Return of the Wordmonger

by Stephen Lomer

  “Nothing,” Ewan said evasively. “She was unhurt. And I was . . . reassigned.”

  “Why?” Ms. Fits pressed, a wry grin creeping across her face.

  “Could we please stay focused on the Wordmonger?” Weatherbee said.

  Ms. Fits folded her arms and leaned back in her seat, her eyes fixed on Ewan. “I’m just trying to get the whole story.”

  “That bit is not relevant to the story,” Ewan said curtly.

  “If you say so,” Ms. Fits said, still grinning.

  “Can I ask why other members of Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade weren’t assigned to the Wordmonger case after Agent Hoozarmi was reassigned?” Siya asked.

  “They were,” Weatherbee answered. “All of the likely suspects at Buckingham Palace were thoroughly questioned. The call was traced, but technology being what it was back then, nothing ever came of it. And the slip of paper with the typo was clean of fingerprints or any other clues.”

  “And the Wordmonger never made another attempt?” Bob asked.

  “He was never heard from again,” Weatherbee said. “Until now.”

  Weatherbee opened a folder on the table and handed out sheets of paper to everyone. Dick read his.

  NO ONE AT BUCKINGHAM IS SAFE. LET’S SEE IF ALL OF THE ROYALS ARE AS IMMUNE TO TYPOS AS THE PRINCESS WAS. AUT VIAM INVENIAM AUT FACIAM. THE WORDMONGER

  “My, uh, Latin’s a little rusty,” Dick said.

  “‘I will either find a way or make one,’” Ewan translated. He looked at Weatherbee. “How long ago did you receive this?”

  “Yesterday,” Weatherbee replied. “We’ve been getting regular missives from him for some time now. All untraceable, all loaded with typos.”

  “But this copy’s clean,” Big offered.

  “Yes, well, I had it edited before presenting it,” Weatherbee said. “It wouldn’t do to have all of us . . . reacting. Would it?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Big said with a grin. “My tic is pretty entertaining.”

  “If you’ve been receiving these regularly, why didn’t you reach out to us sooner?” Ewan asked. “Why don’t you have constables stationed at Buckingham already?”

  “We don’t have that kind of manpower,” Weatherbee replied. “I reached out to you when the messages grew increasingly disturbing. This one is the first with a legitimate threat.”

  “All right,” Dick said. “So the Wordmonger is back, and he’s threatening not only the royal family, but anyone within Buckingham Palace. What’s the plan?”

  “As we speak, the palace is making arrangements for my team and yours to take up temporary residence there,” Weatherbee said. “Our orders are simple—to find and stop the Wordmonger by any and all means necessary.”

  “We’re staying at Buckingham Palace?” Big said dreamily. “Do we get to wear suits of armor? Have jousting tournaments? Ooh! Are they looking for a court jester? I’ve been thinking about switching career paths lately.”

  Philip stifled another laugh behind his fist.

  “When do we move in?” asked Dick.

  “Tomorrow,” Weatherbee answered.

  “Good,” Dick said, nodding. “Um . . . Weatherbee?”

  “Yes?”

  “I realize how thoroughly American this is going to sound, but I’m not exactly up-to-date on the monarchy. Could you give us a quick overview?”

  Weatherbee smiled. “Of course. The ruling monarch is His Royal Highness King Edmund the Second. His ninety-first birthday is next month. The queen consort is Emma. They have three children, two who live in the palace—Prince Edwin and Princess Ermengarde. Their daughter Princess Anne resides on her own estate. There are, naturally, scores of lords and ladies connected to the royal family, but as none live at Buckingham, you shouldn’t need to know anything of them.”

  “Come on, Dick,” Big said, smiling. “You must have at least heard of King Edmund. He’s a legend.”

  “Is he? Why?”

  Weatherbee harrumphed loudly, but Big pressed on.

  “He’s one of the greatest cocksmen who ever lived! I don’t pretend to know anything, but I know that much.”

  “Agent Whig,” Weatherbee said patiently. “You’re speaking about the king of England.”

  “Yeah!” Whig said delightedly. “And he’s personally moved more beds than U-Haul!”

  “I’m certain that the queen consort—and his advancing years—have tempered those inclinations.”

  “Shame,” Whig said, shaking his head. “I was hoping to pick up some pointers.”

  “If we’re finished?” Weatherbee asked. He rose, and the rest of the table rose with him, except for Ms. Fits, who remained seated with her arms crossed tightly, still chewing her gum.

  “So we’ll meet you here tomorrow morning?” Dick asked Weatherbee. “Head off to the palace together?”

  “Actually,” Weatherbee said, smiling, “as you are guests of Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade, would you permit us to treat you and your team to a drink at a local establishment?”

  Dick glanced around the table. Philip, Bob, and Siya were all watching him with eager anticipation. He turned to Ewan. “Yes?”

  Ewan nodded.

  He turned to Big. “I don’t even need to ask you, do I?”

  “Aw, you know me so well, Dick,” Big said. “That’s sweet.”

  Dick turned back to Weatherbee. “I guess we’re all in. Where are we headed?”

  “A favorite haunt of ours,” Weatherbee said. “A little pub called The Rough Draught.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The pub was dark and shabby, with low ceilings and ancient, yellowed fleur-de-lis wallpaper peeling in spots off the original horsehair plaster. Dick took it all in as Weatherbee led them through the main room into a slightly wider room in the back. The only modern amenities that seemed to have been added in the last century or so were flat screen TVs in every corner, broadcasting football, rugby, and cricket.

  Both crews crowded around a cluster of high-top tables. Before anyone was even settled, something caught Big’s eye.

  Seated in a corner of the room were half a dozen rugby players, all close to Big’s size or bigger, all wearing the same mud-spattered maroon-colored jerseys, their faces covered in smeared, patchy war paint. They were talking animatedly and laughing among themselves.

  Big’s face lit up.

  “If you’ll all excuse me,” he said, grinning, “I’m going to go spend some quality time with my people.”

  He crossed the room toward the players, and just before he reached them, cried out, “Right, which one of you big, ugly bastards is buying my first pint?”

  There was silence for a moment, and then the players roared their approval and swallowed Big into the group with handshakes and pats on the back.

  Philip watched for a moment, and then looked around the table. “I’d best go keep an eye on him,” he said, and followed Big’s path to the corner of the room.

  “I’ll go too,” Siya said, smiling. “In case there’s a row.”

  Dick turned to Weatherbee.

  “She’s not even five feet tall, is she?”

  “Four foot ten,” Weatherbee replied. “But if there’s trouble, you’d do well to put a tenner on her.”

  “Fair enough,” Dick said. He looked around at the group, now sliding onto stools and making themselves comfortable. With Big, Philip, and Siya otherwise engaged, they were only four: Dick, Weatherbee, Ewan, and Bob. There was no sign of Ms. Fits anywhere, and Dick couldn’t remember if she’d left the Brigade headquarters with them or not.

  “Constable Frapples,” Weatherbee said suddenly. “Would you mind getting the drinks in?”

  “Sure,” Bob replied. “What are we having?”

  “Lagers all around,” Weatherbee said, handing the young man some notes. “There’s a good lad.”

  Bob disappeared, leaving Dick alone with Ewan and Weatherbee.

  “So,” Dick began. “Will Ms. Fits be joining us?” He couldn’t say exactly w
hy he was so fascinated with her, but he was.

  “It doesn’t appear so,” Weatherbee said.

  “Ms. Fits,” Ewan mused, and then a knowing smile broke across his face. “Do you know, I seem to recall a lovely young constable with whom we used to work called Connie Fits,” he said to Weatherbee. “Any relation?”

  “Yes,” Weatherbee replied. “Connie was her mother.”

  “Was?” Ewan echoed. “Is she no longer?”

  After a long pause, Weatherbee said, “Connie died in the line of duty.”

  “Oh my,” Ewan said. “I’m so sorry to hear it. Wonderful woman.”

  “Is that why Ms. Fits is a member of the Brigade?” asked Dick. “To honor her mother’s memory?”

  “Er, not exactly,” said Weatherbee. “Her joining the Brigade was my idea.”

  “Your idea? I don’t understand,” Dick said, but there was a knowing look on Ewan’s face.

  “You’re her father,” Ewan said, the slightest ghost of a grin on his face. “Aren’t you?”

  Weatherbee nodded. “After Connie died, I was dead set against Hissie following in her footsteps.”

  “Hissie?” asked Dick.

  “Yes, that’s Ms. Fits’s given name. Only please don’t ever call her that; she hates it so. Anyway, as time went by, Hissie and I began drifting apart. I was working so much, you understand. So I had a change of heart and encouraged her to join the Brigade, if it turned out she was immune. And as it happened, she was.”

  “I see,” said Ewan, nodding sagely. “And that’s why she’s allowed to call herself ‘Ms. Fits’ and wear the makeup and earrings and all of it. You indulge her.”

  “I do,” Weatherbee admitted. “I can’t help it. She’s my little girl.”

  “And does the rest of your team know?” asked Dick, glancing over at Bob, who was trying to figure out how to carry four tall glasses from the bar to their table.

  “No,” Weatherbee said. “And I’d just as soon keep it that way, if you don’t mind.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me, Inspector Frienderfoe,” Dick said, smiling.

  “And me,” echoed Ewan.

  Bob returned to the table with their drinks intertwined in his fingers and managed to put them down with a minimum of slosh. “There we are,” Bob said proudly.

  Each man grabbed a glass and followed Weatherbee in hoisting them.

  “To Typo Squad,” said Weatherbee genially.

  “And to Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade,” Dick said. They clinked their glasses and drank deeply.

  “Well—” Dick began, but at that very moment, the pub’s front door swung open. Two men dressed in black suits and wearing earpieces stepped inside and scanned the establishment with their blank dark sunglasses. Seemingly satisfied, one of them spoke directly into a microphone clipped to his shoulder. The two men assumed positions on either side of the door, and a few moments later, two more men dressed the same way entered the pub and crossed over to where Dick and company were sitting. They stood to either side of the table, facing one another.

  The pub was filled with curious murmuring, but went dead silent when the next figure walked in. She was a handsome older woman, ramrod straight, dressed in a fashionable powder blue skirt and blazer with matching pillbox hat perched on top of her salt-and-pepper hair. She wore pristine white gloves and carried a small black handbag.

  Dick felt like the woman had a noble presence, but was surprised to see the bartender and all the other men in the pub—Weatherbee, Ewan, and Bob among them—on their feet and bowing low. All the women were curtsying. No one said a word.

  The woman crossed the room as her security detail closed ranks around her. Drawn by the sudden breathless silence, Big and his new friends rounded the corner to see what was happening. Immediately, the rugby players and Philip bent at the waist toward the woman, and Siya lowered her head and curtsied.

  Dick and Big looked helplessly at one another and, shrugging, bowed as well.

  “So,” the woman said pleasantly, and everyone at once stood tall, staring wide-eyed at her. “This is the team that will be protecting my family. How wonderful.”

  She spoke to Typo Squad and Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade alike, but her eyes locked with Ewan’s. They were several feet apart, but Dick could feel an electricity between them, like the room had been filled with a powerful charge. He thought he could guess who this woman must be.

  “Ewan Hoozarmi,” she said, extending her hand to him. “How wonderful to see you again.”

  Ewan took her hand, dreamlike, and slowly nodded his head. “Your Megistry,” he replied with a small smile.

  The pub filled with a sudden hissing sound as everyone sucked in breath at this apparent breach of royal protocol, but the woman laughed heartily.

  “Oh, not to worry,” she said, taking her hand back and addressing the room at large. “Constable Hoozarmi was simply repeating what he called me the first time we met, many years ago.”

  There was a collective exhale and a low murmur filled the room as people now strained to get a good look at Ewan.

  “Forgive my manners,” the woman said, turning toward Weatherbee. “I am Princess Anne.”

  Weatherbee clicked his heels together smartly and bowed his head. “Your Majesty.”

  Anne went around the table, introducing herself, her eyes drifting invariably back to Ewan. Once she had made her way through all the members of Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade and Typo Squad, the rest of the people in the pub began drifting over to timidly introduce themselves. There was no real reason for her to stay, but she did, accepting everyone graciously, including the enormous rugby players Big had befriended. She even posed for cell phone photos with those who were bold enough to ask for them.

  “Well,” she sighed, smiling, once everyone had had their chance to meet her. “I expect I shall see you all tomorrow at Buckingham.”

  The statement was directed at both teams, but once again, Dick had the distinct impression that she was speaking only to Ewan.

  “You will indeed, Your Highness,” Weatherbee replied.

  “Indeed,” Ewan echoed.

  “Until tomorrow, then,” Anne said, and nodded in every direction. She turned and crossed the pub to the front door, her security detail closing in around her and escorting her out to the street. Dick could just make out the shiny black top of a limousine before the door swung shut.

  There was an overwhelming silence, as though everyone in the pub had forgotten how to breathe, followed by an explosion of overlapping conversation about what had just happened.

  “Choppah!” the bartender shouted to an older man at the end of the bar. “Mind the till! I’ve got to ring the wife!”

  He zipped through a doorway behind the bar and disappeared. Choppah leaned forward on his stool and helped himself to a pair of pound notes someone had left behind as a tip.

  Ewan found himself suddenly mobbed, as though he were a bona fide celebrity, and was peppered with questions from all sides about his connection with Anne. By the wide smile on his face, he seemed to be rather enjoying it.

  Several times over the next few hours, Weatherbee suggested to anyone within earshot that his and Dick’s team should probably ease up on the drink and get a good night’s sleep, considering their destination the next morning, but no one wanted to hear it. Those who had been present during Anne’s visit had called their friends and family down to recount to them what had happened, and the pub was packed to full capacity.

  “No, we really ought to be going,” Weatherbee said as yet another person elbowed their way through the crowd to drop yet another round of drinks on their table.

  Big grabbed the closest pint and drained it in one go, slobbering a great deal of it down his front. He slammed the glass on the table and attempted to focus.

  “You worry too much, Leatherby,” he slurred, slinging an arm around the man’s shoulders and shaking him. “Listen. I’ve been to Cinderella’s Castle at Disney World, okay? How di
fferent could this palace of yours be? Right?”

  “Big,” Dick said, unable to suppress a smile.

  “Dick!” Big cried, and he slung his other arm around Dick’s shoulders. “What’s up, new Tanka?”

  “Oh, man,” Dick said with a grimace. “Too soon.”

  “Much too soon,” Ewan offered.

  “Anyway,” Dick continued, “you’ve never been to Disney World.”

  A look of confusion spread across Big’s features. He was struggling to keep his head level.

  “Sure I have,” he slurred. “Where else would I have been in a castle?”

  “That was a bouncy castle,” Dick said patiently. “For your birthday.”

  “How would you know if I ever had a bouncy castle for my birthday?”

  “Because it was last year.”

  Big pondered this for a long minute, and then a big, drunken grin blossomed on his face. “Oh yeah! That was so fun!”

  Dick nodded toward Weatherbee. “You mind helping me here?”

  Both men stood up, Dick under one of Big’s arms and Weatherbee under another.

  “Come on, big man,” Dick said, glancing at a nearby clock, which stood at 12:45. “Let’s get you to bed. Got a long day tomorrow.”

  The loud chatter in the pub turned to groans and shouts of disapproval as patrons saw Big being hoisted away.

  “Yeah, sorry kids,” Big said to the crowd around them. His head lolled forward and back. “Got a big day tomorrow. Ewan’s going to hook up with his old girlfriend.”

  Both teams made their way slowly out of the pub, and Dick and Weatherbee leaned Big against the outside wall as Dick called Jack to pick them up.

  “You’ll be all right from here?” Weatherbee asked.

  “Yes, fine,” Dick said. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning at your headquarters.”

  “Very good. Well then, ’night all.”

  Dick and Ewan shook hands all around with Weatherbee, Bob, Philip, and Siya, and the Brigade members headed off down the sidewalk, all of them varying degrees of unsteady.

  Big, who had been dozing with his chin on his chest, suddenly roused and looked around. He spotted Ewan and Dick, and raised one finger.