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Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Twenty-Two

Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws a society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. Tent woos Bedelia. Andy woos Bedelia. Cecelia woos Billy. The good guys finally get the goods on Tent.
In the meantime, Bedelia pulled away from Andy, an air of recognition engulfed her body. She was so filled with rhapsody that she broke out in verse right then and there.

I’d know that kiss anywhere! You’re the Man in the Red Underwear!
Those lips! Those hips! They say you care! You’re the Man in the Red Underwear!
How could I have been so blind?
You’re the man that’s completely kind!
It was really dumb of me, I have to say!
It’s clear to see you love me! You are not–

Andy was equally aroused by romantic compulsion and kissed her again which piqued Tent’s curiosity immensely. Billy was licking his lips remembering the hot kiss Cecelia had laid on him. Eddie opened the packet, but Millicent and her mother snatched it from his hands and began to read.

“Does it tell us everything we need to know?” Cecelia asked.

“More than enough,” Millicent replied. “Tent and his gang will be in prison a long time.”

Bedelia pulled away from again and regaled the group with the second verse of her revelation.

I’d know that kiss anywhere! You’re the Man in the Red Underwear!
Oh Andrew dear, please hold me near, tell me you forgive my frowns.
I thought you loved to sew those gowns!
But you’re the bravest man in town!
Only you can make me feel this way!
How on earth could I doubt you’re not–

Andy kissed her once more which would lead one to believe he was trying to stop Bedelia from revealing his scandalous persona.

Taking as imperious tone as he could muster, Eddie stepped forward and pointed at Tent, “Chief Inspector Malcontent—“

Andy and Bedelia stopped their amorous lip lock to look at Eddie and correct him in perfect unison, “That’s Malcolm Tent!”

“Whoever.” He cleared his throat and proceeded with a proper English accent, a miracle long prayed for by the royal family, “I, Prince Edward, by the authority of Granny Vicky—I mean, Queen Victoria of England—do hereby arrest you on charges of—of—“

Unfortunately the miracle was not permanent and soon he was floundering and looking around for help.

“Extortion,” Cecelia provided the correct judicial terminology.

“–of doin’ folks dirty. Here’s the evidence to prove it!” He pointed to the packet now in Millicent’s possession.

“Yes! We have the money and a note from the merchant!” Millicent’s eyes flamed in righteous indignation.

“Yup. Yo’re done for,” Eddie said.

“And besides that, you’re a terribly impolite guest at a gala,” Cecelia added a zinger which was intended to crush his sense of social decorum.

Bedelia’s face expressed supreme bewilderment. “You mean you were the villain all along?”

“Yes!”

“Then you didn’t mean all those things you said to me?”

“No!”

The situation finally dawned on her. “Then you didn’t really want to take me on a cruise?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that.” Tent’s smile was crooked and on the verge of vulgarity.

“But I don’t understand why I didn’t figure it out, since I am the illegitimate daughter of the recently retired chief inspector of Scotland Yard?” Bedelia shook her head.

“Because your father was stupid! He never solved a case in his life!”

“Oh. Maybe that’s why.” She walked slowly to the lounge and sat, her entire self-image in shambles.

Andy, dismayed by his true love’s mournful sighs, joined her, putting his arm around her in consolation.

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Eighty-Five

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Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Ashamed and distraught, Adam gets drunk and kills the butler who stops him from molesting the cook. Six months later Richmond falls to the Union
Adam took the chamber pots out the service entrance to clean them. He kept thinking of Lincoln’s words, forgive and forget. How could he forgive himself? How could he forget? Cleaning the pots took longer each day, so that by the time he had finished and returned them to the billiards room, the breakfast tray was ready to return to the kitchen. He put them next to the sink where Phebe stood.
“Hello,” he whispered.
Her face hardened as she continued to look down.
“I’m sorry,” he added. This was not his first apology. He had lost count of the times he had tried to seek her forgiveness. Each time, stony silence met his offer.
After lunch, he left the Executive Mansion and walked down the street, where crowds were gathering to greet Duff upon his return from Richmond. Several men slapped Adam on the back and offered him mugs of beer, which he refused. Since October he had stopped drinking. Crossing the iron bridge over the slough, Adam headed for Armory Square Hospital. He had to apologize to Jessie again, hoping against hope she would finally forgive him. Standing just inside the door to the ward, he watched her wash a soldier’s brow. She was about to stand, and he was ready to intercept her, when a shout arose from Pennsylvania Avenue. He knew he had to go. Quickly looking back into the ward, Adam made eye contact with Jessie. He smiled and waved, but she stared blankly.
Back at the Executive Mansion, he watched Duff pass down the hall, surrounded by enthusiastic admirers. Alethia rushed to give him a long embrace.
“Private Christy!” Tad called out.
Adam looked down to see Tad jumping in front of him.
“It was great! The ship went adrift, then we spent the rest of way on a barge rowed by sailors and when we landed they shouted, ‘Glory hallelujah!’ and I got to play in Jeff Davis’s house and—”
“Come, Tad,” Alethia called out.
Tad bounded toward her as she smiled at Adam. Looking out the window, he noticed the sun was lower in the sky, a sign it was time for another meal in the basement. He walked down the service stairs, crunching the straw mats, vaguely remembering how once he had thought silence sounded like death. Now everything sounded like death. When he entered the kitchen, he saw Phebe putting the plates on the tray.
“Hello, Phebe,” he said, trying to put his hand on her shoulder. “Please say something. I’m so sorry.”
Phebe pulled away sharply, grabbing a knife from the sink and pointing it at Adam, her eyes ablaze with hatred. A tall, older black man, the new butler brought in the day after Neal’s death, entered the room. Cleotis was his name, and Adam found him affable, a quietly confident, educated, freeborn man from Rhode Island. He swept in between Adam and Phebe, taking the knife and putting his arm around her.
“The tray’s ready,” he said. “Here’s a War Department wire for Mr. Stanton. Do you know where he is?”
Nodding, Adam’s gaze remained fixed on Phebe, as he noticed for the first time, a slight swelling in her belly.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Fifty-Eight

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. On their honeymoon they derail a train. Now they’re on their way to kill Hitler.
A glorious October morning crowned the arrival of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor as they descended the steps of the Nord Express at Berlin’s Friedrichstrasse Station. They were not the first notable Britons to visit Germany in the last year. Former Prime Minister Lloyd George and prominent politician Lord Halifax had paid their respects to Herr Hitler as well. The station was festooned with Union Jacks and swastikas. A brass band played “God Save the King”. And, as a thrilling conclusion to the auspicious welcoming ceremony, head of the National Labor Front Dr. Robert Ley presented Wallis with a box of chocolates.
“Chocolates,” she murmured. “How quaint.”
David graciously translated it into German.
“I told them you said, “Chocolates, my favorite.”
“I expected as much.” She extended her hand to allow the labor leader to slobber on it. She subtly wiped her hand on David’s trousers. “How much worse can this get?”
Wallis received the answer to her question sooner than she thought when Herr Ley escorted them to his black Mercedes limousine which he drove himself—like a demon straight out of hell.
She leaned into David. “I swore my life to defend God, my Country and my King, but not to surrender it to some Nazi race car maniac.”
Fortunately they soon arrived at the Kaishorfhof Hotel and went to its most luxurious suite. After they unpacked but before they settled into a bottle of champagne, both David and Wallis checked the walls for minuscule pin pricks through which Nazis could pry on private conversations. Then they closed the curtains to the balcony and settled on a sofa to sip their champagne. David opened the box of chocolates to see what assortment it offered.
“Are you sure this powder of yours will work?” David asked as he bit into a square of dark chocolate.
“Well, it worked on Uncle Sol, didn’t it?”
“Well.” David smiled. “It fooled the Americans. Whether it will fool the Germans is quite a different matter.”
“You’re talking nationalities. I’m talking about men in charge of criminal investigations. For the most part men are stupid.”
“I suppose you’re right.” He took a napkin to wipe away a bit of smudged chocolate from his mouth. “They all seem to be fascinated with you.”
Wallis couldn’t decide if she liked that comment, so she changed the conversation a bit. “And what was your favorite form of assassination? Spitting some vile concoction into a man’s face which killed him several hours later over dinner? How was that better than my plan?”
David raised an eyebrow. “Well, I did have a backup plan.”
“And what was that?” She was reeking of self-righteous indignation.
“Well, there was a lovely belly dancer in the market place who was supposed to lose control of her sword, sending it twirling across the market where it would decapitate the man.”
“You think you’re so clever.” Wallis moved closer to him. “And I’m finding it altogether too charming a quality.”
That evening Dr. Ley drove them in his black Mercedes to several posh night clubs at a speed that made Wallis’ stomach queasy. David, on the other hand, found the ensuing theater of burlesque quite amusing.
The next morning the German officials took the two Windsors in different directions. Wallis visited the Nazi Welfare Society workhouse where drab women made even drabber dresses. Wallis smiled in approval but knew she would never be caught dead wearing any of them. She did ask for a sample to take back to London to show to English designers. The German matron in charge giggled in delight.
David toured the Stock Machine Works where cameras flashed about him with unending devotion. German newspapers prominently displayed stories through the years about the Duke’s defense of the common working man. At one point David felt obligated to lift his right hand in a somewhat vague variation of the Nazi salute.
That night as they prepared for a lavish dinner he bragged about his feat of legerdemain.
Wallis focused on her hair in the mirror. “Considering we’re here in Germany to gain the people’s confidence, I’d say you did a commendable job indeed.”
As David and Wallis stood in the receiving line at the beginning of the banquet, they endured one German after another trying to speak English properly enough to impress the former king.
“We applaud your efforts to improve horsing conditions for the cumin man.” A stout man with long white mutton chop whiskers sounded pleased with himself with not too much Teutonic inflection at all.
A pinched-faced wife of an industrialist bowed impressively low before Wallis. “All the world wants world piss which can best be achieved with an open-minded monarch on the English throne with a queen who is a gin-you-wine lady.”
Wallis could not contain herself. She let forth with what most of her fellow Americans from the Appalachian region would have called a horse laugh. Her hand went to her face as David patted her on the back.
“You must excuse the Duchess,” David began. “I’m afraid she is not familiar with the brilliantly brisk German air and may be coming down with a touch of a cough to be remedied later this evening by an over qualified German physician.”
As the Duke had predicted, her doctor prescribed a potent cough syrup which kept Wallis happy all the next day during their tour of a miners’ hospital where all the men were emaciated with a debilitating condition the doctors had not quite been to diagnose.
Wallis leaned into David. “I’ve seen this in coal towns in Appalachia. Tuberculosis. They’ll all be dead in two years.”
“Ssh.” David tried to quiet her. “They have the best coal mines in the world.”
“And how did you come to that conclusion?” Wallis’s voice filled with skepticism.
“They told me so themselves.”
“But of course,” she replied. “I should have known.” After leaving the hospital they sat in the back seat of Dr. Ley’s black Mercedes. “They’re not going to make us go through one of those black holes of hell, are they?”
At that moment Dr. Ley got behind the driving wheel. “I hate to disappoint you, Duchess, but I have cancelled our tour of the largest coal mine in the world. The Duke felt it unwise considering your frail health. The doctor turned the ignition and was about to speed down the dusty road when David pointed to a ramshackle building.
“And what is that?” David asked.
Dr. Ley looked over quickly then smiled. “Oh, that’s cold meat storage, nothing more.”
David whispered to Wallis. “I have it from the highest authority of MI6 that the building was actually an inmate facility.”
Wallis blew cigarette smoke out of the side of her well-rouged mouth. “Well, so much for talk about world piss.”

Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Twenty-One

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Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws a society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. Tent woos Bedelia. Andy woos Bedelia. Cecelia woos Billy. There’s a whole lot of wooing going on.
Before Cecelia could finish her proposition, Tent, Bedelia, Millicent, Eddie and Andy enter from the ballroom, swinging and swaying to a ragtime beat. After Andy closed the door, the music faded away, and the gang settled into more sedentary forms of partying.

“Billy! Come here!”

Everyone jumped because the inspector forgot to use his inside voice.

“Just a minute, boss.” He gobbled down the last canapé. “You sure do know how to cook, Lady Chatalot.”

Cecelia smiled seductively. “Oh, that’s just one of my many talents.”

“Billy!” Tent was losing his patience, if he had any in the first place.

“You can cook some more for me later.” He licked his thick lips and then stood. “Comin’, boss.”

Tent led Billy over to the window to discuss their business matters away from prying eyes. Andy, Eddie and Millicent joined Cecelia at the chaise lounge to compare notes while Bedelia took a devil-may-care pose by the fireplace and tried to keep an eye on everyone.

“Did everything go according to plan?” Tent whispered.

“Aye, boss.” Billy nodded and handed Tent a packet.

“What’s this?” He opened the packet, expecting to find a wad of bills but came a letter along with the payoff dough.

“A note from the merchant,” Billy replied.

Tent’s eyes widened as he read the letter. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

Billy was right on his heels as they began their escape. “Aye, boss.”

When Tent opened the door, a rousing rodeo hoedown blared through, knocking them back on their heels. Eddie jumped on the lounge and clapped his hands.

“Hey that’s my kind of music! I love that sound! Let’s go to town with the rodeo hoedown!”

Cecelia grabbed Billy, Millicent took Tent by the elbow, Andy put his arm around Bedelia, and they began to prance around the room, following Eddie’s every command.

We git real low down, go round and round! Do si do the rodeo hoedown!
Yell yee haw, like your ma and pa with all your might!
Stomp your feet, clap your hands and hoedown through the night!
Gals line up to one side ‘cause that’s what you do.
Gents line up facing gals, even Billy too.
We’ve had fun, but now it’s done. Tune out the racket.
I’ll tell you just when to try to grab that packet!
Go Milly, boo Billy, why don’t you get bent!
Go Andy, you’re dandy! Stop that Inspector Tent!
Milly’s mom, you’re the bomb! Stay by Billy’s hide!
The packet, we got the packet! Hooray for our side!

At one point or another during the reel, every participant had hold of the incriminating packet. When Bedelia snatched it from Andy, Cecelia–like a bat out of hell—swooped in, grabbed it and handed it forthwith to Eddie on the lounge. Cecelia planted a huge wet kiss on Billy, distracting him from knocking Eddie from his perch and retrieving the object of everyone’s desire at that moment. Bedelia, in her misguided allegiance to the chief inspector, tried to go after the packet again as well, but Andy wrapped his arms around her and smothered her in smooches.

“Curses!” Tent thundered.

“Yes, I know!” Millicent retorted in triumph. “Foiled again!”

Eddie jumped down from the furniture and waved to Millicent and Cecelia. “Come on, Millie! You and yo’r maw help me figger this stuff out!”

Reluctantly Cecelia pulled away from Billy, whose eyes had taken on a romantic glow which probably had never been there before. “I’m sorry, my dear. I’m needed elsewhere. I shall return.”

“Yes, me Lady Chatalot.” He attempted a deep bow which did not come across as suavely as he might have hoped.

Millicent stopped in her tracks and looked quizzically at her mother. “What did he call you?”

“Never mind.” She waved at Eddie. “Look in the packet.”

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Eighty-Four

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Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Mary talks Gabby into attacking Adam. Lincoln intervenes. Ashamed and distraught, Adam gets drunk and kills the butler who stops him from molesting the cook. Stanton and henchman Baker clean up the mess.
“I want my breakfast!” Gabby insisted, pounding on the door.
Stopping with the key in the lock, Adam shuddered at the tone of Gabby’s voice, the same tone he had used in October to demand that Adam stop hurting people. It was now April, and Adam had stopped hurting people. He also had stopped having dreams, goals, love, pain, or anger. His spirit was dead; his body barely functioned. Steeling himself, he finished unlocking the door and entered.
“It’s about time,” Gabby said. “You’re starving people in here.”
“Be quiet,” Mrs. Lincoln snapped, looking at Gabby with loathing. “Mr. Lincoln didn’t sleep well last night. Nightmares.”
“I have nightmares.” Gabby took his plate and headed for his corner. “Every night I see Joe dead under that wagon. If Mr. Lincoln can’t take nightmares, he shouldn’t be president.”
“Crazy old man,” Mrs. Lincoln sneered.
“Liar,” Gabby retorted. He looked at Adam. “Next time you beat up somebody, beat her up, the old liar.” He continued to mumble as he rounded the corner of crates and barrels.
“My husband’s nightmares are more important because he’s still president, and still makes decisions.” Mrs. Lincoln sat at the billiards table and began eating. “For several weeks he’s dreamed that Tad and I were on a shopping trip to Philadelphia and Tad, for some reason, pulled out a gun and started shooting people. He kept mumbling, ‘I didn’t pay enough attention to the body.’ I know he’s worried about how those people have treated Tad.”
Tad was just fine, Adam thought, no longer running amok, tearing at things, and kicking people as he did before. Now he was kind and loving, respectful of everyone. Mrs. Lincoln will be pleased, he decided, if she can ever be pleased with anything again.
“Then last night he dreamed of being awakened by loud sobbing. He found a casket surrounded by soldiers in the East Room. He asked, ‘Who has died in the White House?’ The soldier replied, ‘The president.’”
Not wanting to consider what Stanton had in mind for the president, Adam gathered the chamber pots.
“Don’t walk away while I’m talking to you,” Mrs. Lincoln ordered. “What’s that man doing in Richmond? He went down the same day the city fell, and he hasn’t returned.”
“I don’t know, ma’am.” Adam hated answering her questions. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Stanton.”
“You always say that.” Mrs. Lincoln took a long sip of coffee. “The last drop of coffee was cold.” Putting down her cup, she turned to stare at him. “I want to know when this war will end. Since their capital fell, the rebels can’t go on.”
“Jefferson Davis said being relieved of defending a capital has left the army free to roam at large and stage preemptive attacks on the Union.”
“So he thinks he can still win the war?”
“I don’t know, ma’am.”
“You don’t know,” she snidely replied. “Is there anything you do know?”
“Tad’s having fun in Richmond.”
“Tad’s in Richmond?”
Closing his eyes, Adam wished he had not told her.
“Who allowed my child into a war zone?”
“I don’t know.”
“That woman,” Mrs. Lincoln said. “She’s ruined everything.”
“The army made a thorough sweep of the city, making it safe for the president.”
“But that man’s not the president!” she blustered. She took a deep breath and returning her attention to the toast. “At least my other son is safe in law school.”
“Robert joined the army in January.” Adam did not know if he had slipped again, or if he had told her on purpose to hurt her and to allow her to hurt him. He wanted to be punished for his sins.
“Oh my God!”
“He’s on General Grant’s staff.”
“That butcher!” She put her head in her hands. “If I could only write him. If only he could write me.”
“I’m sure his fiancée has been writing him.”
“Fiancée!” Her face reddened. “When did this happen? And who?”
“February. She’s Mary Harlan, daughter of Senator James Harlan of Iowa.”
“That little mouse.” She rubbed her eyes. “At least her parents are respectable.”
“I must go now, ma’am.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Lincoln sighed. “I’m not asking questions anymore.”
“Yes, ma’am.” As Adam turned, he found himself confronted by Gabby, whose eyes were wide with anger and his mouth smeared with egg yolk.
“I want to know about Cordie,” he demanded. “I want to know how Cordie is.”
“She’s fine. I see her every day.”
“Liar!” Gabby slapped Adam hard across the face.
“Now, now, Mr. Gabby,” Lincoln said, walking through his curtain. “There’s no need to hit Private Christy.”
“He hit me!”
“That was last fall. It’s time to forgive and forget. Isn’t that right, Private Christy?”
“Yes, sir.” He hung his head.
“Go about your duties.” Lincoln looked at Gabby. “Why don’t you finish your breakfast?”
“My coffee’s cold.”
“The coffee’s always cold,” Mrs. Lincoln added.

Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Twenty

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Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws a society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. Tent woos Bedelia. Andy woos Bedelia.
A part of Bedelia was pleased to have aroused such a high level of jealousy in Andy, although she was dismayed with the way he articulated it. She was sure she had never heard the word “oodles” escape his lips before today. Brushing her concerns aside, Bedelia decided to press on with the jealousy ploy. “There’s more to marriage than mere physical attraction.”

“Of course. Like friendship. Friendships formed when nothing else mattered except being friends.” He paused to stare into her lovely eyes, but quickly giggled and looked away. “But I really don’t remember things like that.” Unable to resist temptation he turned back to her and whispered, “But if I were in love, I would want to be in love with you.” Andy was going in for a kiss when he heard the unmistakable clip-clop of Inspector Tent’s boots. “Wouldn’t it be peachy if we could go shopping together? I’d just love to pick out some material to make you a dress. He scrutinized her. “I don’t think pastels.”

“Would you care for another dance, Miss Smart-Astin?” Tent asked in a tone quite unsuited for the content of his proposition.

“Yes, inspector, that would be— “Her voice trailed off in unrequited longing.

Tent opened the door just as a male voice rang out, “Not another bloody tango!”

Both Bedelia and Tent beamed as they go into verse.

Let’s do the Russian tango! Let’s go as far as we can go!
Oh go girl go! Oh go man go! Let’s do the Russian tango!

They slinked out of the library in a sultry embrace. Andy glanced at the others and shrugged before engaging Cecelia in a dance clutch and followed them. Eddie and Millicent grabbed each other to join the crowd. The community spirit of ballroom dance did not last long, however, as Cecelia noticed Billy entering the front door. She quickly greeted him and led him into the library, shutting the door behind her, breathing deeply from the exertion of the sensual frolic.

“Where’s me boss, ducks?” Billy asked.

“You didn’t see him in the ballroom?” Cecelia approached him, like a cougar entrapping its prey. “He was dancing with Miss Smart-Astin.”

“Naw. I didn’t see nobody.”

“May I offer you a—“she hesitated provocatively “–glass of wine, Mr. Canine-erel?

“Naw,I don’t want no sissy wine.” He stood his ground, even stepping closer. “And stop callin’ me that stupid name. Me name’s Billy Doggerel, and I’m proud of it. If you can’t call me Billy then go—“he offered his own pregnant pause “–fly a kite.”

“All right, Billy.” She smiled seductively. “I just love it when a man is forceful. My late husband Sampson Elias Johnson could be quite forceful.” Cecelia nearly swooned from the aroma of his breath. “Would you care for some beer? I’m sure the servants have some in the kitchen, somewhere.”

“Not now, ducks. I’m on business.” He stepped toward the door. “Maybe later, if yer lucky. Now where’s me boss?”

“Yes, your business.” Cecelia sat on the lounge and patted the cushion next to her. “Please, Billy, come sit with me. I’d like to talk to you about your business.”

Billy rolled his massive shoulders forward with indifference and smiled. “Well, if me boss ain’t around, I wouldn’t mind takin’ a load off me feet.” He sat next to her on the lounge.

“You know, Billy, it’s never too late to turn from a life of crime.” Cecelia leaned in to inhale the full luxuriance of street rabble stench, which almost made her swoon.

“Who says I lead a life of crime?” He winked and smiled, revealing a mouth filled with yellowed teeth.

“Of course, you don’t.” Cecelia hit at his bulk playfully. “But if you did, you might prefer working for me instead.”

“That sounds like fun.” He paused to give her the once over. “Maybe I could call you Lady Chatalot, ‘cause you do like to chat a lot, doncha ducks?”

“You know me all too well, Billy.”

“So what would you have me doin’, Lady Chatalot?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe taking care of my chess board, my checkers and mah jong tiles.” Her hands made a pass across her ample bosom. “You know, all the things people like to play with.”

“You mean I’d be Lady Chatalot’s gameskeeper?”

“Yes, lover, what a novel idea.” Curiously enough, Cecelia caught the reference to this novel which hadn’t been written yet. Perhaps she connected telepathically better with Billy than Inspector Tent. “Of course, I’d have to bathe you first.”

“This is a big body, Lady Chatalot.” He puffed out his chest. “There’s a lot of dirt on it.”

“Oh, Billy!” The sexual badinage overwhelmed her, and she grabbed Billy and thrust her tongue into his mouth.

He aggressively leaned into her as though they were going for two-out-of-three falls when his foot wandered under the lounge and bumped into the previously hidden tray of liver-tinged delights.

“Me foot’s stuck on somethin’.” He leaned down to pull out the damaged goods.

“The canapés!” Cecelia gasped. Of all times to be reminded of her horrible culinary skills.

Billy shoved one into his mouth and started chewing. “Not bad. Did you make these, Lady Chatalot?”

“Yes I did.” She looked at tray.” But it looks like someone stepped on them.”

“Didn’t hurt ‘em none.” He stuffed in another one.

“You really like my canapés?” Cecelia’s face lit.

“Do I detect a ‘int of marjoram?”

“Why, yes.” Her hand impulsively went to his face to stroke his stubbly chin. “My, my, you do have a sophisticated palate, Billy!”

“Me ol’ mum used marjoram in everythin’ she cooked.” He swallowed hard as his eyes filled with tears. “I miss ‘er.”

“Oh, did your mother pass away recently?” She then stroked his cheek.

“Yeah, me ol’ man shot ‘er.”

Cecelia sat up in surprise. “How dreadful!”

“She tried slippin’ arsenic into ‘is meat pie. ‘E tasted it and blew ‘er brains out. I got me delicate palate from me ol’ man. Now ‘e’s in prison and I’m all alone.” Billy dissolved into sobs, hiding his head into her bosom.

Cecelia rocked back and forth as though she were comforting a baby. She whispered a spontaneously composed lullaby.

Billy dirty Billy, now don’t you dare cry.
Your own lady will make your eyes dry.

Even though she was romantically aroused, she had not forgotten her purpose and her allegiance to Lillie Langtry. “Um, Billy dear—you don’t mind if I call you dear, do you?”

He pulled a stained handkerchief from his back pocket to blow his nose. When he finished he looked soulfully into her eyes. “Me Lady Chatalot can call me anythin’ she wants.”

“Billy, dear, I have a business proposition for you.”

He looked around conspiratorially. “I’m all ears.”

“Frankly, I know that you have a packet to give to Chief Inspector Tent tonight. Now, if you give it to me instead—“

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Fifty-Seven

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails on a mission because of David, better known as Edward the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer, also a spy, has an affair with German Joachim Von Ribbentrop and marries Ernest. David becomes king. Wallis divorces, David abdicates and they marry. On their honeymoon they derail a train. Leon is now a spy par excellent.
Wallis finished her packing their grand tour of Germany. Then she counted the trunks. Too many, she knew, but everyone would be expecting to see a spectacular gown for each of their eleven days, and Wallis did not want to disappoint. Finally, she double checked her jewelry box ensconced in one of the larger pieces of luggage. She sighed in relief when she saw the large opal ring with the secret compartment for her Blue Ridge Mountains poison, which, much to her displeasure, had not arrived yet. Wallis did not like for things to go harem-scarem. A place for everything and everything in its place. This time, “it” had not even arrived yet. She hear someone at the door of their Paris suite. Perhaps the delivery from America arrived. Unfortunately, it was only David returning from a meeting with Lord Beaverbrook at the British embassy.
“You look gloomy.” It was only an observation, not an expression of concern.
David walked to a small cabinet stocked with his favorite liquors and splashed some whiskey into a short glass. “Lord Beaverbrook told me once again how displeased my brother the king was that you and I were launching on this –oh, what did he call it?—yes, this lark to Germany. Most inconvenient, he added.”
“Well, isn’t that what we want them to think?” Wallis pulled out a cigarette and lit it. These moods of David were absolutely taking the fun out of murder and espionage.
“I suppose.” His muttering was on the verge of indiscernibility.
“You know I hate it when you look like a lost dog.”
“The doctors call it schwermut,” David replied.
‘Well, when I visit my friends in the Blue Ridge Mountains they say you can call it manure or fertilizer but it still smells like shit.”
He slumped into an ornate stuffed arm chair and didn’t say a word. He must really be in the dumps. Usually when I use American vulgarities around him they bring the giggles out of him. David also plopped one leg across one of the arms, putting his crotch on full display, a bad habit he had picked up from Ernest; however, Wallis had to admit, Ernest had more to display than the duke.
David gazed out of the window of their Paris suite as he sipped his whiskey. “I don’t think you understand the dynamics of the Windsor family. It is true I hated my father. Never shed a tear when he died. Hard-hearted stupid man and proud of it. Mother’s just about as bad but not quite. I would be quite sad if I didn’t see her at least one more time before she died. My brothers and sister are a different matter. We all got along well. I think our youngest brother John who was epileptic and died in his early teens brought us together as human beings. But even that’s all over now, isn’t it? They can’t be part of our lives and we can’t be part of theirs. No more big family Christmas celebrations. No reunions at weddings and birthdays. And I have to pretend I don’t care. But, dammit all, I do care. At first I didn’t think I would, but I do care, and there’s not a whit I can do about it.”
Wallis could not decipher what all that meant. Her closest relative was Aunt Bessie who was pleasant company but could hardly be called a solace to the heart. Whatever a heart really meant. She snuffed out her cigarette as though she were crushing all of David’s maudlin mish mash of moods. Surely he was in one of his melancholia—life was just a pile of shit so what the hell difference did anything make? That posit of existence bored Wallis to tears. Life was just too damn exciting, prickling nerve ending to the point of orgasm.
Her missing package from America numbed her sensory pleasures of espionage. She couldn’t compete her mission without her package, and completing a mission was one of the main ecstasies of her life. The mission she had been given would the greatest challenge of her career at MI6.
The assassination of Adolf Hitler.
Wallis had several options at her disposal. One favorite involved a proper, sturdy long hat pin. It was most effective, quick, left few marks and blood stains and, if administered at coitus, evoked orgasm at the exact moment of death. It didn’t do anything for her personally, but Wallis enjoyed witnessing a man die with a smile on his face. The one drawback to this method was that it linked Wallis to the scene of death, bereft of any alibis. As much of being a master of charming banter Wallis could not talk her way out of murder.
Another favorite reminded her of the good old days of torturing Uncle Sol—the needle up the manhood. Joachim Von Ribbentrop did not consider it torture at all however. His eyes rolled up to the back of his head. He moaned like an enraptured bull. One extra thrust of the hat pin or quick jerks of the pin back and forth would tear into veins and arteries, causing intense bleeding and inevitable death. Ah, but there was the rub. Too much blood left the possibility of too many clues and they would all lead directly back to Wallis.
Therefore, she decided to fall back on an old reliable source which she used for Uncle Sol’s final dispatch—the strange, tiny herb she found during one of her long walks through the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia when she was about twelve years old. She often visited family in Warrenton to escape the evil of Uncle Sol. She didn’t even know the name for it nor what other plants it might be related to. All those scientific names sounded too much like botany and school, and she wanted no more formal education.
The pretty little blossom hid among the longer more impressive vines draping the tall oaks and spruces. Its delicacy lured young Wallis to pinch a bloom off and sniff it. Suddenly she experienced a strange dryness to her throat. While not particularly painful she realized within minutes she could not speak at all. Twenty-four hours later she developed a horrid headache which kept her in bed for the next three days. By that time she had returned to Baltimore and no one had a clue what had happened.
Every doctor who examined her questioned her mother about her activities of the last twenty-four hours. They never knew she had been in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Eventually Wallis recovered, and she had no doubts about the cause of her illness—the strange little flower hiding behind the big heavy vines deep in mysterious corners of the ancient Appalachians.
On her next holiday to Warrenton, Wallis wandered into the Blue Ridge Mountains in search of her new little friend. When she found the blossoms, Wallis snapped several of them off their stems and put them into a small brown paper bag and folded it tightly. She did not smell them. When she returned to her host’s home she put the bag into another sack, repeating the process. Then she washed her hands with hot soapy water.
In Baltimore she left the bag in a dark corner of her closet. After about a month or two, she checked the bag to find the flowers withered to a point of disintegrating. Next she pounded the bag so the contents became a fine powder which she poured into an empty pill bottles.
Wallis had one week before leaving for boarding school. She was quite excited her last night home. She did not go to bed before midnight. What the others in the house did not know was Wallis went outside, extended her arm through the slats of the white picket fence where the neighbor’s dog—known for its incessant barking—licked a white powder from her palm.
The next morning, rested from a long quiet sleep, Wallis kissed everyone good-bye—even Uncle Sol—and mounted a carriage which took her to the train station. In her first letter to her daughter, Wallis’ mother wrote the neighbor’s dog was silent and moping around. Three weeks later Wallis received news the dog died. Wallis knew she had a winning recipe.
When they received the official invitation to Germany, she contacted General Trotter, using one of their usual circuitous routes to ask for her poison from the American mountainsides. She wrote meticulous descriptions of what the plant looked like and where it could be found. Wallis knew MI6 had connections with the American government which could find the flower, diminish it into a powder and send it on its way. She anxiously awaited its arrival. Without it she could not complete her mission.
Moments after David freshened his drink, there was a knock at the door. Wallis answered it and took a small box from a courier arrived. Stamped on the box were the words “United States Department of Agriculture”. Wallis opened it to find a vial of white powder. With great care she transferred the powder to the secret compartment of her opal ring.
Now she was ready to meet Herr Hitler.

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Eighty-Three

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Man in the Red Underwear Chapter Nineteen

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Previously: Man in the Red Underwear is a pastiche of prose and poetry with hints of parody and a dash of social satire on gender roles and class mores. Cecelia throws a society ball, where former lovers Andy and Bedelia meet. Andy and friends try to stop villain Malcolm Tent. Tent woos Bedelia. Andy woos Bedelia. The good guys let Cecelia in on the plot.
Inspector Tent and Bedelia entered from the ballroom, breaking up the conspiratorial atmosphere in the library. The fearless foursome huddled around the chaise lounge.

“Lady Snob-Johnson,” Tent announced, “I’d be more careful about the household help if I were you. Your butler turned out to be the Man in the Red Underwear.”

She fluttered her eyes ingenuously. “You’re quite mistaken. My butler is seventy years old and weighs two hundred and fifty pounds.”

“I didn’t mean your real butler was the Man in the Red Underwear. But the Man in the Red Underwear was masquerading as your butler.” He paused a moment, thinking of a pun and congratulating himself for being so clever. “A sort of red butler.”

“He’d have to use a lot of padding.” Cecelia didn’t catch the joke because she rarely read American novels that hadn’t been written yet.

“Has a packet been delivered for me in the last few minutes while I was dancing with Miss Smart-Astin?” the inspector asked.

The quartet exchanged knowing glances.

“No,” she replied, her eyes all aflutter again.

“May I pour myself a glass of wine? The dancing has made me quite thirsty, and the rum punch being served in the ballroom is a bit too sweet.”

Cecelia’s left eyebrow went up. She was not accustomed to her guests being so totally honest. Decent people lied about the quality of refreshments. Recovering, she managed a wan smile. “Help yourself.”

“Miss Smart-Astin, would you care for a glass wine?” Tent inquired as he pointed to the cabinet of beverages.

“Why, I think I would, inspector.”

“Do you mind if I pour out white?” His eyes strayed. “There’s been way too much red this evening for my satisfaction.”

“Certainly.”

After handing Bedelia her drink, Tent held up his own in a mild toast. “I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed our dance.”

“Thank you.” She blushed, like a shy rosé. “You’re much too kind.”

His crooked smile took on a predatory slant. “Do you know you’re even more beautiful up close?”

“Oh my. Are you trying to sweep me off my feet?”

“That’s not a bad idea.” He leaned in to press his advantage. “I know our ages are vastly different, but there are such things as May-December romances.”

Taken aback from this tactic, Bedelia was left with no recourse but to break out in verse.

You don’t look old, dear Malcolm Tent. You have no gray hairs on your head.
You took care of that problem by applying dye on them instead.
You don’t look old, oh no not you, the fittest at Scotland Yard.
But when you look across the room your eyes are squinting hard.
Don’t mind that you are just a few years younger than my Dad.
And all your family members now are dying off, how sad.
But you’re not old, inspector dear, that’s one thing you can never fear.
So catch your breath, ignore that Mister Death is lingering near.
I can’t accept your marriage plea. I really need more time.
And is it wise to compromise to wed one past his prime?
In truth, I’m drawn to one who has more physical attraction.
I can’t deny he drives me to the edge of mad distraction.
Don’t get me wrong. I love the fact your character is strong.
It’s just that I can’t risk the chance your life won’t be that long.
But you’re not old, inspector dear, that’s one thing you can never fear.
So catch your breath, ignore that Mister Death is lingering near.

Andy, from his position near the lounge, noticed how intimate Tent and Bedelia were acting, and he felt compelled to cross the room so he could break up the apparent tryst. “Bedelia, darling! Have you seen the grenadine?”

Tent’s eyes wandered beyond Andy to focus on Cecelia, Millicent and the young shirtless prince. “What are they huddling about?”

“I have no idea. Why don’t you join them?” He pushed the inspector in their direction. “I’m sure they’d just love your company.”

With his erstwhile competition now distracted by the others by the lounge, Andy smiled ingratiatingly at Bedelia.

“You wanted a drink with grenadine?”

“Grenadine?” He was taken aback. “I hate grenadine—I mean, I adore grenadine but not just right now.”

“You don’t want a drink?” Her instinctive skills to analyze bizarre situations left her for the moment.

“No, I’m afraid that was a ruse to talk to you.” Andy glanced at the inspector. “To keep you from that other man.”

“He proposed.” She took a quick sip, her head poised with confidence.

“Proposed what?” He too succumbed to dull comprehension.

“Marriage, sort of.”

Andy’s mouth flew open. “You turned him down, I hope.”

“And why should I?” Her tone was couched with a challenge for Andy to make a counteroffer.

“Because—because he’s old and has oodles and oodles of wrinkles.” Even though he knew that sounded ridiculous, Andy tried valiantly to disguise his embarrassment.

Lincoln in the Basement Chapter Eighty-Two

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Previously: War Secretary Stanton holds the Lincolns and janitor Gabby Zook captive in the White House basement. Private Adam Christy takes guard duties. Mary talks Gabby into attacking Adam. Lincoln intervenes. Ashamed and distraught, Adam gets drunk and kills the butler who stops him from molesting the cook. Stanton and henchman Baker clean up the mess.
Jessie sat at a small table covered by a red-and-white checkered cloth in the back of a small, busy café. She tapped her fingers awaiting Adam. He broke their engagement last night, and she was not happy. Jessie was in love, but sensed something terrible had gone wrong. As much as she cared for Adam, his honesty about what was going on at the Executive Mansion disturbed her.
Her face lit when Adam first walked through the door, but it darkened as she watched him weave between the tables. He had not changed his clothes, shaved, or washed. When he plopped down in the chair next to her, Adam tried to kiss her, but she turned away.
“Ye stink and look terrible.”
“I’m a man, a soldier.” Adam leaned back in his chair and looked ahead.
The waiter came up.
“What do ye crave for supper?”
“Whiskey.”
After the waiter pulled out his pad, Jessie leaned to Adam and said, “I want a bowl of beef stew and a glass of milk.”
When Adam did not respond, she looked up at the waiter who nodded.
“And for the gentleman?”
“Whiskey,” Adam demanded.
“We don’t serve hard liquor.”
“Nothing, then.”
“Very well, sir,” the waiter said and turned away.
“Me darlin’, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve been given the awesome knowledge of life and death.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s terrible to give a young man the awesome knowledge of life and death.” Adam said nothing more because the waiter arrived with Jessie’s bowl of soup and glass of milk.
“Ye need to talk to a priest.” Her voice was soft. “Somebody who can help ye.”
“It’s too late.” Avoiding Jessie’s eyes, he shook his head. “The awesome knowledge of life and death changes a man forever. A woman will never know the awesome knowledge of life and death.”
“Will ye stop that ‘awesome knowledge of life and death’?” She pushed away her soup bowl. “I lost me hunger. Take me home.”
Adam bolted for the door. Jessie paid the waiter and scurried after him. He was already in his seat on the omnibus when she climbed on board and passed the fare slot.
“Sorry, miss, I need your coin,” the driver said.
“I’m with the gentleman,” she replied, motioning to Adam in the back.
“Oh. Him. He just paid for himself.”
Searching her reticule in frustration, Jessie finally found the right coin, deposited it, and walked to the back. She debated whether to sit next to Adam, who left her humiliated in his wake. The bus started with a jerk, causing her to fall into the seat by him.
“Where were ye last night?”
Adam stared into the night.
“I think your actions are despicable,” Jessie said in a low, intense voice. “And don’t give me any more of that knowledge of life and death foolishness. Ye are a better man than this, me laddie.”
Turning toward her, Adam smiled with a touch of the devil in its curl. Jessie shuddered. When her street came up, She stood to leave; Adam began to follow her.
“I don’t need an escort.”
Again he smiled like a devil’s slave, which caused her to hasten to the omnibus door, where she jumped to the road and trotted toward her boardinghouse. Not looking behind her, Jessie sensed Adam was staggering behind her. At the door, she rummaged through her reticule, trying to find the key, until she smelled foul breath over her shoulder.
“Adam, please go away before I tell ye to go away forever.” She did not look at him, but spoke in a soft yet solemn voice. “Now.”
Spinning her around, Adam planted a moist, open-mouthed kiss on her lips. His teeth smashed her lips against her own teeth, causing them to bleed. The taste of his tongue was acrid and repellent. His body odor crawled up her nostrils, making her gag. Finally her hand, still fumbling through her reticule, found the key. Grasping it tightly, she scraped the key on Adam’s temple. He moaned as his hand went to the bleeding gash. Jessie unlocked the door, rushed in, and locked it. Adam lunged forward, banging his hand on it.
“Jessie!” he screamed.