Doomwyte

The good mole beamed from ear to ear. “Thankee gurtly, marm. Hurr, then may’aps you’m cumm to ’elp with ee washen up?”

Dwink explained, “No, Friar, we’re trying t’solve a riddle. We’re lookin for something that might be here, or may be gone.”

Skurpul laughed. “Hurrhurr hurr, naow that do bees a riggle. Summat as moight be yurr but maybe gone’d. Boi okey, an’ wot moight that bee, young maister?”

Perrit attempted to make things a bit clearer. “Listen to this, Friar: ‘Is it there or has it gone? Framed above a Friars Grace. On, on, I. The middle one.’ We’d be grateful if you could throw any light on it, sir.”

Wiping floury paws upon his apron, Skurpul commented, “Oi’d be grateful if’n Oi cudd throw any light on et, too, missy, but Friars bees only clever at cooken. Sorry Oi can’t ’elp ee, zurrs’n’marms, but you’m welcumm to search these yurr kitchens, long as ee puts things back as ee foinded ’em.” Leaving them some candied fruits to nibble on, Friar Skurpul continued with his work.

Dwink whispered to Samolus, “Well, that wasn’t much help was it, we still don’t know what a Friars Grace is.”

Samolus watched the old mole rolling out pastry. “Don’t be too hard on Skurpul, cookin’ is wot he does best. With an Abbeyful of creatures to cater for, the Friar doesn’t get time for other things.”

Dwink immediately felt sorry for what he had said. “Aye, yore right, sir, let’s look for a Friars Grace.”

Perrit suggested helpfully, “We know what Abbot’s grace is. Abbot Glisam says a different one before every meal. Maybe it’s something similar, what d’you think?”

Umfry smiled brightly. “I know, let’s h’ask the h’Abbot. Wait ’ere, h’I’ll go’n get ’im.”

Sister Violet selected a crystallised strawberry. “Young Umfry ain’t as slow as he looks.”

Abbot Glisam was only too glad to be of service; he put forth on the subject. “It’s odd you should ask me about Friars Grace. We Abbots are constantly composing different graces, for meals throughout the seasons. But Friars Graces are pretty few and far between. However, last night I was looking through the Abbey Records, to see if I could gather more information on Gonff. I did notice something which stuck in my mind. At some point during Gonff’s lifetime, there was a hogwife who acted as Friar, very good she was, too. Her name was Goody Stickle. Not only was she an excellent cook, but Goody was also an expert at crafting earthenware. It was noted in the Records that she would make bowls, flagons, dishes and beakers from clay. Goody would bake them in the ovens until they came out as fashionable and useful earthenware.” Glisam turned to Skurpul, who had just finished putting the final touches to a batch of latticed apple pies. “Friar, have you ever heard of a creature named Goody Stickle? A long time ago she was cook here. She also made earthenware things.”

Placing his pies on beechwood oven paddles, the old mole began sliding them into the ovens. He paused a moment. “Guddy Stickle, ee say, zurr, hurr, you’m bees castin’ yurr eye o’er this.” Skurpul reached down a honeypot from the shelf. It was a fine piece of work, elegantly shaped to look like a small, round beehive, decorated all round with bees and cornflowers. He passed it carefully to Glisam. “That’n bees made boi Goody Stickle, zurr, she’m wurr a gurtly clever-pawed ’edge’og. See yurrr, this bee’d ’er mark!”

It was a tiny, and beautiful, picture of a hedgehog. Probably sculpted on the wet clay with a knifetip, and baked hard as a permanent signature. The friends admired it, and Perrit enquired further, “It really is splendid, Friar, do you have any more of Goody Stickle’s work to show us?”

Skurpul placed the honeypot carefully back upon its shelf. “Oi ’spect thurr’s a few bits, likkle missy. May’ap many got broken o’er ee long seasons. But you’m lukk for ee dishes’n’such bearin’ yon mark. Them’ll be Goody’s, mebbe still ee few abowt.”

The search began in earnest then, Abbot Glisam joined in enthusiastically. Piece by piece, more of Goody Stickle’s work was discovered. Sister Violet turned up a little beaker, half-full of dried sage herbs. “This un’s got a liddle hogmark on its base, my, ain’t it a pretty thing!”

Dwink rolled his wheelchair across to inspect it. “Pretty I’ll grant you, Sister, but it doesn’t look like any Friars Grace. What’s that you’ve got, Umfry?”

“Dunno really, h’it’s a sorta puddin’ basin, h’I think.”

The friends rooted and rummaged through cupboards and drawers, shelves and crannies, to little avail. They found many examples of the long-ago cook’s ware, but not what they were seeking. Outside, daylight was fading to purple evening haze as the Abbey bells tolled for the day’s final meal.

Friar Skurpul finished supervising kitchen helpers, who had loaded up their trollies. Removing his cap and apron, the jovial mole enquired, “You uns be a-goin’ in for ee supper?”

Pushing his tiny crystal glasses up onto his brow, Abbot Glisam massaged his eyelids gently. “You go on, Friar, we’ll join you presently.”