I neither own nor created Batman/Bruce Wayne, Dr. Leslie Thomkins, Alfred Pennyworth, Lucius Fox, or Dead-Shot. I did create Madge, Evelyn Ainsley, Lenny Nails, and "Chuckles" Charles.
This story is for entertainment purposes only, so please read and be entertained.
Madge stared at the man.
"You're the doc's friend?"
"I've been a family friend of Dr. Thomkins for some years, yes."
A few not so friendly thoughts about Dr. Thomkins ran through Madge's mind. Her thoughts flashed back to that morning's conversation. The good doctor had never referred to her new teacher as a "she," but had also never corrected her when she had. Madge's eyes narrowed.
"How do I know you're her friend?"
"Well she takes her tea with honey, not sugar, and . . ."
"What's my name?"
"I believe Dr. Thomkins said it was 'Madge Robertson.'"
Madge clenched her teeth. "You're . . . him." She closed the door, but didn't undo the chain lock. Her instructor on domestic arts was a "he." After a few days of reprieve from dealing with members of the male sex, she was expected to spend hours alone with one.
Madge felt like marching up to her borrowed room, packing her bags, and leaving. Except she had no bags, and nothing of her own to put in them, or anywhere to go, but she could figure out something. A voice echoed from outside the door.
"Is something wrong, Miss?"
Madge thought a few more moments. If she left, she knew where she'd end up. The scenarios were no worse than this one. She took the chain off and swung the door open.
. . .
Leslie strode down the street, regretting that she hadn't told Miss Robertson the sex of her instructor. Of course, Alfred would be horrified at the idea of taking advantage of her patient, his student, but Madge might be hard to convince of that. The fact she hadn't told her would seem like a betrayal. But if she had told Miss Robertson, her patient might have left before Alfred arrived. She herself might have stayed, but she had put off certain chores long enough. Nothing would be open after her shift, at least no place she wanted to go that late.
. . .
The man was standing over the open trunk of a small black car. Madge almost slammed the door shut. He looked up and smiled while lifting a brown paper bag into his arms.
"Jolly good, you've decided to let me in. While you were making up your mind, I decided to start unloading the groceries."
He marched back up the stone steps with a bag in each arm, deposited them on the floor of the entryway, walked back out, and repeated the process until eight bags were lined up in front of her. Then he shut the door. The Englishman hung up his hat, jacket, and scarf on the coat-rack to the right of the door and rolled up his sleeves.
"After we put away these groceries, I suggest we begin in the kitchen. The sinks have a few soiled dishes in them have they not?"
Madge folded her arms.
"Yep. What do I call you 'teach'?"
"'Mr. Pennyworth' seems appropriate at this juncture, Miss Robertson."
"Hmm." Better than what some men have asked me to call them.
"Right this way then."
The professor of domestic arts lifted two bags off the floor and began to stride down the hall. Madge followed behind with a clenched jaw and unblinking eyes. Mr. Pennyworth carried the two bags into the kitchen, set them down, and waited for his student to enter behind him.
"I assume you have previous instruction and practice in housekeeping."
"Yep."
"Any of it professional?"
"Nope."
"In that case we'll concentrate on what it means to be professional in maintaining the upkeep of another's house."
"Why not?"
"First, one must become familiar with how the areas one is responsible for are organized. When only a few things are out of place, one can generally get a good sense of their preferred order. I had a rather nasty experience once. The other household servants purposely misplaced things to confound me on my first day. Fortunately, fellow workers are usually more professional. Often the chap who did the work before will show you about the place. I have some experience here. So, I will take that role now."
"Exactly how much 'experience' do you have in this house, Mr. Pennyworth?"
"Oh, far too much to be exact. The family that employs me was on intimate terms with Dr. Thompkins long before I worked for them. Since then, I've accompanied my employers on several visits and had numerous opportunities to serve the doctor and them during their visits."
"Oh."
Alfred bent down and began to unpack the contents of the grocery bag.
"Now the organization of Dr. Thompkins' kitchen is unusually convenient . . ."
. . .
Lucius stared at the hands of the clock. There wasn't a time difference, but timing was something to consider. She never let returning calls interrupt her sleep. He couldn't try before nine AM. Nor should he call before ten. She hated conducting business before breakfast. He should also give her a little time to make herself presentable. Even though they couldn't be seen over the phone, people felt more at ease when they looked good.11 AM should be the sweet spot. The hands moved to the desired numbers. He picked up the phone, pressed the necessary numbers on the device, and held the phone to his ear.
One ring, two, three . . . . (Click).
"Good morning, you have reached Ainsley manor. Whom am I addressing?"
"Evie? Good to hear your voice again. How was Europe?"
"Lucius Fox! You are the only man who would have the nerve to address me like that just ten years since I buried George."
"I called you that when he was still walking around."
"On the other side of the world. Europe was fine, I suppose. They hardly ever do something new with those tourist sites of theirs."
"They're historical sites, Evie. You hate it when they put parking lots in nearby."
"Well it ruins the whole feel of the place. Honestly, you're supposed to feel as though you've been transported away from this modern nightmare. Now, why did you really call, Lucius?"
"I'm afraid I've a favor to ask of you Ev."
. . .
Madge washed the dishes. Mr. Pennyworth inspected them. Every now and then he handed a dish back to her pointing out a crusted on crumb she'd missed, but more often he nodded with satisfaction. Then he rinsed, dried, and put them away explaining why it belonged there.
His student paid enough attention to absorb the information while watching his hands, eyes, and shoulders from the corners of her eyes. She also listened more to the tone of his voice than his words and kept a distance of a few feet from him. If Mr. Pennyworth noted these things, he gave no visual cues nor said anything on the matter. In fact, the silence was getting on her nerves.
"So, the family you work for is friendly with the doc?"
Mr. Pennyworth nodded. "Indeed."
"What are their names?"
"When I first met Dr. Thompson, I was employed by the Wayne family. Now I keep house for their son and heir, Bruce Wayne."
Madge froze. This was the butler who'd received custody of his murdered employers' son, left with the city with him some years later, returned alone, and took control of the estate. Word on the street was that he'd 'taken care of the kid' in some convenient corner of the globe. "Bruce Wayne" had not been seen in nearly ten years. Madge went back to running the wash cloth over the surface of a plate.
"So, uh, where is Mr. Wayne, anyway?"
"I'm afraid Master Wayne instructed me to reveal his whereabouts only to a few individuals."
"Uh-huh. Must be nice having a great big manor to yourself."
"No."
Something in the man's tone made Madge's head swivel to look directly into his face. His voice, expression, and the slump in his shoulders made her heart twist painfully. The butler didn't look up from the skillet he was scraping eggs off of.
"No, continuing the upkeep of an empty manor for years without employers to please, company to entertain, or fellow human beings to interact with is not very nice at all."
The normally skeptical Madge later realized she'd never believed Mr. Pennyworth had killed his young employer after that moment.
. . .
The lights in the Bat Cave came on. Bruce Wayne's eyes snapped open. He sat up. His shoulders relaxed slightly as a voice echoed through the cavern.
"Good afternoon, Sir. Does your regular breakfast tray sound appetizing?"
Bruce threw the blanket and sheet aside, dropped to the marble floor, and began to do jumping jacks.
"It does Alfred. How did things go with Miss Robertson?"
"She was a quick study. However, she was rather stiff at first. She became even more so when we entered Dr. Thomkins bedroom, so I could show her how to make a bed properly. There were moments I thought she'd stare holes into my skull. I must say, even if I was twenty years younger and we met at a dinner party, I would not have used any charms upon her. It would be like showing a riding crop to a shying horse."
"Did she relax before you left?"
"I believe so." A corner of Alfred's moustache lifted. "She tensed when I admitted to being Bruce Wayne's infamous butler-guardian. When do you plan on 'returning' from your travels, Mr. Wayne?"
"At the optimal moment."
Alfred nodded. His employer and godson completed his two hundredth jumping jack. The younger man's skin still had no sheen of sweat. The butler turned towards the elevator that would take him back up to the tunnel, which led to the false back of the pantry connected to the mansion's kitchen.
"I'll just go see about your breakfast then."
"Alfred."
The servant turned back.
"Yes, sir?"
Bruce continued to look straight ahead at the wall as he continued his morning workout.
"Thank you."
A grin lit the man-servant's face.
"You're most welcome, Master Bruce."
. . .
The mob boss sat behind his desk. He was flanked by two men. Both were taller than him, held handguns, and were in better physical shape. The only thing that nearly rivaled this king of industry's appreciation of power and family was his appreciation for food. It showed in the extra mass hanging from his frame.
However, his mind was constantly at work. He had not gotten where he was from being bad at reading other men's intentions in their gestures, expressions, what they said, and what they did not say. He didn't like the man before him.
The aforementioned gentleman was over six feet tall and muscled. He had a thin brown mustache, a wide grin, and glinting eyes. He was leaning back in the chair, legs splayed, smoking his own cigar instead of waiting for his host to offer him one. Still, all his sources said he was the best. He'd just finished a job on the west coast for an old associate who'd vouched for him. Nothing, but the best would do. He leaned forward to look into his guest's smirking face.
"So, you think you can rid us of our Bat problem?"
The other man drew the cigar out of his mouth and blew out a smoke ring. His smirk widened.
"Give me an interesting shot, and I'll take it."
"You can pick out the place yourself. We'll bait it."
The other man raised an eyebrow.
"Bait?"
"We know what draws him out."
The out- of -towner coughed into his hand with a grin.
"Guess it hasn't worked out for you."
The mob boss clamped his jaw shut. Having the upstart shot now would mean weeks spent finding a replacement. He could wait until after the job was done to remind this "Dead Shot" who he speaking to. The man behind the desk slid a map toward the man in front of it.
"Mark where you want him to be. We'll set it up for you. Don't take too long. Five months of this 'hero's' good work is as much as I want to put up with. Make sure it's all I have to put up with, and you'll get your six-hundred and fifty grand as agreed."
The stranger grinned, took the map, rose from his chair, removed his hat, and swept a bow to the occupants of the office.
"Nice doing business with you, gentlemen."
He put the hat back on his head, the cigar back in his mouth, turned, and strutted from the room.
. . .
Lenny the Nail and "Chuckles" Charles sat at the bar grinning at the show. Lenny poured himself another drink.
"So, you picked her out, yet?"
Charles smirked and picked up his own half-filled glass.
"Eh, it might take a while. There are so many to choose from."
Even as he spoke, the corner of his eye noticed a girl not on stage. She was holding her head down, scanning the groups of people around her with wide, unsmiling eyes. Chubby cheeks, a pouting mouth, and curly blond hair gave her a babyish look that contrasted with the sheer dress she wore, the hem of which barely covered her bottom.
He noted her. Then he turned back to those who were more his type. Yeah, she'd do. You couldn't get more damsel in distress than that.
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