Prown Thimble Down

A Mystery
1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-1-62488-340-8
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 225 Seiten

THIMBLE DOWN is a village where death and malice lurk the otherwise quiet lanes. When the vile, seedy Bing Rumple acquires a gem-laden treasure, violence starts to follow him everywhere. Where did Bing find such a precious jewel, and worse, is someone willing to kill for it? In this fast-paced adventure, the village bookmaster, Mr. Dorro, and his young companions Wyll Underfoot and Cheeryup Tunbridge are in a desperate race to find the answer ... before death returns to Thimble Down.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Prown, Pete

Leseproben

1. An Unwelcome Return

I'm surrounded by the dead …

Sighing, Dorro sat back and lit a long, curved wooden pipe. According to his silver pocketwatch, it was just a quarter past eleven in the morning. "All I do is translate the work of dead poets," he lamented. "What an utter bore."

He picked up his quill, stabbed it in the ink jar, and resumed his work, taking scrolls of poems written in ancient Havling verse and deciphering them into modern Halfling, the language of his particular folk. As much he might have preferred sitting by the fire in his cozy burrow, Dorro Fox Wynderiver was nonetheless satisfied of his position as bookmaster of Thimble Down, a village near the River Thimble. Slowly swelling with pride, Dorro blew several large smoke rings over the poetry scrolls on his desk and watched them sail out the window. The dark cloud of ennui passed as quickly as it had come.

Thimble Down was a typical Halfling village, one full of tall trees, tall grass, and very short people. At five-feet tall, Dorro was actually considered a bit on the statuesque side, even without his silver-buckled black leather shoes. He had sloppy brown hair and an oval face, wore half-moon reading specs during work hours, and had a penchant for looser, comfortable clothing, which hid a tummy that, for some inexplicable reason, was growing larger as he edged into middle age.

(Certainly, Dorro—like any self-respecting Halfling—would never consider that the traditional diet of four solid meals a day had anything to do with this phenomenon. In contrast, Thimble Downers firmly believed in the honest nutritional value of buttered pumpernickel toast with jam, sweet cakes, and all manner of ciders, lagers, and wines. And naturally, a dram or two of the old honeygrass whiskey never hurt either. I feel like I'm getting thinner with age, Dorro thought, squeezing himself out of his desk chair with more than a few grunts and groans.)

Deciding to take a break from the morning's translations, Dorro grabbed his scarf and walking stick. He placed a well-worn "Back after a quick nap" sign on the library door and went out for a walk in the warming sun. It was a cool, crisp day in April of 1721, A.B., and Thimble Down was waking up from another snow-caked Winter. As always, it was worth the wait.

Dorro ambled down the packed-dirt trail away from the village and mentally ticked off a list of spring ephemerals coming into bloom: There is a patch of snowdrops, the remains of the yellow winter-hazel, the dullish purples of hellebore, bright blue scilla, and—oh!—here come the first daffodil buds! All Halflings were fond of trees and flowers, but Dorro was fairly daft about them, especially daffodils. He picked daffs by the armful throughout the month of March and April, crowding mantles and tabletops with vases and old jam jars packed with their yellow, white, cream, and orange cups. It was a fragrance to die for, he thought.

Drawing closer to the water's edge, Dorro passed several burrows and hillock-houses that belonged to his neighbors, each a comfortable, earthen dwelling built into earth with bright and sunny front windows, a grass-covered roof, and a garden in front. Then he passed his own abode, lovingly dubbed the "Perch." Of all the homes on this lane, Dorro's was among the most coveted, with its kingly view of the River Thimble, numerous bedrooms and food cupboards within, and a fine apple-tree orchard not thirty feet from the front door. Inherited from his long-deceased parents, the Perch was his pride and joy—a pride that sometimes bordered on the edge of quiet conceit, but he hoped no one noticed. Dorro lived alone, but saw plenty of the village folk at the library, and, on rare occasion, would have a neighbor or two over for herbal tea, apple-bread, and discussion of poetry or some other piece of Halfling literature. His was not a life of wild adventure, but that's the way he preferred it.

However, there was one eccentric passion that fascinated Dorro.

While Thimble Down was a tranquil village, from time to time, nefarious acts occurred within it fair borders, or in other towns in the Halfling counties, such as Water-Down, Upper-Down, and Nob. These crimes would often happen where you'd expect—in taverns or banking establishments, or out in the deep woodlands where uncouth rogues would hold up wagons traveling between settlements. Yet sometimes, mortal crime happened closer to home.

When these misdeeds turned to something worse—even murder most foul—Dorro would be called upon by the portly county cop, Sheriff Forgo. While Forgo didn't like the general populace to know he asked for help from the bookmaster of Thimble Down, he realized that Dorro had a sharp mind for "puzzlin' out puzzles." In fact, Dorro had helped him track down more than a few thieves, liars, forgers, and gambling cheats over the years, as well as ruthless murderers. But the fewer folk who knew about that, the better, Forgo always thought.

***

Dorro arrived at the river's edge and soaked in the magnificent panorama. The River Thimble was a wide, calm expanse that rarely flooded, though its torrent could be quick after a rainstorm. But that wasn't what the bookmaster was thinking about.

"I know you're out there, my pretties. And I'm coming to get you, and soon!" he said loudly, to no one in particular. A few feet away, the village wanderer Dalbo Dall stirred from his nap against a giant sycamore tree and briefly regarded Dorro speaking to the wind. Dalbo considered asking Dorro whom he was talking to, but decided he would prefer more sleep and promptly nodded off again, dreaming of tankards full of ale with thick, frothy tops.

Of course, Dorro's lone oratory would have sounded odd to Dalbo, but the bookmaster knew exactly whom he was addressing—fish! In just a few weeks, as the sun warmed the river more, the people of Thimble Down would know that the sign "Back after a quick nap" meant that Dorro would be down at the river, taking his rest with hook 'n' line in the water. The River Thimble was simply brimming with fat, wriggling brown trout, bass, and perch, and Dorro wanted to catch them all. Well, perhaps not all, but he was an avid fisherman, and tossing a line in the water was, to him, among the finest pleasures a Halfling gent of leisure could enjoy. (And of course, you now understand why his burrow was named the Perch, both for its panoramic view of the river and for the delicious, yellow-striped fish that resided within its waters. It was a pun that made Dorro giggle on occasion).

"I'll be back, my scaly foes," he exclaimed and turned to walk back to the library and finish his translations of ancient—and quite dead—Halfling poets.

***

On the same afternoon that Dorro ambled down to the river and dreamt of fish jumping on the end of his line, Bing Rumple turned up in front of the Hanging Stoat, one of Thimble Down's popular taverns, accompanied by two others, his brother Farroot and their acquaintance, a large, well-muscled brute named Bill Thistle, who sported a jagged scar down his left eyelid and cheek.

Bing Rumple was among Thimble Down's least savory creatures. In fact, some thought the words "sniveling," "sneaky," and "lazy" had actually been invented just to describe this poor excuse for a Halfling. Bing spent most of his time at the tavern, gambling, swearing, and groveling for coins so he could buy more ale and honeygrass whiskey. Some thought he was even behind the petty thefts that had occurred in this and surrounding villages. The purloined purse, the rifled coat pocket, the missing pot pie left on a windowsill—all had the faint whiff of Bing Rumple about them. Alas, no one—not even Sheriff Forgo—had been able to catch Bing in the act and, thus, he remained innocent in the eyes of the law.

Last summer Bing had disappeared, and many residents of Thimble Down thought that he simply moved on to a new hamlet where he could continue to sneak, steal, and drink. Or even better, maybe he went off and politely died somewhere, sparing them the expense of a funeral or the bother of digging a hole. But everyone in Thimble Down was wrong.

Flinging the Hanging Stoat's door open with a crash, Bing and his cronies strode into the room. All within fell silent.

"Thought I was dead, did'ja? Well, I ain't!"

Bing then laughed out loud in his raspy voice and ambled up to the bar. "Gimme a pint for me and my mates, you fat oaf," he said, staring menacingly at the rather porcine barkeep, Mr. Mungo, who was also the tavern's owner.

Mungo eyed him suspiciously. "Do you have any coin this time, Bing?"

"How's this, you lumbering goat-herd?" And with that, Bing slapped down two silver tuppers on the countertop. Mungo grabbed them and held them close to his face, testing their weight in his hand.

"Seems real enough," he replied disapprovingly and began to draw a few milk stouts for Bing, Farroot, and Bill and set them on the bar. "Where ya been, Bing? Some folk hereabouts thought you had moved on, permanently."

"You wish" Bing scratched his closely shorn head and stared around the room balefully, recalling a history of gambling games gone wrong, debts owed, and far too many ales in his belly. "In fact, I have made my fortune and…," raising his voice so everyone could hear, "… I don't care who knows about it!"

"It's time for Bing Rumple to...