The Mystery of the Man in the Diamante Panties
It had been several months since I saw my friend, the Abbess of Scottsbury, due to a falling out over the heritage of a china bone tea set in her possession. The lady insisted it hailed from the orient and was a valuable artifact which had withstood the ages, however I prevailed that it had been mocked up in the village less than a year ago. The Abbess was always a dull witted soul, but she did not allow her lack of mental prowess to stand in the way of certainty in her suppositions. Thus I was cast out of her favors with barely a crust of bread to dip in my soup.
I was languishing in my own little apartments when I received word from a messenger that the Abbess wished to see me. I made all due haste to her residence, knowing full well that she would not have summoned me if the situation were not grave. A slight against a tea set is not something to be taken lightly.
“Monty,” she addressed me. My name is Frederick, but she has always addressed me as Monty, and I have always allowed her the privilege. The Abbess is a statuesque and rotund woman given to fits of port and sherry which have left her with a bonny rosy complexion about her nose and cheeks, and it is best not to contradict her if one can possibly help it.
“I have grave news. A lover's favor has gone missing and I fear that my reputation will be compromised.”
The Abbess was never shy of taking lovers, but she was always terrified that her indiscretions might become public knowledge. The fear of exposure allowed her to whittle away the hours engaged in all sorts of frightful flights of fancy which I surmise she quite enjoyed.
I pledged to her that I would find the favor, a pair of exquisite diamante panties, made of French lace woven by novice nuns and adorned from stem to stern with diamantes, which, according to the Abbess, would shine to heaven if they were to be exposed in open skies.
She clutched me to her bosom and showered me with thanks and I dined quite well that night on corn fed pigeon drowned in lashings of red wine.
Of course I had no real intention of searching for her diamante panties. No doubt they were long gone, perhaps purloined by a member of the staff, or lost somewhere in the many perfumed drawers belonging to the Abbess.
The discovery of the panties was quite accidental, almost a week later during a tea party held in honor of the shepherds and shepherdesses of the Lord. I was about to bite into a rather delectable piece of fudge when my arm was pinched quite savagely by the Abbess. I turned to question this behavior and observed that the eyes of the Abbess had grown quite round. Following her gaze, I espied what she had espied and I must confess, was forced to restrain myself from laughing aloud. There, sat in the middle of the tea table, amongst the little sandwiches, cakes and muffins, were her diamante panties, proudly displayed around a 14th century silver teapot.
It was clear what had happened, the maid had done her rounds recently and espying the diamante panties supposed them to be some sort of tea ornament. That's the trouble with beating servants, sometimes one beats the brains right out of their heads.
Unfortunately for the Abbess, her bejeweled fingers were not fast enough. The Bishop of Bentwick had also espied the prize and before you could say “smelted knock-off” the diamante panties had found a new home inside his breast pocket.
What happened next was quite extraordinary. The Abbess went sailing across the room with all the majesty of a Spanish Frigate, reached into the Bishop's blazer and pulled out the diamante panties. In order to distract attention from her actions, I thoughtfully poured a little gunpowder atop the white linen which held the spread and, with no little measure of regret, set the table cloth ablaze.
In a moment, the room was filled with smoke, squealing ladies and gentlemen and the hapless cries of the Bishop of Bentwick who was quite determined he should not lose the panties he had purloined.
“You do not understand, M'Lady, they are a perfect match for my brassiere!” he cried in protest as the Abbess pried the panties from his fist.
“Your brassiere! Then I shall have that too!” she responded, tearing his shirt asunder, revealing an expanse of lace and diamante which put the panties to shame. The sparkling jewels clung to the delicate lace trim which stretched across the muscular wall of his chest, and indeed, for a moment, the Abbess was taken aback at such a display of finery.
The flames grew higher, the smoke grew thicker and at that juncture I was forced to beat a hasty retreat.
I took tea with the Abbess two days later, after she had secured my release from the gaol and placated the magistrate with assurances of my future good conduct. Going as I was coming, the Bishop of Bentwick greeted me heartily as if I were an old friend, clasping my hand and slipping a ten pound note into it. I thanked him, and as I did, I noted then that his gait was somewhat changed from our previous meeting. He walked more carefully, and as I entered the home of the Abbess, I am certain I observed him making a motion as if to remove some delicate, lacy, yet altogether too intrusive piece of feminine undergarment from his posterior.
The Abbess, come to greet me, likewise noted the movement and laughed her lovely booming laugh. “They always did ride up.”
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