The Inklings Detective Agency

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The Bird

Thursday, December 10, 1936
Oxfordshire, England

I was talking aloud to myself. A habit of the old: they choose the wisest person present to speak to. —J. R. R. Tolkien, The Two Towers

The wiry-framed fellow looked the part of a typical Oxford don: stylish and elegant in a burgundy vest and pressed trousers, topped with a tailored tweed jacket, perfectly cuffed with monogrammed links. He spoke out loud to himself as he walked the worn cobblestones in a late evening drizzle, passing the Martyrs' Memorial on his left with a quick salute. He pulled the jacket tight around him, but the blustery wind did not relent in biting and chilling him to the bone. John Ronald Reuel Tolkien paid it no mind. He was deeply lost in thought, speaking quick phrases and languages, some known only to him. He often shared unrefined ideas with himself. Thoughts of hobbits, orcs, dragons, a place called the Shire, and whatever else swirled around his strange and restless mind. Passersby would think him mad if they didn't understand his genius. But soon, those who paid the handful of shillings for his next book would be allowed to peek behind the curtain to see the wizard, if only just a little.

The words flowed faster with each hastening step, though everything Tolkien did was done at speed. He spoke fast, walked fast, read fast, and ate fast. His fellow Oxford colleagues joked he also slept fast. As Tolkien continued north on St. Giles', past the Ashmolean Museum on his left, and St. John's College to the right, he glanced down at his pocket watch and gasped. He was never late. Tolkien again quickened his pace, the heels of his shoes clacking like a metronome, and soon drifted back to acting out a dialogue, playing the dual role of quarreling elf and dwarf. The thunder cracked and roared overhead, and soon the rain came down in full sheets. A nearby evergreen tree, decorated for Christmas, sat short and wide, its lowest boughs nearly touching the ground under the sudden weight of water.

"Oh blast!" Tolkien said as heavy droplets splashed off his hat and narrow shoulders and filled the cracks of the cobblestone. He realized he'd forgotten his umbrella, but forged ahead on his trek, head bowed low with shoulders scrunched forward into the wind. There was no need to step into a nearby shop or wait under an awning for the rain to subside. Tolkien set his sights on the familiar pub ahead, less than a block away now. He pulled a handkerchief from the left breast pocket of his jacket, which was now, along with the fedora, nearly soaked through. He set his mind on the joy of a pint of warmed cider, which brightened his mood even more on this dismal evening. Tolkien stepped over the granite curb, waited for a passing motorcar, which splashed water onto his shoes, then walked across the wide cobbled road exactly where he usually did. He glanced up at the familiar round sign dangling and swinging in the wind, dripping rainwater on any who entered beneath it.

The sign depicted a giant eagle flying across a golden sky with a young child in its talons, a nod to the story of Ganymede, the legend of the boy carried off to Olympus by one of Zeus's eagles to serve as cupbearer to the mythical gods. Whether the boy went by choice or against his will, Tolkien could not remember at the moment, though he did like the look of the huge eagle.

Tolkien worked the latch and pushed open the wooden door of the Eagle and Child, more affectionately known to locals as simply the Bird and Baby or even just the Bird. He heard the tinkling of a bell above his head as he stepped inside and set about stomping the water from his shoes and shaking out his hat. He placed the hat gently on a well-worn peg jutting from the mortar in the wall, then stood for a moment; he usually needed time to let his eyes adjust but now realized it had already been dark outside and his eyes were well adjusted to the low-lit room. He sneezed and wiped at his beak-like nose with his wet handkerchief before shoving it into his hip pocket with a snort.

Scanning the room, he noticed the crowd at this time of night were mostly unfamiliar to him and then remembered he was already late and began moving toward the Rabbit Room at the back with renewed purpose, his long legs carrying him quickly past tables. Candles and electric wall sconces cast a dim light throughout the public house. The dark oak paneling on the walls and ceiling didn't help any to lighten the place, but the locals seemed to like everything as it was.

The Bird was long and narrow, barely wider than a railway car, and Tolkien often felt as though he were jostling down a train's center aisle as he made his way to the caboose. Tables and booths lined either side as passengers watched the professor pass by. Some coupled patrons spoke in hushed tones and others sat alone, nursing a pint of something dark or golden colored and smoking one cigarette after another.

Tolkien inclined his head to an older regular. The man frowned, swayed in his bench seat, and grunted back, clearly at the end of a long day spent drinking. A copy of The Times lay spread out before him on the table, yet the man was no longer in any state to read it. Despite its being upside down for him, Tolkien read the bold headline, which featured a continued story from the front page, something related to King Edward VIII staying at Fort Belvedere in Surrey and swirling rumors of his possible abdication of the throne. Another booth's bench was filled with men in uniform-British RAF on leave, speaking boisterously of heroic deeds, either feats from the past or what they would do tomorrow if given the chance and enough bullets.

Tolkien felt a release of tension when at last he stepped into the familiar back room of the Bird. The rear of the pub was theirs, a home away from home for him and his like-minded friends, known to one another as the Inklings. They were naturally drawn to gather around the already—roaring fireplace, which was near a back door—an exit that was rarely used but still there should the need arise.

"Sorry I'm late, old man," Tolkien said. He gestured to a seat opposite his good friend and colleague Adam Fox and sat in a weary huff. "I have a lecture Saturday at Pembroke on linguistics and got caught up at my office going over notes. Didn't notice the time. I hope I haven't missed anything of interest."

"Pay it no mind, John," Fox answered with a friendly smile and wave of his hand. "Relax and dry yourself off. Nothing of note can happen until the Bird closes. We have time to kill, and besides, we're still waiting on Lord Cecil." He checked his own pocket watch, a silver piece with a scrolling F etched onto the back, and took a small sip from the honeyed ale in front of him.

Fox, the dean of divinity at Oxford's Magdalen College, was the eldest of the Inklings, and though he was older than Tolkien by only nine years, all saw him as a friendly uncle or wizened mentor. Tolkien sighed before peering around the space for the first time to see who else had arrived at this specially called meeting of minds. Off in the corner booth sat Nevill Coghill and Hugo Dyson, leaning toward each other and speaking intensely about God knew what. So lost in passionate conversation they could be the only two in the entire pub for all they cared.

"Is that all?" Tolkien asked. "Just the five of us, then, with Cecil? Where are Jack and Warnie?"

Adam Fox chuckled and smoothed his wispy white hair. "Professor Lewis and his brother got the sniffles. It's going around, I hear. They opted to stay at the Kilns and let their lovely nanny make them chicken soup instead of making the trip to Oxford."

Tolkien frowned. "Why exactly are we here? Tell me you know. Surely not for an emergency manuscript reading?"

"I haven't the foggiest," Fox said with a shrug. "This is all Cecil's work. I had nothing to do with it. Our resident royal has a surprise for us, and all I was told is that it is incredibly important, sensitive, clandestine, and that lives may very well be at stake."

Tolkien couldn't help but snort and laugh out loud. "Are you serious? That sounds like our Lord David Cecil, as melodramatic as ever. Always someone about to die or suffer unimaginably in the direst of circumstances. He's told us that given his health, this could be his last year for . . . what has it been, the last five years?"

"He'll outlive us all," Fox said, followed by his signature deep, hearty laugh that caused his shoulders to bounce.

After a momentary pause, both men burst out laughing again just as Charles Blagrove, the aproned proprietor of the Bird, arrived and set down a warm cider in a thick mug for Tolkien and a fresh ale topped with foam in front of Fox.

"You gentlemen going to be reading tonight?" he asked politely with his warm smile. "I sure did enjoy hearing what I could of the last chapter, Professor Tolkien. Though I only got it in bits and pieces. I made as many excuses as I could to make my way back here."

"I don't believe so," Tolkien said slowly, eyeing Fox, who also shook his head. "At least I hadn't prepared to read anything. Tonight is a meeting of another sort. Besides, I think if Hugo over there had to listen to me read aloud about hobbits and elves twice in one week, he may have an aneurysm or go jump in the Thames."