” I enquired with a shudder.
“No,” said he, “A warning to be vigilant.”
“Who was that young man?” I asked, “Your servant?”
“I have no servants,” said he.

His formidable reputation did not incline me to pursue the subject and I contented myself with observing the most unusual hobbit I have ever encountered. I had heard of his astonishing exploits long before I came to Isengard. At five feet three, Milo Brockhouse was a good head taller than the average hobbit and could not only ride a horse, but was reputed to do so with a skill that few of the Big Folk could match. The long limbs, the weather-beaten and deeply tanned face with the fierce, penetrating grey eyes and hawk-like nose, the untidy shock of black hair — greying at the temples, and the hornbeam pipe clamped between his stained teeth — all these were as well known in the Shire as in Old Gondor, and could only be associated with the greatest Orc-hunter and explorer in Middle-Earth. It was said that he had single-handedly slain five huge Orcs in the Misty Mountains, and had journeyed to the strange new lands that had arisen from the seas beyond Old Gondor; a thousand leagues to the south. We had heard of his presence in Isengard and I had once or twice caught sight of his tall figure during my perambulations across the moors. But he had made no advances towards me, and knowing him to be as ardent a lover of solitude as Holmes himself, I had not pressed my company upon him. So far as we were aware he spent the short intervals between his long journeys in this small burrow high on the moors and had no other company than the singular young manservant who had admitted me.
“Well,” said he gruffly, “Are you going to arrest me?”
His bluntness startled me and when I did not immediately reply he railed against the moral corruption and unnatural vice that had given the area its sinister reputation, for which he made it clear, he thought Lotho and Odo Bolger were responsible.
“Surely you exaggerate?” I asked.
“Exaggerate!” he cried, thumping the arm of his chair. “Tell that to the mothers of the young girls who service Lotho’s perverted customers! Tell it to the three women whose broken bodies were found on the moors last week!”
“But surely,” said I, “they were attacked by wild beasts?”
“I am a hunter, Mr Bracegirdle,” said he through clenched teeth. “And have yet to encounter an animal that flagellates its victims with a riding crop before violating them and then severing the limbs from their bodies!”
I turned pale and stared at him in disbelief. “I have heard nothing of this,” I said.
“That does not surprise me,” retorted Brockhouse. “Half the district is in league with the Bolgers and the other half are frightened out of their wits.”
“What do you mean?” I asked,
“Surely you know what the Bolgers are?” he asked.
“I know that Lotho is a scopophilisist.”
Brockhouse spat into the fire and knocking out the dottle from his pipe, slowly refilled it. “You may use whatever fancy name you wish, Mr Bracegirdle. I know him to be the worst scoundrel who ever drew breath; may the devil take his black soul!”
“Then you accuse him of the murder of the women you mentioned?”
“Aye, and worse,” growled Brockhouse; “much worse.”
“He has said the same of you,” said I.
“And that fool of a detective believed him?”
“I cannot speak for Mr Holmes,” said I, “But the evidence we found supports his accusation; a riding crop with Miss Belladonna’s blood on it was found at the scene.”
Brockhouse’s face turned livid and he clenched his hands. Then he relaxed and leaning back in his chair, burst into laughter.
“My riding crop?” he exclaimed. “So that’s who took it! If that is all your clever detective can muster he is a bigger fool than I took him for.”

He was plainly labouring under the delusion that Holmes had been paid by Lotho Bolger to blacken his good name and when I attempted to correct him, launched into a long tirade against the interference of men in the affairs of hobbits. I could get little more from him except the admission that he and Belladonna had been intimate some years before, and that she had broken off the relationship — why he would not say. He seemed particularly pleased that Odo had been driven insane and commented that: ‘It is poetic justice that a monster who has driven so many out of their wits should lose his own.’ When I showed him the lewd advertisement we had found in Belladonna’s wardrobe his whole manner suddenly changed. He leapt to his feet with a livid face and shook his fists at me. A spasm of pain contorted his features; his eyes dimmed with tears and he trembled in every limb. Never have I seen such a look of desperate suffering on a hobbit’s face.
“You cannot know what horrors that good and loving woman has endured at the hands of those devils,” he said thickly, and added threateningly: “But I promise you this, I will make Lotho suffer more in one hour than she has suffered in twenty years! If Mr Sherlock Holmes gets in my way I will not be answerable for the consequences!”
With that final outburst, he thrust me roughly out of the door, and I hastened to take my leave of the terrifying explorer, and hurried down to the town to call on Dr Lightfoot.

I did not return to our burrow until just before supper time and found Holmes pacing morosely up and down the hall. Then he stalked into the parlour and flung himself down in the armchair, his drawn face hardly visible amid a blue swirl of tobacco smoke, his heavy brows drawn down, his eyes vacant and far away. I began to fear that he had been at the miruvor again, or that Belinda had exhausted him, but one glance at her expressive eyes and sweet face showed me that Holmes’ malaise had quite another origin. Finally he laid down his pipe and sprang to his feet with a snort of impatience.
“It won’t do Bingo Bracegirdle! It simply won’t do. The bath sent me to sleep, your bound collection of sapphic lithographs bored me to death, and poor Miss Beaverburrow was hard put to it to retain my attention, never mind raise anything more substantial. I fear my indifference will mean a sleepless night for you both. Come, my lad — let us walk on the beach. We need the sunshine and fresh air to clear our heads.”

So it was that beneath the shadow of the great ruined tower, with the surf cooling my feet and the evening sun on my back, that he expounded our position to me. “In the first place let us exclude any supernatural intervention in the affairs of men or hobbits.”
I began to object, but he waved his hands and continued. “No, I will not entertain Balrogs, Ringwraiths, Goblins, giant spiders, or fire-wielding wizards in pointy hats. They may be the stuff of living legend to you, but they are stuff and nonsense to me. Three persons appear to have been grievously stricken by some unknown agency; that is a fact. The presence of a vegetable poison in the port and in Miss Bolger’s body, are another fact, as is the foul atmosphere in the library.
“What about the camiknickers?” I asked.
“I confess their loss troubles me, but I have no doubt we shall get the bottom of their part in this mystery. While you were out I checked Bolger’s movements to verify his claim to have spent the night at the Blue Tit with Mrs Chubb and her charming daughters. Knowing my methods as you do, you will, of course, have seen through my somewhat clumsy trick in upsetting the watering can, by which I obtained a clear imprint of two sets of footprints, Lotho’s, which I traced back to the inn, and another set which began below the library window and stopped by the shrubbery at the end of the lawn.”
“A hobbit’s or a man’s?”
Holmes gave me a queer look and his voice sank to a whisper.
“Bingo, they were the footprints of some gigantic creature!”
“You mean the fiend is a Balrog after all?”
“I did not say so.”
“Then what is it?”
Holmes shrugged his shoulders.
“I have hitherto confined my investigations to this world,” said he. “In my modest way I have combated evil in many guises, but to take on the Spawn of Morgoth himself would, perhaps, be stretching even my prodigious abilities. Yet, I confess that the footprints are not those of any creature that I have ever encountered. What perplexes me more is why they do not continue. Also, the ground by the shrubbery was much disturbed, as if by the wheels of some heavy agricultural engine. It almost seems that whatever made those tracks simply flew away.”
“Then it is the Balrog.”
“I see that our long intercourse has not succeeded in dispelling your superstitions, Bingo. But tell me this: if you hold that view, why has no one seen the creature?”
“Odo and Drogo saw it, as did their sister.”
“Belladonna cannot yet speak of her ordeal and when I visited Odo and Drogo at the asylum I was told that they had expired on arrival.”
“Great heavens, Holmes!” said I. “That is dreadful news!”
“On the contrary,” said Holmes, “It is most welcome.”
“I do not follow you?”
“When I asked to see the bodies I was told they had been cremated on Lotho’s instructions.”
“Is that not highly unusual?”
“Exceedingly, and suspicious in the extreme. The excuse I was given was that they were contagious. A story as improbable as the fiction of an imaginary fire-breathing creature out of the ridiculous mythology of the Shire which no one has seen. I rather think it must be a very bashful Balrog we are seeking, Bingo!”
“Very droll, Holmes. But what about the umbrella that Bolger claims his brother Odo saw in the garden?”
“That is certainly remarkable, not least because of the old hobbit’s clumsy attempt to dismiss it. There is some significance attached to umbrellas that I am certain we are missing. It is difficult to conceive how an outsider could have made such a terrible impression on the company without leaving a single trace behind. Except for the stuffiness of the library reported by all three visitors, that we ourselves experienced strongly, and the poisonous pondweed, there is nothing to lead us to our adversary. Moreover, we have yet to find any possible motive for so strange and elaborate a crime. You perceive our difficulties, Bingo?”
“They are only too clear to me,” I replied, opening my pocket book. “But Lotho does have a motive in wishing his sister dead, that much is evident from his confession about her earnings. His brothers owned the most prosperous Pipeweed emporium in the district and with them out of the way he stands to come into a great deal of money. As we expected, Mr Brockhouse vehemently denied any impropriety between himself and Belladonna when I interviewed him this afternoon. Yet it was clear to me that he entertained the strongest feelings for her. Given what we know of her reputation in the town it seems only too plausible to me that he finally tired of her vile debaucheries and killed her in a jealous rage.”
“Then, he, too must have had wings,” said Holmes, “since there were only two sets of footprints in the garden.”
“I must admit that is a serious difficulty,” said I. “Yet he freely admitted that the riding-crop was his when I questioned him and made no secret of the fact that he and Belladonna had been intimate. He also threatened your life, Holmes.”
“He threatened me?” asked Holmes, with a faint smile.
“It was not a jest, Holmes,” said I. “If Mr Sherlock Holmes gets in my way I will not be answerable for the consequences — those were his exact words.”
“Intriguing,” said Holmes. “Was there anyone with him in his burrow at the time?”
“Yes — a young hobbit who I took to be his manservant. Why, how did you know that?”
“An intuition, Bingo. How young?”
“No more than five and twenty I should say.”
“Most interesting.”
“Have you no more to tell me?” I asked.
“Not at present, Bingo. I am beginning to wonder if all the inhabitants of this unsavoury district are not entirely degenerate.”
“Perhaps it is the mephitic influence of that old tower in the lake?” I suggested.
“Perhaps, yet Lotho could not have been in two places at once, and that, my dear Hobbit, leaves us with Brockhouse, who cannot possibly have entered the house without leaving some evidence behind — and I found none. Our choice lies between a notorious scopophilisist and a jealous explorer; neither of whom are possessed of wings. So it seems we are left with your ridiculous Balrog — you know my feelings about Balrogs! Come, let us stroll over the causeway to the old tower, and see if we cannot find some more of those artefacts which Miss Beaverburrow tried to interest me in when she was soaping my back.”
I may have commented upon my mentor’s power of mental detachment, but never was it more in evidence than that warm, spring evening in Isengard, when he discoursed to me upon the cake recipes of the vanished Elves as lightly as if no sinister mystery was waiting upon his solution.

The sun was setting when we returned to our dwelling to find a great black horse tethered to the gatepost, and a longbow lying on the hall table. Neither of us needed to be told who the big hobbit reclining on the sofa was. It was no surprise to me, therefore, to hear the famous orc-hunter complaining passionately to Belinda about the incompetence of the authorities in bringing the murderer to justice.
“Proudfoot is a worse villain than Lotho if he lets him remain at large,” he exclaimed, as we entered and hung up our hats and cloaks. “The entire district knows that Bolger is the worst scoundrel who ever breathed. Why haven’t you thrown him in the lockholes, answer me that?”
“Mr Brockhouse was most anxious to see you, Mr Holmes,” said Belinda, offering him a cup of tea with a trembling hand.
Holmes sat down and spoke a few soothing words to the irate explorer.
“Due process!” snorted Brockhouse, snapping his fingers. “That for ‘due process’ Hang the black-hearted rogue and have done, I say.”
Holmes raised his eyebrows. “Might I enquire exactly what your interest in this affair is?”
Brockhouse sat up and glared at him. “If you must know I am acquainted with Miss Bolger - or, rather, was acquainted with her many years ago.”
“In a professional capacity?” asked Holmes quietly.
“What the devil do you mean by that, sir?”
“Only that I understand Miss Bolger to have been an actress of some renown and singular talents, and thought perhaps that you may have assisted her unusual career in some way?”
For a moment I thought our visitor was going to strike Holmes. Brockhouse’s face turned a dusky red, his eyes glared, and he sprang up with clenched hands. With a violent effort he controlled himself and resumed his seat with a cold, suppressed anger which was, perhaps, more dangerous than his sudden outburst.
“I have lived among the worst savages in Middle-Earth, Mr Holmes,” he said, clamping his pipe to his mouth, “addicted to practices you cannot begin to imagine. Yet nowhere have I found a more vicious or degenerate monster than Lotho Bolger, or a finer woman than his sister, Belladonna.”
I was on the point of reminding him what the whole world knew about that ‘fine woman’ when a look from Holmes quelled me. Brockhouse clenched his hands into tight fists and growled at me.
“Aye, I know what they say,” he continued bitterly. “And I daresay much of it is true, but what drove her to it, eh? Odo and Lotho Bolger! They were the demons who corrupted her! Oh yes! I was there and saw how deeply she feared and hated them. But I had to go away and it was many years before I returned, and by then it was too late. She was steeped in vice; yet she never ceased to struggle against it. But I have said too much.”
“Oh, Mr Brockhouse!” exclaimed Belinda, “How dreadful!”
Brockhouse clenched his hands and bit his lip. “You do not know the half of it, madam.”
“You have not mentioned Drogo, Mr Brockhouse,” I asked. “Is he not equally culpable in your eyes?”
“I know nothing of Drogo,” said Brockhouse, “aside from what Belladonna told me of him. He was a vain and weak hobbit by all accounts who was dominated by his elder brothers. I know nothing against him. So, Mr Holmes, will you bring Lotho to justice or must I do your work for you?”
“I have not yet cleared my mind entirely on the part certain persons may have played in this case, and until I do, it would be premature of me to say any more,” replied Holmes.
“Do you suspect me?”
“No. I can hardly say that.”
“Then I have wasted my time and will not impose upon you further.” The famous explorer slammed down his teacup with a clatter and rose from his chair with a muttered oath.
“One more thing Mr Brockhouse,” asked Holmes. “What can you tell us about Balrogs?”
“Balrogs?”
“Surely you have heard of Balrogs?” said I.
A violent change came over the explorer’s expression; his eyes blazed, his jaw dropped, and a spasm of pain twisted his lip. Then he drew himself up to his full height and gave me a withering look from beneath his bushy brows. “Stuff and nonsense!” he snarled, and sweeping up his hat and longbow, stormed out of the door without another word.
“Well, what did you deduce from that?” asked Holmes when our visitor had gone.
“That Mr Brockhouse has as great an aversion to mythological monsters as you,” I replied.
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Holmes with an ironic laugh.
“I beg your pardon?”
Holmes shook his head sadly. “Really, Bingo! Have you learned nothing in all these years? How many times must I tell you that detection is a matter of careful observation and deduction?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Mr Brockhouse believes in Balrogs,” said Belinda, fearfully
“Our housekeeper sees more clearly than you, Bingo,” said Holmes with a chuckle. When I still looked at him in bewilderment he continued. “It’s as plain as the vacuum which separates your furry ears, my dear hobbit. Mr Brockhouse’s response was out of all proportion to your question. It is obvious he knows a great deal more about Balrogs than he was prepared to admit. I would not be at all surprised if the creature that we seek is not intimately known to him.”
“You amaze me, Holmes!”
“Quite possibly!” With that, Holmes snatched his hat from the hall table and bounded for the door. He spun round on the threshold with a feverish glint in his eyes. “I may be gone for some time, Bingo. Don’t wait up for me!”
We saw no more of Holmes until he returned late in the night, with dragging steps and a haggard face, carrying a heavy bag. When I pressed him for some explanation of his preoccupation, he assured me that he had made no great progress with his investigation, and refusing all Belinda’s tearful entreaties to take some supper with us, retired to his room without another word.

Belinda and I arose rather late on Monday and found Holmes in the kitchen, trying unsuccessfully to boil an egg. Belinda ushered him out, and we were soon rewarded by the heartening sound of sizzling bacon and the appetising aroma of wild mushrooms. Over breakfast Holmes seemed taciturn and preoccupied, and I feared the worst when he pushed back his plate and took the familiar morocco case from his pocket. But to my profound relief it contained nothing more sinister than a microscope slide. He laughed at our expressions of disapproval, and rising from his chair, flourished the case triumphantly under my nose.
“This is not my hypodermic case, my dear Bingo, but another I keep for scientific samples. Come, I will show you what I have discovered.”
I followed him into his room and was astonished at the paraphernalia that had appeared in it, seemingly, overnight. He sat down before a table littered with Bunsen burners, retorts, crucibles and a cabbalistic cornucopia of mysterious instruments that would not have been out of place in an alchemist’s laboratory.
“Good gracious, Holmes!” I exclaimed, “Where in Middle-Earth did all this come from?”
“I prevailed upon the good Doctor to furnish me with a few essentials early this morning and acquired the rarer items during my excursion last night when I followed Mr Brockhouse to the ruined tower of Isengard.
“We did not hear you go out?”
“That does not surprise me in the least,” he replied lightly. “I could hear Belinda’s voluptuous sighs clear across the garden.”
“Really, Holmes, you exaggerate my abilities,” I exclaimed, laughing. “What did you find at the tower?”
“Rather more than I expected. But — here; tell me what you make of this,” said he, and pushed a microscope toward me.
I peered into the lens. “It looks like pond scum to me.”
“It may be ‘pond scum’ to you Bingo, but this blue-green algae was well-known to the Elves under the name Vanwafea which means ‘lost soul’ in their ancient tongue. The common word for it was Lovewort, or, Hapalosiphon sarumanensis — to those that know something of botany.”
“When did you discover that?”
“Last night when I collected these samples from the Eastern Shore of the lake.”
“Do they match the sample you took from Belladonna’s body?”
Holmes nodded and clipped another slide into the stage of the microscope. “As you will observe, I have cultured a suspension of the sample in alcohol which reveals the presence of the chloroplast structures which are intimately associated with cynoerotic poisoning.”
“Cynoerotic poisoning?”
“A deadly poison which at first excites the sexual impulse and removes all natural restraints. This is followed by uncontrollable erotomania, terrifying hallucinations, paralysis of the mental faculties, and extreme prostration. In very large doses it completely paralyses the nervous system and results in death within minutes. Its common name of Lovewort is something of a misnomer, my lad. Vanwafea is one of the most virulent toxins known to Hobbit. But that was not what asphyxiated the Bolgers.”
“What was?”
“Marsh gas. The gas from the marshes near Lake Isengard contains much higher concentrations of methane, carbon monoxide and hydrogen sulphide than is usual. When mixed with air, the result is not only toxic to hobbits, but also highly explosive. That explains why both the housekeeper and the Doctor fainted when they first entered the library at Sharkey’s End.”
“By Jove, Holmes! You astound me!”
“It is simplicity itself,” he remarked, chuckling at my surprise. “Once I knew that two separate poisons had been employed it was simply a matter of observation and deduction to discover their origins.”
“But that still leaves the missing camiknickers and umbrellas unexplained?”
“True,” said Holmes, rising and lighting his pipe. “But it does show us we are dealing with a criminal mastermind with a deep understanding of poisons.”
“Mastermind?”
“Only a handful of men still possess the knowledge and skill to manufacture and employ these poisons, Bingo, and I fancy that Lotho Bolger may be among them.”
“Then he is the fiend we are seeking?”
“Possibly, or it may be that Lotho acquired his knowledge from a third party.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Lotho claimed that he knew a great deal about Orthanc and its former resident. What he did not tell you was that his treatise on the Magnum mysterium of Orthanc was plagiarised from a little-known work written by your great-grandfather Hugo in 1765.”
“How in Middle-Earth did you know that?”
“Because Hugo’s Among the Orcs of Isengard is in your library, you silly hobbit!”
“Then you suspect someone else?”
“The bashful Balrog?” Holmes suggested with a laugh. “Hardly, Bingo!”
“Then who?”
“Someone who is a great deal cleverer than Lotho and infinitely more dangerous.”
“Brockhouse?” I asked.
“Hardly. He is clever enough but I have no reason to believe he knows any more of poisons than you do, Bingo.”
“How would we unmask such a formidable opponent?”
“I think he will unmask himself, Bingo. Meanwhile I think we should take the rest of the day off. I fancy we will need all our wits about us in the dark days ahead. The game is afoot, my lad!”
I left Holmes to his retorts and experiments and went down to the lake with Belinda to search for Elvish artefacts on the north shore. By the end of the day I had found precious few artefacts but made considerable progress in my exploration of the finer nuances of my housekeeper’s pleasure threshold. Belinda was especially pleased to discover that the black business in which we were embroiled in no way blunted my enjoyment of the novel techniques she had developed in her treatment of Sherlock Holmes’ indisposition.

The weather took a turn for the worse on Tuesday, a cold wind blew steadily from the east, an iron-grey bank of lowering cloud darkened the lake, and a steady downpour drummed on the roof of our burrow. The foul weather matched the black mood that hung over Holmes during breakfast. Soon afterwards he went out into the storm and I spent the rest of the day writing up the notes of our interview with Lotho Bolger. It was not until six o’clock that the rain finally ceased and Holmes returned, with a spring in his step and a sardonic smile playing over his lips. Belinda quickly brought our supper to the table, and I although I plied Holmes with questions he resolutely refused to answer any of them until he had finished his meal and lit up his pipe. He smoked in silence while Belinda towelled his hair dry and I cleared the table. Then, to my astonishment, he seized her hand and kissed it affectionately. I am compelled to record that she responded rather more warmly than I should have liked by flinging her arms about his neck with a glad little cry. Holmes gently disengaged himself and planting a light kiss upon her blushing cheek, pushed back his chair, and rose from the table with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
“Is the bath water hot?”
“Yes Mr Holmes,” Belinda replied. “But I was going to do the washing up first.”
“Bingo can do that, can’t you, old chap?”
I swallowed the exclamation that was on my lips and nodded.
“In that event,” said he briskly, “I think I am ready to move onto stage four.”
“Stage four, Mr Holmes?” Belinda replied with a puzzled frown. “There aint no stage four; leastways Bingo has never mentioned anything beyond stage three to me.”
Holmes waved his hand in my direction with a triumphant gesture. “Quite so, my dear!”
“Oh, Mr Holmes, sir!” said Belinda breathlessly, and with a becoming blush, caught his outstretched hand, and followed him into the bathroom. It was with the greatest difficulty that I resisted the overwhelming temptation to loiter outside the door, though I confess I did pass that way once or twice during the washing up, purely to put away the cutlery. I quickly gathered that ‘stage four’ involved a great deal of splashing and not a little dexterity on Belinda’s part, since I distinctly heard her say that she did not think one could do that standing on one leg without falling over. Evidently one could, or she would not have squealed quite so delightedly when Holmes asked her if she would not care to try it a little faster next time.
When she glided into the parlour two hours later and informed me with some satisfaction that ‘Mr Holmes was sleeping like a baby’ I concluded that ‘stage four’ had been a resounding success. When we retired that evening and she refused to reveal the singular technique that had produced such a beneficial effect on my friend, I was compelled to employ drastic measures until she relented. I am happy to say that not only did she not fall over, she promised to demonstrate Holmes’ novel variation if only I would admonish her again. We awoke early to the sound of Holmes whistling in the kitchen and to our everlasting surprise were treated to tea in bed by the great detective!
Wednesday held the promise of a return to the fine and settled weather we had enjoyed during the earlier part of our holiday. The sun blazed brightly from a cloudless sky and a warm breeze, fragrant with the scent of the May blossom outside our door, ruffled the surface of the lake below. Holmes was bright, eager, and in excellent spirits, a mood which my readers will know alternated with fits of the blackest depression and deepest ennui from which the miruvor bottle had been his only release until Belinda had taken a hand in the matter. After breakfast we took the teapot into the garden and I lit my pipe while he reviewed our situation in his usual, precise manner.
“There is no great mystery in this case,” he said, taking the cup of tea that I handed him. “The facts appear to admit of only one explanation.”
“What! You have solved the mystery?”
“Well, that would be a little premature. I have discovered a most suggestive fact, that is all. I have found, on consulting the records at Longbottom Sherriff’s Court, that Belladonna deposited a will in May of this year naming her brothers as her sole heirs. This document revokes a previous will made twenty-three years ago, on the occassion of her coming of age at twenty-eight, which named one Rollo Brockhouse as her heir. Rollo Brockhouse’s birth certificate shows him to have been born illegitimately.”
“I may be very obtuse, Holmes, but I fail to see what this suggests?”
“No? You surprise me, Bingo. Look at it this way. Milo Brockhouse admits to you that he has been intimate with Miss Bolger. He then disappears from the area for many years. Soon afterwards the woman embarks upon the sordid career which has made her notorious. What could have driven her into so odious a profession? Plainly, the threat to harm her child unless she fell in with her brothers’ vile schemes. Three weeks before our arrival the young Rollo disappears. Within a week of his disappearance Milo Brockhouse returns to Isengard in the company of a young manservant who bears a striking resemblance to his master. Immediately afterwards Belladonna makes a new will in favour of her brothers, and a few days later she is found dead at their home. Have you any alternative theory which will meet the facts?”
“What a strange series of links! But why should Lotho murder his sister now?”
“That is a difficulty. I suspect Lotho threatened to initiate the boy into his ring of vice and that compelled Belladonna to finally reveal the secret of her youthful indiscretion to the boy’s father - Milo Brockhouse. Once Lotho discovered what she had done he lost his hold over her. The only way he could be sure of getting his hands on her wealth was to force her to change her will in his favour.”
“How did he do that?”
“Torture, probably; Lovewort, certainly.”
“Why murder his own brothers?”
“We cannot be certain that he did. We only have his and Proudfoot’s account of the events of that night. Now that Odo and Drogo are dead the only other person who knows the truth has lost her memory and cannot assist us.”
“Perhaps Belladonna confided in them in the hopes they might protect her. In any event they stood in Lotho’s way and may have contested the will?”
“Excellent, Bingo! I confess I had not thought of that. Perhaps there was a conspiracy as I suspected and one or more of the conspirators fell out with his accomplices.”
“Can you prove this?”
“That I hope our expedition of this evening will show.”
“What expedition?”
“I think it is past time that we made a closer inspection of the mysterious tower of Isengard.”
“But it’s been a ruin for centuries and has been thoroughly investigated by every archaeologist and treasure-hunter in Middle-Earth.”
“Except one,” said Holmes.
“Who?”
“Myself!”

After luncheon Holmes and I went for a long walk on the moors in the hopes of meeting Brockhouse. But he was not at his burrow and his son, Rollo, if son he was, would tell us nothing further than that his master was away ‘on a private matter’ and would not return until the following day. When we returned Belinda was standing anxiously in the doorway, and rushed into my arms the moment we entered.

“Oh Bingo! I’m that glad to see you!” she exclaimed. “A dreadful woman was here demanding to see Mr Holmes and when I explained as you’d gone out walking on the moors she threw a frightful tantrum and accused him of blackening her good name!”
I drew her into the parlour and sat her on my knee and stroked her hair. “There now,” I murmured. “Don’t upset yourself. “I am here now.”
“Who was the visitor?” asked Holmes.
“Rosy Chubb. Oh, she was in such a state I was afeared she’d murder me!”
“There now,” I said. “No harm will come to you, my sweet.”
“Mrs Chubb, the proprietress of the infamous Blue Tit inn?” asked Holmes.
Belinda nodded vigorously and I gently disengaged her hands and kissed her remaining tears away.
“Did she state her business?” I asked.
“She would only say as she was afeared that Mr Brockhouse would do something unnatural to her and her babies.”
“Babies?” asked Holmes.
“Daisy and Peony - her daughters.”
“Did she give any reason for her fear?”
Belinda shook her head.

“Curious, most curious,” said Holmes. “I think we should pay Mrs Rosy Chubb a visit directly we return from our expedition.”
“What do you make of it?” I asked.
“Plainly something or someone has put the fear of God into that woman — or the devil.”
“Brockhouse?”
“Possibly. It might equally well have been our bashful Balrog.”
“Then you do not entirely discount the existence of such a creature, Holmes?”
“I discount nothing that may assist us in unravelling this mystery, but until we have discounted the obvious I do not intend to embrace something as improbable as an imaginary fire-breathing creature out of the ridiculous mythology of the Shire with a fetish for women’s undergarments, Bingo!”
“So you keep saying, Holmes, yet I can think of no other explanation that can account for the facts we have accumulated so far.”
“Dear me!” said Holmes, “If you are going to start thinking we shall never get to the bottom of this mystery!”

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