Return of the Wordmonger

by Stephen Lomer

  “Ah,” the queen consort said in clipped tones, zeroing in on Ewan. Dick thought he could see the slightest narrowing of her eyes. “Agent Hoozarmi. Welcome back to England.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Ewan replied.

  “Hoozarmi,” the king said suddenly. He squinted in Ewan’s direction. “Hoozarmi. I say, isn’t that the fellow who once tried to get off with our Anne?”

  There was a sudden, horrified silence in the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Dick could see Big exerting all of his power to not burst out laughing.

  Emma patted her husband’s arm gently. “That was simply a . . . misunderstanding, my dear,” she said. The king nodded.

  “And this lovely young lady,” the king said, pointing at Siya. He licked his old, dry lips. “She reminds me of a young prostitute I had once in Bangalore.”

  “Father—” Edwin said urgently.

  “Liked a thumb in the bum, that one did,” the king continued, and he wheezed laughter.

  “Father, please.”

  “Mmm?” Edmund asked, turning to his son. “Ah, there you are, Edwin. What’s going on?”

  “It’s a greeting ceremony, Father,” Edwin said, gesturing toward Dick and company.

  “Is it?” the king asked, puzzled. His eyes passed over the figures in front of him. “Oh my, so it is. And who are all these people?”

  “Members of Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade and Typo Squad from America, Father,” Prince Edwin said.

  “Ah,” said the king. “And why are they here?”

  “To catch the Wordmonger, Father.”

  “The Birdmonger, you say?”

  “No, Wordmonger.”

  “Do you know, the other morning I heard the distinctive cry of a ringed plover,” the king said, plowing ahead. “I’ll wager that’s of interest to this lot.”

  “We’ll be certain to tell them,” Emma said.

  “You must all join us for dinner tonight!” the king declared suddenly.

  Everyone, royals and guests and guards, looked at one another out of the corners of their eyes.

  “Your Majesty,” the captain said at last. “We have made . . . other arrangements for our guests with regard to dinner this evening.”

  “Nothing that can’t be unmade, I’m sure,” the king said dismissively to the captain. “Don’t cause trouble, Marion.”

  This time Dick looked directly at Big and mouthed Marion? Big was bright pink and looked ready to explode with suppressed laughter.

  “Very good, Your Majesty,” the captain said, bowing. “I shall inform the kitchen.”

  “About what?” asked the king.

  “That . . . they will need to prepare for the additional dinner guests.”

  “What additional dinner guests?” demanded the king. “What are you talking about, Marion?”

  “Perhaps it would be best for you to show our guests to their accommodations,” said the queen consort, jumping into the conversation.

  “Your Majesty.” The captain bowed again, and before the king could say another word, the captain gestured for Dick, Big, Ewan, and Weatherbee to bow and for Ms. Fits and Siya to curtsy, and they all left the throne room in a rush.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Marion,” Big mused as they settled into their suite. “Classic.”

  The captain had led them wordlessly back through the palace the way they had come and then off into a section they hadn’t yet seen. They had passed through hallways flanked with gleaming suits of armor, libraries with books lining every wall from floor to ceiling, sitting rooms with comfortable-looking chairs around small spindle tables, and rooms filled with cases displaying jewelry, ancient weapons, and royal artifacts. After climbing several wide staircases, the group had come to a set of double doors set near the head of a wide hallway. The captain had swung the doors wide and then disappeared without a word.

  The suite they would all be staying in was magnificent. It consisted of a central room dominated by a long dining table in the middle, with wing chairs and small desks in the four corners. The far wall was one giant window that looked out over the London skyline. Along the walls were more doors, each leading to a private bedroom and bath for each of them.

  “I’d no idea the king was so addlepated,” Weatherbee said, sitting down at the table in the main room as the others milled around, taking in all the features of their luxurious suite.

  “He is in his nineties,” Siya said, settling into the chair across from him. “He can still remember Indian prostitutes he’s had, though, so that’s something. Imagine the public’s reaction if they knew how he really is?”

  The conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door.

  “Yes?” Dick called.

  The double doors swung open and two young men in crisp tuxedos entered, rolling carts loaded with covered silver serving trays. They stopped on either side of the main table and began laying the trays out in front of the chairs.

  A slightly older, heavyset man in a tuxedo that fit rather snugly around his girth stepped into the room. He folded his gloved hands primly in front of him.

  “Dinner is served,” he intoned.

  “Wrenchley!” Ewan cried suddenly, making them all start. He ran over to the heavyset man and put his hands on the man’s shoulders, a look of delighted disbelief on his face. Everyone watched the scene unfold, even the servers who had momentarily stopped serving.

  “Yes, sir?” the man called Wrenchley said, unruffled.

  “But . . . why, this is extraordinary!” Ewan said, looking the man up and down. “You were here in ’72, when I was here last, yet you haven’t aged a day! How is that possible?”

  Wrenchley was already nodding in understanding. “You have me confused with my father, sir. We are both called Wrenchley.”

  Ewan was still drinking the man in.

  “Your father, is that right? My goodness. The resemblance is truly extraordinary.”

  “It has been remarked upon, sir, yes,” Wrenchley said, but his eyes were fixed on the two younger servers who had ceased midserve. They immediately resumed their tasks, grabbed their carts, and made a hasty exit.

  “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I have duties to attend to,” Wrenchley said, stepping back from Ewan’s grip and bowing himself out of the room. “Enjoy your dinner.”

  Ewan seated himself at the table with a bemused grin. Dick noticed Weatherbee staring after Wrenchley, his brow furrowed.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Dick said.

  “Hm?” Weatherbee said distractedly. “Oh. My apologies. It’s just that I’m sure I know that man from somewhere.”

  “Who? Wrenchley?”

  “Yes. Though I can’t imagine where our paths might have crossed.” He shook his head. “I’m certain it will come to me in time.”

  Ms. Fits, sitting across from Ewan, stared at him with her bored, heavy-lidded eyes.

  “You were here in ’72?” she asked unexpectedly.

  “Yeah,” Big replied, taking his own seat. “Eighteen seventy-two. Leap year, wasn’t it?”

  Ms. Fits snorted laughter into her spoon and spilled soup back into her bowl. Dick stared at her, as did everyone else at the table. It was the first time he’d seen her show any emotion, or willingly engage in conversation, since he’d met her.

  She noticed everyone watching her and her smile faded. She glared back at them all. “What?” she asked defiantly. “It was funny.”

  “See that?” Big asked Ewan, tucking his napkin into his shirt collar. “The kid thinks I’m funny.”

  “Looking,” Ewan added without missing a beat.

  The next morning, after Dick showered and dressed, he joined the others around the table for breakfast. Wrenchley and his two attendants served the meal. As they left, Big turned to Dick.

  “Did you see that?”

  “See what?”

  “Wrenchley. When he was closing the doors just now, he looked us all over like we were something you’d scrape off the bottom of yo
ur shoe.”

  “So?”

  “So?” Big echoed. “What the hell is his problem?”

  Dick shrugged. “Maybe he resents the fact that he’s got to serve us meals and clean up afterwards on top of everything else he’s got to do around here.”

  Big scowled. “He best have a big, bright smile for us tomorrow, or we’re gonna have words.”

  “So,” Weatherbee said after swallowing a final mouthful of fried egg, “how shall we start?”

  The center of the table was covered in blueprints showing the layout of the entire palace. Dick felt a twinge of anxiety as he realized just how big the place was.

  “Well,” Dick said, finishing off his coffee, but before he could finish his thought, the early-morning quiet was shattered by a blood-chilling scream. The six of them exchanged terrified looks and ran out into the hallway. The screaming continued, and Weatherbee pointed toward the grand staircase. They ran as a group and took the stairs two at a time, descending further and further until they came to a landing that overlooked the west entryway.

  There were two maids, one standing halfway up the stairs, screaming, and the other below her, unconscious on the floor. As Dick and the others attempted to process what was happening, Siya spotted something the rest of the team hadn’t. She bounded past the screaming maid and grabbed a sign off the far wall, spinning in mid-air with it and landing on it as though it were a live hand grenade. Dick caught the most fleeting of glances at the sign, which read WET PIANT.

  Ewan continued down the stairs to the screaming maid and put his arm around her shoulders. She turned into him and began sobbing hysterically. Weatherbee moved toward the unconscious maid on the floor, and Dick made his way over to Siya. As he closed in on her prone form, an enormous wet ripping noise came from her. It was one of the loudest, longest farts he’d ever heard in his life.

  Siya looked up at him, the sign still pinned under her, and blushed furiously.

  “So,” Dick said, as matter-of-factly as possible, trying his best not to breathe in too deeply, “that’s your tic?”

  Siya nodded. Dick nodded back.

  “Good to know.”

  He turned back to Weatherbee, who was checking the unconscious maid’s pulse. Weatherbee looked up and nodded enthusiastically.

  The next hour was chaotic.

  A crowd gathered quickly, and a babbling confusion filled the landing and the stairwells. The master of the household arrived and sent attendants to fetch the palace physician, a Dr. Agrace, and a dark-skinned woman in a white lab coat arrived on the landing accompanied by a pair of orderlies with a stretcher between them. They gathered up the unconscious maid and quickly disappeared, and those who had gathered around the scene eventually drifted away in small groups, whispering nervously. No one seemed to know about Siya’s quick action, which had surely prevented extensive loss of life.

  Dick and Weatherbee had taken the formerly screaming maid aside and, after allowing her to calm down, asked her what had happened.

  “I was making my way down to tend to the west wing fireplaces on the first floor,” the maid said, “and I came upon Charlotte’s body. I don’t know why I lost my head like that. She just looked so pale that I was sure she was dead. So I screamed. I’m so embarrassed.”

  “What about the sign?” Dick asked.

  “What sign?”

  “The wet paint sign on the bannister.”

  “Was there a sign? If there was I didn’t see it. I was too focused on Charlotte.”

  “Did you see anyone else in the area?” Weatherbee asked. “Anyone at all?”

  The maid thought it over. “No. No one. Sorry.”

  Dick nodded. “Weatherbee, will you see that this young lady makes it safely to where she was going before all this craziness started?”

  “Of course,” Weatherbee said.

  Dick turned to the others, gathered a short distance away. “Why don’t you all go back up to the suite? I’ll join you shortly. Big, come with me.”

  They all went their separate ways, and Big fell in step with Dick as he headed off toward the north wing.

  “Where we going?”

  “To see if that unconscious maid is conscious again.”

  After asking a few different people where they could find the doctor, Dick and Big located a stairwell that led to the below-ground floors. At the foot of the stairs was a long, gleaming-white hallway glowing under bright fluorescents. They heard voices coming from the far end and made their way toward them.

  They discovered a hospital ward lined with at least a dozen beds. Halfway down was Dr. Agrace, who was checking over the still-unconscious maid as two scrubs-clad assistants looked on.

  Dick cleared his throat and Dr. Agrace looked up.

  “Ah, just the men I was looking for,” she said. “Come in, come in.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Shonnary and this is Agent Whig,” Dick said as they approached. “How is she?”

  “Not that well, I’m afraid. She’s in a coma.”

  “A coma?” Dick echoed. “Jesus. What caused it?”

  “Well, that’s the funny thing,” the doctor said, folding her arms. “I can’t find a single thing—in her current state or her medical history—that would be responsible for her condition. I don’t like questions that don’t have answers, gentlemen. That’s why I’m glad you’re here.”

  Dick looked at her blankly. “But we don’t have any medical training. How can we help?”

  The doctor’s eyes flicked from Dick’s face to Big’s and back again. “Tell me about these tics of yours.”

  “Our tics?” Dick asked.

  “Yes. How do they work?”

  “Oh. Well, they’re a physiological response to seeing a typo. Sort of a defense mechanism, I suppose you’d call it.”

  “So instead of suffering instant death, all the members of Her Majesty’s Royal Typo Brigade and Typo Squad have these tics that kick in when they’re exposed to a typo.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And are all tics the same?”

  “Oh hell no,” Dick said, smiling. He hooked a thumb toward Big. “You should hear his.”

  “It’s hilarious,” Big added.

  Dr. Agrace grinned. “On the landing, I noticed one of your teammates going to great lengths to cover something on the floor. Was that a typo?”

  “Yes,” Dick said. “Why do you—? Oh. Oh, I see where you’re going. You think the maid saw the typo on the sign, and the coma is her tic.”

  Dr. Agrace nodded. “It all fits, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ve never heard of that particular tic, but I suppose it’s possible,” Dick said.

  “What I need to know now is how long these physiological responses last.”

  “It’s different for everybody,” Big offered. “It depends on the severity of the typo and the length of exposure. Sometimes the effects last for a few minutes, and sometimes—”

  “Oh!” the maid cried from the stretcher, waking up suddenly.

  “Shame she didn’t remember seeing anyone,” Big said later as they made their way back to the suite.

  “At least she’s okay,” Dick said. “And no one else got hurt. Can you imagine if someone died by typo on our first day here?”

  As they climbed the last set of stairs, they passed Wrenchley going the opposite way.

  “Gentlemen,” he said solemnly. Big stopped dead in his tracks.

  “He did it again!” Big said, not bothering to lower his voice.

  “Who did what?” Dick asked, baffled.

  “Him!” Big said, pointing at Wrenchley, who had reached the bottom of the stairs. “He made that same face again! Oi! Wrenchley!”

  Big ran down the stairs after the underbutler, and Dick followed.

  “Sir?” Wrenchley asked calmly, intertwining his fingers below his round belly.

  “What’s your problem?” Big demanded, pressing his own belly against the other man’s.

  “Problem, sir?” Wrenchley asked
, unruffled.

  “Yeah, problem, genius,” Big said. “Why do you keep making that face at us when you don’t think anyone’s looking?”

  Wrenchley blinked slowly. “I’m quite sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir.”

  “Bullshit!” Big shouted, and Dick stepped forward to physically wedge himself between the two men. He put his hands on Big’s shoulders and gently pushed him backward.

  “Okay, Big, take it easy. Remember, we’re guests here.”

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me?” Wrenchley said, brushing the front of his tuxedo jacket. He turned and continued down the stairs.

  “This isn’t over!” Big called after him.

  “All right, deep breaths,” Dick said quietly. “I think you just guaranteed us extra spit in all our food for the rest of our stay.”

  “But he’s making faces!”

  “Do you hear how childish you sound? I believe you, he’s making faces, but we have more important things to tend to. Right? Okay?”

  Big paced back and forth, and his anger slowly ebbed. “Oh, I really hope that guy’s The Wordmonger,” he said at last. “I wanna take his ass down.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Back in the suite, Dick and Big caught the others up on everything they’d seen and heard.

  “Well thank goodness the young lady’s all right,” Ewan said. “A coma, my goodness. What an extraordinary tic.”

  “Not sure we can offer her a spot in Typo Squad with a tic like that,” Dick said. “All right, now before all of that happened, where were we?”

  “We were planning out our first steps now that we’re here,” Weatherbee said.

  “Right. Okay,” Dick said, once again studying the blueprints. “I think we should start by interviewing the staff. Find out if anyone’s seen anything—before today, I mean—or has suspicions about anyone for any reason. Oh, and be sure to ask everyone if he or she is the Wordmonger, because that would make this a whole hell of a lot easier.”

  There were smiles all around the table, including Ms. Fits.

  “Let’s work in teams,” Dick continued. “Weatherbee, what do you think about starting on the top floor of the west wing with Ewan?”