Chapter I I
An Inexplicable Mystery

I confess that my thoughts were not on Belinda as we took the winding lane to Sharkey’s End. The prospect of feasting my eyes upon the famous beauty, ‘Goldilocks’, albeit bereft of life, filled me with a singular excitement I was at some pains to conceal from Holmes. Our investigation began inauspiciously when we were overtaken on the road by a four-in-hand from which issued the most dreadful shrieks and groans I have ever heard. As it drove past, heading in the opposite direction, I caught a glimpse of a horribly contorted face glaring out at us.
“My brothers!” cried Lotho Bolger, turning white as a sheet, “I took the liberty of instructing Doctor Lightfoot to commit them into the care of the local asylum without delay.”

Holmes slackened his pace as the black carriage flashed past us, and allowing Bolger to get a little ahead of us, turned to me with a concerned air.
“That is not without significance, Bingo,” said he softly, “One witness is dead and the other two are spirited away before our very eyes. Moreover, we have picked up three further clues this morning and none of them point to a Balrog. One is the foul atmosphere in the room where the tragedy took place. The second is the lady’s undergarments which I have little doubt were stolen because they could help to identify her murderer. Finally, there is the inexplicable umbrella shortage, made more mysterious by Bolger’s obvious embarrassment at what his brother Drogo thought he saw in the garden.”
“What about the fire and the green slime?” I asked. “What natural explanation can there be for them?”
“That I hope to discover at the tragic scene. Mark my words Bingo, the ‘Balrog’ we are seeking is no more supernatural than my hat.”

Holmes said no more until we reached Sharkey’s End. It was a large and rambling dwelling, tunnelled deeply into the sandy cliff that overlooked the southern shore of Lake Isengard. Unusually for a hobbit-burrow, the bedrooms were on the first floor and looked out over an unkempt lawn that swept down to the lake. We were met at the door by the housekeeper, Mrs Tipplebottle, a thin stick of a woman in her eighties with iron-grey hair and a florid complexion. She answered Holmes’ questions in a quavering falsetto, somewhat slurred by the influence of the port which I distinctly smelt on her breath. Nothing she told us added to our meagre store of facts, except the surprising information that Belladonna was not in the habit of dining with her brothers, and that the Doctor had removed her body to her bedroom.
“I will not stay in this poisonous hole a moment longer!” she croaked at last, and gathering up her bits of things in a shawl, darted past us with surprising agility, and made off down the garden path as fast as her leathery feet would carry her.
Holmes insisted on making a careful inspection of the garden, and was so absorbed in his examination of the flowerbed below the library window, that he tripped over a watering can, upset its contents, and soaked Mr Bolger’s large feet.
We left the old hobbit to clean himself up in the scullery and crossed into a spacious, half-timbered hall with a high, domed ceiling, and ascended a broad flight of stairs to his sister’s bedroom. Doctor Lightfoot opened the door and ushered us into a large and comfortably furnished room lit by two round windows in the opposite wall. To our right stood an ornate four-poster bed upon which the dead woman reposed.
“I took the liberty of refusing Mr Lotho’s request to wash the body, sir,” he said.
“I am indebted to you for your foresight, Doctor,” replied Holmes.

Lightfoot was a singular-looking man, whose appearance, as well as his voice, testified to the unaccustomed strain under which he was labouring. He was thin, but had apparently been much fatter, so that the sallow skin hung about his face in loose pouches, and his sparse, sandy hair, flecked with grey, stuck out in all directions. A pair of keen, but not unfriendly blue eyes regarded us questioningly.
“I will not deny that I am at a complete loss; it is quite outside my experience.”
“May we examine the room and the body?” asked Holmes.
The Doctor nodded his assent.

It was with considerable curiosity, and mounting excitement that I gazed upon the body of the woman who had exercised such a grip on my adolescent imagination. I had met Belladonna Bolger only once before, at a small soiree given in our honour by the Sherriff when we had first arrived at Isengard. Even in middle age her beauty and grace had outshone every other woman in the room and made Belinda appear plain and awkward beside her. At the time I had been singularly impressed by the sharp contrast between her cold, aloof manner and the wildness of her large, dark eyes, and had remarked to Holmes that she appeared to be in the grip of some overmastering emotion. Her intensity and keen intelligence had quickly aroused his curiosity, and she seemed grateful for his attentions. As my readers will know, Holmes was an enthusiastic musician, being himself a most capable performer and composer of some merit. That evening he had accompanied Miss Belladonna on the violin while she sang the opening Aria from my ancestor’s famous Encouchment of Arwen in a clear and poignant soprano that moved me to tears.

I found it hard to reconcile the shameless indecency of the harlot Lotho and Proudfoot had described to us with the angelic being who now lay before me. Belladonna was still a very beautiful woman, though now past her best. Her tanned, clear-cut face was framed by long, dark hair that curled about her slender neck, and lay upon the coverlet in disorderly array. The inviting outline of her voluptuous person could clearly be discerned beneath the thin sheet that clung to her limbs. I had never looked upon a face that was at once so refined and sensitive yet bore all the hallmarks of a sweet nature corrupted by sensuality and hardened by vice. It appeared to me like the face of an angel that had lain with the Devil.

“By Jove!” I said, “She was a handsome lass; but I thought she was blond?”
“Only on stage,” said Holmes, indicating the wig perched on a small stand on the dressing table. He continued his examination of the room and I saw him slip something into his pocket from a drawer in the wardrobe. Then he joined me at the bedside and lifted the sheet from the body.
I stifled an exclamation as I saw the claw marks of some wild animal upon the thighs and belly of the dead woman, still coated with the mysterious, green liquid the Sherriff had reported. Something of the rictus of horror that had been Belladonna’s last emotion lingered still in her beautiful, sad face. Holmes drew a small glass vial from his pocket, and stooping low over the corpse, scraped a sample of the substance into it.
“What is that filthy stuff, Doctor?” I asked.
Lightfoot wrung his hands and shuddered. “The — the seed of the Balrog, sir.”
“Nonsense!” said Holmes, sniffing the viscous liquor. It is of vegetable, not supernatural origin.”
“It smells like pond weed to me,” said I.
“Algae, Bingo. I shall know more when I have analysed it.”
As he spoke, his nimble fingers were flying here, there, and everywhere, feeling, pressing, examining, while his eyes were alight with a feverish excitement.

“Hullo!” he cried, as he bent down to examine the woman’s wrists. “Look at this, Bingo! The woman was bound!”
“And savagely whipped, sir,” added Lightfoot in a trembling voice, turning the body to reveal a tightly-spaced lattice of crimson wheals that extended from the middle of her back to the base of her buttocks.
“As I suspected,” said Holmes grimly. “And yet Bolger denied it when I questioned him.”
“The foul blackguard!” I cried. “He had a perverse relationship with his own sister and when she would no longer accede to his criminal abuses, foully murdered her!”
“I confess appearances point that way, Mr Bracegirdle,” said the Doctor, “but these wounds are not the worst of her injuries. From the scorching it seems she was repeatedly violated, though I cannot bring myself to believe it was the work of her own brothers.”
“My word,” said Holmes with a sharp intake of breath. “This is a bad business!” He stooped down and examined the woman’s thighs with his magnifying glass. I was shocked to see that the skin was discoloured with several circular burns, about the size of a halfpenny piece that showed that her murderer had not flinched from abusing her.
“What brute could inflict such unspeakable injuries?” I asked.
“Not Bolger,” said Holmes. “Unless he possesses the singular ability to be in two places at once, he cannot have been the murderer. Remember, he has three witnesses who will confirm he spent the night at the inn.”
“Then how are we to read this mystery?” I asked.
“That remains to be seen. If I am not mistaken rigor should have set in some hours ago.”

“Great Heavens!” exclaimed Lightfoot, “you’re right, the flesh is still pliable!”
“Holmes rubbed his hands and chuckled with delight. Drawing a small mirror from his pocket, he handed it to the Doctor.
Lightfoot held it over the dead woman’s lips. The faintest haze gathered on its surface. “Try the carotid artery, Doctor.”
“She lives!” cried Lightfoot, He handed the mirror back to Holmes and I was astonished to observe the intense emotion which now animated my friend’s face.
With a shock of dismay I saw him produce a neat morocco case from his coat pocket and take out the vile instrument which I associated with the singular weakness of his character.
“No, Holmes!” I pleaded. “Not the miruvor!”
He ignored me, and deftly uncorking a small, green bottle, plunged the hypodermic syringe into it. With his long, nervous fingers he slowly raised the piston and tapped the instrument several times. Finally he stooped over the body, thrust the sharp point into the woman’s right forearm, and pressed down the tiny piston. The Doctor stared at Holmes in consternation.
“What did you give her, sir?”
“A twenty-percent solution of miruvor,” said Holmes.
“I have never heard of it,” said Lightfoot.
“That is not surprising. Its manufacture was a closely guarded secret of the ancient Elves until I rediscovered it.”
“What does it do?”
“Watch and wait.”
To my everlasting surprise, the corpse opened its eyes and smiled. Yes! The dead woman awoke, and arching her back, retched violently onto the sheet.
Lightfoot looked wonderingly at Holmes.
“Why, you are a magician, sir!”
“No, a scientist, but the two are easily confused. As I suspected, the algae contains some narcotic poison to which the stimulating properties of miruvor are antithetical.”
“Astonishing!” said I.
Holmes laughed and slapped me on the back. “You can be certain that whatever attacked the unfortunate Miss Bolger was not a Balrog, Bingo.”
I turned to the poor woman who was now sitting up with the Doctor’s assistance. “I — I cannot begin to tell you how overjoyed I am, madam —”
“I fear she cannot speak yet,” said Holmes, “though I fancy she hears you well enough.”
The woman nodded and took several deep breaths. Holmes stroked her hair and patted her hand soothingly. “There is nothing more to fear. You are quite safe.”
She looked at him questioningly with her big, dark eyes and sank back on the pillows.
“Will she regain the power of speech?” asked the Doctor.
“Once the poison is out of her bloodstream I am confident she will make a full recovery.”
Belladonna seemed to understand him, and squeezed his hand.
“Your timely intervention has saved that poor woman’s life, Mr Holmes,” said the Doctor. “Is it too late for her brothers?”
“I fear so,” replied Holmes. “But I will have Miss Beaverburrow send some of the drug over to you this afternoon and you may use it upon them if you wish.”

At that moment there was a heavy footfall on the stairs and a loud knock on the door. Holmes sprang up with his finger upon his lips and leant against the door. “Do not let him see she lives!” he whispered.
“But surely,” said Lightfoot, “He has the right to know it?”
“Possibly so,” said Holmes, “But I would rather he remained in ignorance of the fact until I have clearly established he had no part in her death. Bingo — cover the woman!”
I hurried to do as he asked.
“You suspect Lotho?” asked the Doctor.
“Do you not?”
“Well — yes, I suppose so..”
“Then for pity’s sake do not expose her to further danger!”
With that, Holmes opened the door and admitted Lotho.
A strong feeling of revulsion, and something akin to fear took hold of me as the big hobbit strode into the room. His broad, rugged face was gaunt, and an anxious light was in the lecherous eyes that peered out from deep hollows under his heavy brows.
“Have you finished?” he asked.
“I will be down directly,” said Holmes, and motioned me to accompany Lotho. As I left the room I saw him draw Lightfoot toward the bed and engage the Doctor in a whispered conversation.
I had not long to wait before he joined me in the doorway of the library.

“I have asked Doctor Lightfoot to take Belladonna to his home in the town to care for her, and not to mention her recovery to a living soul”.
“Will she be safe there?” I whispered.
“Quite safe,” replied Holmes. “There is no love lost between the good Doctor and Lotho Bolger.”
“Won’t he suspect something?”
“Why should he? What is more natural than a physician taking the body of the deceased away for sepulture?”
“Will you make your examination now, Mr Holmes?” called Lotho anxiously from within. As soon as we entered the room my nostrils recoiled from the atmosphere. A misty, foul-smelling haze still hung in the air. Mingled with it was the smell of burned paper, cloth and stale cigar smoke. I coughed and flung both windows wide. Lotho pulled vigorously on his cigar and blew a fragrant cloud of smoke in my direction.
“I see you are something of a pipeweed connoisseur, Mr Bolger,” remarked Holmes casually.
“Pray take one, Mr Holmes. And you, Mr Bracegirdle,” said he, proffering a small, wooden cigar box. “I can recommend them, they are specially prepared for me by Hornblower of Hobbiton. An old man has few pleasures. Pipeweed and archaeology are all that is now left to me.”
I lit my cigar and noticed that Holmes slipped his into the inside pocket of his jacket whilst Lotho glanced nervously around the room.
“Pipeweed and archaeology, but no family!” the old hobbit repeated. “Alas! Who could have foreseen such a terrible catastrophe!”
“You know something of the history of the area, then?” I enquired.
“No one knows more,” replied Bolger without any trace of complacency.
“Perhaps you have read my treatise on the Magnum mysterium of Orthanc?”
“Unfortunately not, but if my recollection is not at fault, that was the former name of the ruined tower in the centre of Lake Isengard, was it not?”
“Indeed it was Mr Bracegirdle. The locals call it ‘Sharkey’s tooth’ and it is believed that an individual of that name once held sway over this area. A mighty powerful alchemist and conjurer he was too, by all accounts. Had I known the subject interested you I would have been only too glad to share my knowledge with you. Unfortunately, under the present, distressing circumstances...” He stifled a sob and passed his hand over his face.

Whilst we had been talking, Holmes had begun a detailed examination of the chaise longue on which the unfortunate Belladonna had so nearly met her end. Holmes was tense and alert, his eyes shining, his face set, his long limbs quivering with eager activity. His magnifying glass was in his hand and his heavy brows were drawn down over his eyes in a frown of concentration.
“What have you found?” I asked him.
“This!” said he, handing me a riding crop whose thongs were matted with blood.
“Merciful heavens!” I cried, “It is the murder weapon!”
“You are mistaken, Bingo. “It is merely the instrument of the poor woman’s torture.”
Without further explanation he dashed out of the room and I saw him, moments later, running over the lawn, peering in through the windows, and climbing up to the roof, for all the world like a Shire-hound scenting mushrooms. After a further exploration of the shrubbery at the bottom of the garden he vanished around the corner of the hole, and I heard his footsteps in the hall, before he bounded back into the library. The windows appeared to give him some fresh cause for excitement, for he thrust his head out of them with many loud ejaculations of delight. Then he rushed to the fireplace and threw himself at Lotho’s feet. His lens swept over the carpet in a blur, and several samples were soon deposited in a variety of envelopes. Next he made another a rapid circuit of the room, paying particular attention to the glasses on the dining table and the contents of a large, brass ashtray which he scrutinised with the greatest care, before dropping into a chair with a gesture of impatience.
“Well, sir, have you found any evidence of the Balrog?” asked Bolger.
“None,” said Holmes. “But I have found evidence of a conspiracy to torture and murder the woman who was tied to that couch.”
Lotho’s face was a study in confusion and alarm. He puffed on his cigar and stared at us.
“C-conspiracy, Mr Holmes?”
“Yes!” cried Holmes, rising from his chair with the riding crop in his hands. “Unless you would have me believe that a creature of fire and slime would trouble itself to poison it’s victims’ wine and tie a woman to a couch, before murdering the one, and driving the others out of their minds!”
“P-poison, Mr Holmes?” stammered the old hobbit.
“Yes, poison! In the port and in the so-called ‘discharge’ the foolish Doctor imagined to be the seed of some libidinous, supernatural creature!”
“But,” cried the old scopophilisist, “what other explanation is there?”
“It is our task to find that out,” replied Holmes; “so, now, if you please, Mr Bolger, I would like to put some further questions to you.”
The big hobbit scowled and strode toward the window.
“What can I tell you that you do not already know?” he asked peevishly.
“Whose riding crop is this?”
“I have no idea. I do not ride, sir.”
“Did your brothers?”
“No.”
“Did you profit from your sister’s career?”
“No - yes, I-”
“Come sir, which is it?”
“Not at first. Later I may have employed her in one or two Zoetrope entertainments.”
“Such as Spanking for Pleasure?”
“Possibly. I do not remember.”
“Surely you remember Goldilocks and the three bare bottoms?”
“I have told you; she sank into an abyss of depravity. After that I disowned her. I had no wish to profit from a sick woman’s degradation.”
“Your sister had never married?”
“No.”
“Did she have any especial friends?”
Lotho blanched but quickly recovered himself.
“Dozens - Milo Brockhouse was one.”
“Milo Brockhouse?” I asked. “The famous explorer and orc-hunter?”
Lotho nodded.
“And the others?” asked Holmes.
“I never saw them. She picked them up and discarded them as easily as you or I would a newspaper.”
“It is curious that you should mention newspapers,” said Holmes softly.
He took a small piece of paper from his jacket pocket, and carefully unfolding it, handed it to Lotho.
“I found this advertisement in your sister’s wardrobe.”
Lotho scanned it briefly, swore under his breath and handed it back with a trembling hand.
“Never seen it before in my life, sir.”
Holmes handed the faded paper to me and beneath a small lithograph of a very young Belladonna tied to a couch, I read:
This accomplished and obedient nymph has just attained her twenty-fourth year, and fraught with every perfection, enters a volunteer in the field of Venus and the harbour of Sappho. She plays on the pianoforte, sings, dances, and is the mistress of every manoeuvre in the amorous contest that can enhance a discerning gentlehobbit’s pleasure. She is of middle stature, with fine dark hair, brown eyes, an ardent nature, and a most prepossessing countenance. Her slender loins are a poem of perfection eager to accommodate the arrow of Eros and her dainty posterior will reward the more adventurous votary with the keenest enjoyment. Under corrective discipline she is all the heart can wish, or eyes admire; every limb writhes in charming abandonment, her delicate lip trembles, her cries are truly amorous; her price is but a trifling ten gold pieces. All enquiries should be addressed to Mr B at the Blue Tit in Longbottom.
“This is monstrous!” I exclaimed.

“Quite so,” said Holmes through clenched teeth. “Tell me, Mr Bolger, who is the author of this salacious advertisement?”
“B is a common enough initial, sir. It could have been any one.”
“You do not deny that the subject of this paean of praise is your sister?”
“Why should I? Have I not told you that she was a vicious libertine? Perhaps one of her lovers published it on her behalf.”
“Once again I must ask you; did you flagellate your sister?”
Lotho gave a great cry, whether from shock or anger it was difficult to say. I had already deduced that he was an accomplished actor and was not surprised by his next remark.
“Never!”
“Then who did?”
“Brockhouse!” he cried hoarsely.
“You mentioned him earlier,” asked Holmes. “Does he ride?”
“He is rarely out of the saddle,” said Lotho fiercely.
“Then you have proof that your sister was involved in acts of algolagnia with him?” asked Holmes.
“Algolagnia?” I interjected.
“Really, Bingo, I should have thought that a hobbit of your wide experience would be familiar with the practice of giving and receiving pain for amorous pleasure!” said Holmes sharply.
“Oh, that.” I answered with a blush.
Holmes repeated his question.
“Bella made no secret of her unnatural affection for Brockhouse,” said Lotho. “It was largely to get her away from him that I insisted she come back to live with me at Sharkey’s End.”
“Are you suggesting they were intimate together?” asked Holmes.
“What else is a hobbit to think when his own sister shamelessly shows him the wheals on her body and proudly names the brute who inflicted them?”
“You did nothing to prevent it?”
“She revelled in his abuses and would brook no interference from anyone.”
Holmes’ face was ashen and the knuckles of his hands stood out as he gripped the arms of his chair.
“Good gracious!” I exclaimed. “It’s come to something when the most famous explorer in the Shire stoops so low to gratify his unnatural appetites!”
“That remains to be seen,” said Holmes grimly.
“Do you doubt me?” exclaimed Lotho angrily.
Holmes pushed back his chair and leapt to his feet. He towered over the hobbit by a good two feet and fixed him with a malevolent look that turned my blood to water.
“If I discover that you had any hand in this tragic matter, or the sufferings of your sister, and you come under my hand - expect no mercy!”
Lotho stepped back and cowered before Holmes.
“I meant no offence, Mr —”
“ — Thank you,” interrupted Holmes icily. “I don’t think we need intrude on your grief and patience any longer, Mr Bolger.” With a brief word to the Doctor who was just climbing onto the seat of his donkey-cart, we turned our faces for home.

“Ah, Tea was never more welcome,” said Holmes with a weary sigh, accepting the cup Belinda offered him when we were safely back in our familiar parlour. She smiled at me and fetched his tobacco pouch from the mantelpiece.
“Well, this is a tangled web, and no mistake,” said I. “I feel like a small fly that has blundered into a whole nest of spiders, each more loathsome that the last.”
“It is certainly a very bad business, Bingo,” retorted Holmes grimly. “Quite the worst I have ever encountered. My better judgment tells me we should all take to our heels at once, but the case presents too many intriguing aspects for me to abandon it now.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Belinda nervously.
“Do?” repeated Holmes, taking his pipe from his pocket and rapidly filling it. “I think we shall take an early luncheon and then Bingo will go and interview Mr Brockhouse.”
“I?” I cried with a start. “Beard that fearsome hobbit in his own den? How do I know he will not murder me, Holmes?”
“You do not,” said Holmes with a smile. “But I do. Does it not strike you that the only clues that implicate Brockhouse were furnished by Lotho Bolger?
“What about that lewd advertisement?”
“As Lotho himself pointed out it could have been published by anyone with the initial ‘B’ — even you Bingo! Moreover, it was at least twenty years old and should have been as dusty as the other papers in the wardrobe, yet it was quite clean. Plainly it was planted there for me to find.”
“How can you be sure it was that old?” I asked.
“The lead type with which it had been impressed has been obsolete for twenty years.”
“Well,” said I, “I suppose I must trust to your judgement, Holmes.”
Holmes chuckled. “That would be best,” said he. “While you are out you might also call on Doctor Lightfoot and ascertain if there has been any change in Miss Bolger’s condition.”
“And what will you be doing?”
“With your permission, I have a mind to soak in a hot bath with Belinda for an hour.”
Our housekeeper’s eyes widened in surprise not unmixed with pleasure. “Oh, Mr Holmes!” she cried, “Are you sure you are ready for stage two yet?”
“Never more so!” said he, rising from his chair with a mischievous smile.
“Really, Holmes! I protested, not a little put out, “You have come on a long way if you can bring yourself to share a bath with a woman! Whatever next?”
“Marriage?” he enquired with a chuckle.
Belinda blushed furiously and rushed from the room in giggles.

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© 2003 Story by Mercedes Dannenberg. Page design utterpants.co.uk