“Agent Hoozarmi,” said a tall man to his left, “will you be working with Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade during your time here?”
“Yes,” Ewan replied, now clearly enjoying the attention. “Although in what official capacity I’m not entirely certain.”
“Do you plan to spend any time with Princess Anne during your visit?” asked a dark-haired woman, and everyone seemed to freeze while awaiting the answer.
Ewan looked over his shoulder at Dick, and then back at the reporters. “No, I’m afraid not.”
“Why?” asked the same woman.
“Er,” Ewan said. “We’re here on a specific assignment, and any time spent pursuing any other interests would only distract from what we’re here to do.”
“Can you give any details of that specific assignment?” the tall man asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
Dick stepped up. “Okay, that’s enough, kids. We’re on a schedule here.”
He guided Ewan away from the circle, and Big stepped up to the group. He pointed after Ewan. “I’m with him.”
The reporters stared blankly at Big.
“No? Nothing?”
More silence.
“You guys like my scarf?” he asked, holding up one end of it for them to examine. “Brand new.”
Still more silence.
Big dug into his pocket and pulled out a copy of The Guide to British Slang.
“Fine then,” Big said, reading. “Sod off, the lot of you.”
Big caught up with Dick and Ewan at the baggage carousel. They retrieved their suitcases and stood in a small circle.
“Now what?” asked Ewan.
“Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade said they’d send a car to collect us,” Dick replied.
“Collect us?” Big repeated. “Are we baseball cards?”
“I’m just telling you what they told me.”
A few moments later, a young man in an overlarge black suit timidly approached them. In his hands he held a hand-lettered sign that read TYPE-O SQUAD.
Dick expected his tic to kick in, but it didn’t. He looked at Big and Ewan, and both of them seemed fine.
“I guess technically that’s not a typo,” Dick reasoned out loud. “We could all have the same blood type.”
“What if we don’t?” Big asked. “What if we’re Type-B Negative Squad?”
“Are you them then?” the young man with the sign asked.
“We are members of Typo Squad, if that’s what you’re asking, young sir,” Ewan replied.
The young man smiled. “Great! I’m Jack. I’m supposed to take you to Crouch End.”
“Take us to do what?” asked Big, mystified.
“Crouch End is part of North London,” Ewan explained.
“Oh.”
“Should I get a trolley for your bags?” Jack asked eagerly.
“I think we can manage it,” Dick said. “Why don’t you just lead the way?”
As they set off, Jack turned to Big. “Love your scarf.”
“Oh, this old thing?” Big smiled.
The car was a larger-than-average London cab, which allowed Dick and Ewan to spread out in the back seat, while Big occupied the rear-facing seat. Dick and Big were both staring avidly out the window as they made their way through the London streets, but Ewan merely watched the scenery roll by with a kind of detached bemusement.
“Ooh! Is that Big Ben?” Big cried, pressing his face up against the glass.
“Big, that’s a post office,” Dick said.
“Are you sure? It’s got a clock on it.”
“My bedside table has a clock on it,” Dick said. “Does that make my bedside table Big Ben?”
A light, misty rain began to fall as they made their way past pubs and shops, government buildings and businesses.
“Oi!” Big cried suddenly, and then looked at Ewan questioningly. “Is that right? Oi?”
Ewan smiled. “Quite.”
Big nodded. “Oi, Jack!” Big called, tapping on the partition between the front and rear of the car.
“Yes?” Jack called back.
“When do we get to see all the cool stuff?”
“What cool stuff do you mean?”
“Well, y’know,” Big replied. “Castles and knights. Princesses. Dragons. That stuff.”
Dick and Ewan both shook their heads as Jack chuckled.
“Not too many castles in London,” he said. “One or two princesses at any given time. Definitely no dragons.”
“And knights?”
“Well, plenty of blokes get knighted these days,” Jack explained. “But they don’t wear the armor and ride horses and all of it. They’re just out and about, like anyone else.”
Big seemed disappointed.
“Oh, cheer up, Christopher,” Ewan chimed in. “Perhaps, as an honored guest of the Commonwealth, Arthur will invite you to sit at his round table this evening.”
They reached their hotel a short while later, and Jack muscled their luggage out of the cab’s trunk while Dick, Ewan, and Big assessed their accommodations. The building was a bit run-down and drab, and badly in need of a paint job and landscaping. A peeling wooden sign over the front door read THE BLACK VEIL.
“Well,” offered Ewan. “It’s certainly . . .”
“. . . a dump,” Big finished.
“Finest hotel in Crouch End,” Jack said, bringing them their luggage. “’Course, that’s not saying much.”
“Great,” said Big sourly. “Dick, you managed to swing first-class plane tickets and then this is where you picked for us to stay?”
“It looks a lot more impressive online,” Dick said.
“Right, so I’ll be back in an hour to take you to Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade headquarters?” said Jack.
“We’ll be ready,” Dick replied.
An hour later, Dick joined Big and Ewan in the shabby hotel lobby. All three men had changed into their black Typo Squad uniforms, their distinctive red insignia patches shining under an oppressively bright chandelier.
“What is that smell?” Dick asked as they headed for the front door.
“Stargazy pie,” Ewan answered simply.
“What in the name of Sir Lancelot’s left nut is stargazy pie?” Big asked.
“It’s a dish made with baked pilchards, eggs, and potatoes, and finished with a pastry top. Named for the way the fish poke their heads out of the crust,” Ewan said. He paused. “It’s not as good as it sounds.”
Big and Dick had both turned pale.
“Are you sure?” Big asked. “Because it sounds delightful.”
“Gentlemen,” Dick said, “we are dining out tonight.”
Jack was waiting at the curb. They piled into the cab and the scenery once again began to move.
Ten minutes later, the cab passed under a wrought-iron archway into a small cobblestone turnout. The rain had let up and only a dreary, late-day cloud cover remained.
“Here we are, gentlemen,” said Jack, pulling up in front of a plain black door set in an ornate stone frame. Carved into the lintel were the letters HMRTB.
“My word,” Ewan said softly as he exited the car and looked around.
“What?” asked Dick.
“It’s as though not a single day has passed. Everything looks precisely as I remember it. As if frozen in time.”
“Are you all right?” Dick asked.
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” Ewan answered, but Dick had his reservations.
Jack circled around the car and handed Dick a business card. “My number. If you need to go anywhere while you’re here, just call.”
“You’re a good man, Jack,” Dick said, shaking the young man’s hand firmly.
“Jack,” Big said to himself. “Hey, you’re not related to the Ripper, are you?”
Jack smiled. “I am the Ripper,” he said, and hopped back into the cab.
“I like that kid,” Big said as the vehicle pulled away. “So. What are we waiting for? Ewan’s not getti
ng any younger.”
“True enough,” Dick said. “Let’s go.”
He stepped forward and grabbed the door handle, and the three of them entered the headquarters of Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade.
CHAPTER FOUR
The office was small, but cozy and elegantly appointed. The walls were paneled in a fine, rich wood, and a chandelier hung above the half-dozen desks lining both sides of the room. Dick was not at all surprised to see a porcelain tea set on a silver tray at the far end of the room.
One by one, the agents in the room looked up and froze at the sight of Dick, Big, and Ewan standing there. Dick noted their uniforms were similar to Typo Squad gear, except for the insignia patch; Typo Squad’s had a fountain pen tip on a field of red, but Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade had three golden pen tips forming a crown on a purple background.
“Ewan?” Big said softly as the moment grew more and more uncomfortable. “Is this a staring contest? You didn’t tell us about a staring contest.”
“It isn’t a contest, Christopher,” Ewan said, smiling as he gazed around the room. “They’re only staring because they’ve never before seen a typo agent capable of blocking out the sun.”
“Oh,” Big said. “They have sun in this country?”
The moment broke when Weatherbee Frienderfoe entered through a side door, thumbing through a folder. He glanced up, took in the scene, and cleared his throat loudly. The agents at their desks looked around, saw Weatherbee, and immediately jumped up and stood at attention.
“You would think we’d never had visitors in this office before,” Weatherbee said sternly, and then crossed over to Ewan, throwing his arms around his old friend and patting him warmly on the back.
“Ewan,” he said, beaming. “So lovely to have you back here.”
“It’s extraordinary,” Ewan said, nodding past Weatherbee to the office beyond. “So little has changed. Everything is just as I remember it.”
“Well, one thing has changed since I saw you last,” Weatherbee said, hooking his thumb under a set of gold bars on the shoulder of his uniform.
“You’ve made Inspector!” Ewan said. “Congratulations. Well deserved.”
“Thank you.” Weatherbee turned toward Dick and Big. “Now then, I believe introductions are in order.”
“Ah yes,” Ewan said. “This is Lieutenant Richard Shonnary, Typo Squad.”
“The young man who worked so tirelessly to clear Ewan’s return,” Weatherbee said, shaking Dick’s extended hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Richard.”
“The pleasure is mine. And I prefer Dick.”
“Dick it is,” Weatherbee said, nodding.
Dick turned to Big. “Can’t tell if that’s a joke or not.”
“And this is Agent Christopher Whig,” Ewan said.
“Call me Big.”
“Big,” Weatherbee repeated, shaking Big’s hand. “Welcome all; welcome all.” He turned back toward the office. “And may I introduce the fine men and women of Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade?”
They moved in a group toward the first desk, where a tall, gangly young man with a dark buzz cut stood. “This is constable Bob Frapples.”
“Welcome to London,” Frapples said, nodding to everyone. They moved to the next desk, where a short, dark-haired Indian woman waited.
“Constable Siya Leytur,” Weatherbee said. Siya smiled at all of them, but saved an especially wide smile for Big.
“And here we have Constable Philip Busther,” Weatherbee said, introducing them to a short, stocky, very excited-looking young man who shook all their hands with great enthusiasm.
“Are you really from the States?” Busther asked. “I only ask because I’m mad for all things American. I mean, people think I’m mad anyway, and that’s as may be, but does everyone really own a sports car in America? Oh, I’d love to own a sports car, because then I could go to all the fancy restaurants in Hollywood and dine with the beautiful celebrities. Have any of you been to Hollywood? One of my mates was an extra in a film once and he told me—”
“Constable Busther,” Weatherbee said wearily.
“—you can get discovered that way and they’ll put your face on an advert over Sunset Boulevard, and I tried to imagine what it would be like driving down Sunset Boulevard and seeing a giant, you know, you staring down at you, but then all those blonde women would be after you because they’d know who you are, wouldn’t they? Is it true that everyone in California is blond? Only it looks that way in all the American films I’ve seen. I have a massive collection of movies—”
“Constable Busther,” Weatherbee repeated, louder.
“—and I watch them all the time. My flatmates are sick to death of them, but I can’t get enough. I’ve watched this one film about a thousand times, it’s about this assassin who gets paid an enormous sum of money to kill this one bloke, only the assassin doesn’t know that the other bloke’s an assassin too, and he’s been hired to kill the first bloke. So they—”
“Constable Busther!”
Philip snapped his mouth shut, looking abashed. “I was doing it again, wasn’t I, sir?”
Weatherbee nodded.
“I’m sorry, it’s just, I’m so excited to have them here.” He glanced at Dick, Ewan, and Big. “My apologies, Agents.”
All three smiled. “I like this kid,” Big said. “You and I, Philip. You and I are going to have a pint, make no mistake about it.”
They moved to the last desk. A young woman stood there, chewing gum, watching them all with half-lidded eyes. She wore smoky eyeshadow and black lipstick, and had a number of silver rings climbing the outer rim of her ear. Her short dark hair was streaked with blue, and hung down over her forehead.
“And this,” Weatherbee said, “is Ms. Fits.”
Dick looked at Weatherbee. “Not Constable Fits?”
Weatherbee shook his head uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact with them. “Ms. Fits,” he repeated.
Big and Ewan shook Ms. Fits’s hand, and as Dick did, he asked, “No first name?”
She didn’t respond.
“Okay then,” Dick said, taking his hand back.
“Lengthy story,” Weatherbee mouthed silently, and then turned to the rest of the office. “Right then, conference room at 1730 hours. Let’s get our new colleagues up to speed.”
Half an hour later, Dick, Ewan, Big, and the rest of Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade sat around an enormous oak conference room table in a long room with yet another chandelier and a large fireplace at the far end. Weatherbee stood at the head of the table, stroking his small, pointed white beard as everyone settled in.
“So,” he said, placing his hands behind his back. “The Wordmonger.”
He let the name hang in the air for a moment, and then turned to Ewan. “Agent Hoozarmi. Perhaps you’d care to start us off?”
“Oh. Yes, of course,” Ewan said, standing and joining Weatherbee at the head of the table. “Well, I first crossed paths with the Wordmonger many years ago.”
Big turned to Philip. “Everything is many years ago for him,” he said, and Philip laughed uproariously. He was cut short by a sharp glare from Weatherbee.
“As I was saying,” Ewan continued, “a plot was uncovered at Buckingham Palace. The King’s Guard had received information that someone was going to attempt to introduce a typo to young Princess Anne. They believed it was an inside job.
“I was assigned to protect the princess until the offender was apprehended. I stayed at the palace for nearly two months with no incidents. Then one day I was standing guard outside Anne’s . . . that is, the princess’s suite, when I was approached by an underbutler named Wrenchley.”
“Wrenchley?” Siya asked, taking rapid notes.
“Yes,” Ewan said. “Wrenchley told me that I had a phone call from Chief Inspector Nillie, who was in charge of Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade at the time. He asked me to follow him.”
“Follow him where?” asked Bob.
“T
o the telephone.”
Bob, Philip, Siya, and Ms. Fits all stared blankly.
“Ah,” Ewan said, the problem dawning on him. “Yes, you see, in those days, if you wanted to speak to someone on the telephone, you needed to actually go to the telephone itself, which was connected to the wall.”
“You’re sure Chief Inspector Nillie didn’t want you on the telegraph?” Big asked evenly. “Carrier pigeon? Smoke signal?”
Once again, Philip burst out laughing.
“This kid is a great audience,” Big said to Dick. “I want him to follow me everywhere.”
“Big?” Dick said patiently. “Can we get through this? Please?”
“Anyway,” Ewan went on, “the telephone was quite a distance from Anne’s suite. Frankly, everything in Buckingham Palace is quite a distance from everything else. So I took the call, and found myself not speaking to Chief Inspector Nillie, but the Wordmonger himself.”
“What did he say?” Bob asked.
“He taunted me,” Ewan replied. “Told me that he would get a typo to the princess, in spite of my protection. I told him he never would, because I was by her side at all times. And then he pointed out I wasn’t by her side at that very moment.
“I ran back to the princess as quickly as I could, but the slip of paper with the typo was already in her hand. Thank heaven she was immune.” Ewan appeared to weigh out his next words carefully. “And that was it.”
He lowered himself back into his seat. Weatherbee looked at his team. “So. What can we discern from Agent Hoozarmi’s account?”
“The Wordmonger knew that Agent Hoozarmi wasn’t near the princess’s suite,” Bob said. “And he was able to get a typo to the princess while Agent Hoozarmi was away. Which means it had to have been someone with knowledge of the palace’s layout, and that the Wordmonger must have had line of sight on Agent Hoozarmi.”
“He also knew the chief inspector’s name,” Siya added. “So he must have had some inside information about Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade.”
“And in order to present a typo, the Wordmonger must have been immune himself,” Philip said.
“What happened after you found Princess Anne with the typo?” a lazy voice asked. It was Ms. Fits, slowly chewing her gum, addressing Ewan directly.
Return of the Wordmonger Page 3