Page 1 of The Demons of Wychwood

FELIX LAZARUS

It was a miserable foggy February day, and a chilly breeze stinking of piss blew along the Regents Canal from the tanneries.

I stepped off the blue Waterloo line omnibus on Prince Albert Road and then dawdled until I heard the horses move off.

I unbuttoned my coat and threading my fingers into my waistcoat pocket; I drew out my worn brass watch, and with a flick of a fingernail opened the dented cover.

The watch face told that it was five minutes to the midday bells.

Grey fog tinged with orange billowed around me and with no sign of blue sky you wouldn’t have believed this was daytime at all.

This particular type of fog near the tanneries was the worst.

The taste and smell of animal piss mingled with chimney smoke made for a lethal miasma.

When this kind of fog descended on the city the familiar grand landmarks of London were lost to the eye and even the iron railings lining the garden squares that we used as guides became greasy and clammy to the touch.

Luckily, I could rely on the omnibus to get me close to where I needed to be.

I hated being out on such a day, but the lure of easy lucre was my master! I began to walk, seeing figures pass me like shadowy ghosts in the haze of fog.

You wouldn’t think it, but this here was a well-to-do area of London.

The nobs can buy all the posh houses they want, but they can’t buy fresh air in this filthy city!

I was on the outskirts of Primrose Hill, a huge area of open parkland close to the city, and not a stone’s throw from London Zoo.

This was once all heath land, with just a few big mansion houses.

The gentry liked to pretend they was in the country and just be a quick carriage ride away from their gaming hells, mistresses, and gentleman’s clubs in town.

So Primrose Hill was now on the up-and-up.

I walked uphill past a wooded coppice, and then came upon a tall, grand, cut stone wall that surrounded a mansion.

The wall was the boundary wall for my destination, but the likes of me could never enter through the front door! I followed the wall and turned down a side road that was nothing more than a wide dirt track lined by overgrown bushes.

Carriages calling at the house would take this track after offloading their masters, and the drivers would see to their horses care in the stables behind the house.

I took a right turn to the rear of the property.

The eerie haloed glow of gas lamps blazed at my destination.

I stopped and glanced through the foggy haze to the left and right, up and down the track.

The distant rattle of a carriage and the metallic beat of horseshoes on cobbles sounded muted in the rolling fog.

Nothing moved, not a bird sang, and although I heard my heart hammering in my chest, there were no approaching footsteps.

Assured that I wasn’t followed by the law or a scallywag making use of the fog for cover, I made my way to the gas lamp, stepped up to the grey Portland stone wall, counted ten bricks up from the ground, and then to the fifth brick in the row.

With my fingerless-gloved hand, I pushed on the left side of the brick and it swung out to the right.

Inside the brick was a hollowed recess in which a bright metal key sat, accompanied by a small square ivory envelope addressed to yours truly, Mr.

Felix Lazarus.

I smiled privately as I palmed the key and the envelope cos I knew what the envelope contained—another step towards my freedom.

I pushed the brick back into place and then stepped a couple of paces to my left where I unlatched the tall wrought iron back gates.

Leaving the double gate wide open, I strode through the wintering gardens of a luxurious mansion house called Wychwood .

The Regency-style house had once stood alone in this plot, surrounded by woodland and the heath, but the clamorous-clawed-reach of London was on its way and this grand house would soon be over taken by the detritus of the filthy city.

Using the key, I let myself into the house through the kitchen door.

I stepped into the back porch and was pleased that the maid remembered to set the fire as I was welcomed by a wave of comforting warmth.

Closing the door, I wiped my feet on the door mat, swiftly shrugged out of my topcoat, took off my flat cap, gloves, and scarf, and hung them on the line of hooks on the porch wall.

I removed the handkerchief square that Elowen had sewn for me and gave a customary blow of my nose to dislodge the remnants of the filthy orange fog, then snuck the hanky back into my trouser pocket.

I plucked the envelope from my coat pocket, and strode deeper into the large kitchen.

The mansion house kitchen smelled faintly of vinegar and lime, but it was nice and clean.

The kitchen walls were whitewashed, and the floor was grey flagstone.

I sat heavily on a chair at the scrubbed oak table and let my weary bones rest for a moment.

Then I opened the envelope.

Inside there was a letter and two crisp white five-pound notes, one of which now belonged to me, thank you very much.

This single payment was the equivalent of more than two month’s wages from my regular employment as a sorting clerk at the General Post Office at St Paul’s.

The letter contained the purple-inked scratchy penmanship I’d become familiar with these past twelve months.

I smiled as I read the instructions for this evening’s party.

With this coded information I could imagine what debauchery was about to happen here! I folded the letter and placed it and the filthy lucre into my trouser pocket.

I stood and strode to the door of the curved stairway that led to the ground floor of Wychwood.

Lots of big houses had curved stairs leading from the kitchen.

They were designed that way to give servants a moment to pause and listen in case their master was about the house.

Some masters were very strict, see, and while they wanted to be waited on, they didn’t want to see those serving them.

My old Ma taught me a lot about serving in a big house.

She said that the less a servant was seen, the better, and that information worked well for me.

Gods! I missed Ma something awful.

She used to say I was built like a willow tree.

That was until I had a growth spurt and put on a bit of muscle.

I’d say I’ve got quite the masculine physique now, I’m six feet tall, my hair is wheat blond and if I’m honest, in need of a trim.

And although I ain’t as well turned out as a dandy, I’d say I’m a good-looking fella—I get plenty of looks and winks if you know what I mean!

I moved up the curved stairway, my tread catlike and soundless.

It was something I’d been trained to do since I was a nipper, move quietly, and not attract attention.

My old man had made a game of it.

“Walk as if you’s stepping on the back of a giant angry dog,”

Ferron Lazarus would say in his Devonian burr, when teaching me to always be alert and tread lightly when on the rob.

He knew how scared I was of mutts, and so I’d stepped warily so as not to wake the bleedin’ imaginary dog.

I’d always thought it was just games, but little did I know back then that my Pa was training me up to be a sneak thief!

“Small hands, light feet, butter wouldn’t melt looks.

Who’d think an angel child-like Little Felix Lazarus could have picked a Lordling’s pocket?”

Pa had jested proudly after I’d relieved a nobleman of his weighty coin purse at seven-years-old.

I remember that feeling to this very day, of how good it felt to make my Pa proud.

He taught me well, and I robbed for him cos I wanted to get that feeling back, I wanted to please him.

But as I got older and wiser, I realized that what Ferron Lazarus taught me as games, were in fact crimes that could see me in gaol.

He’d say we were thievin’ to feed the family, but then he’d drink and gamble the money away.

Pa was a wastrel and no mistake.

He made me so angry and disappointed me at every turn.

I didn’t want to rob for him no more.

I ran away so many times to escape his clutches, but he always found me and gave me a beating.

By the time I was sixteen I was relieved my Pa was in Dartmoor gaol and Ma worked in the kitchens at a big house, with my sister Elowen slaving as a scullery maid.

I didn’t want to end up like my Pa, so I ran away to London, and joined the army of the East India Company.

I sailed away from my troubles on what I hoped was to be a grand adventure.

When I returned to England from the hell of battle, I was a different man.

I sought out my family to discover my Ma had died from Tuberculosis and Elowen was with child and abandoned.

So, I did what any decent brother would do.

I stepped up and became the savior of my sister’s virtue.

Pulled from reminiscence I was standing in the middle of the grand foyer of Wychwood.

With my hands on my hips I listened intently for movement.

The only sounds were the ticking of an array of ornate clocks that were displayed all around the rooms of this luxurious uninhabited house.

“Hello?”

I called out in enquiry.

“If there’s anyone there, show yourself.

You won’t be punished.” Silence ensued, with not a footstep, a scurrying mouse, or a creaking board from the floors above.

I was pleased.

The maids never met me or our paymaster.

Each employee was given a set time to complete their tasks and paid handsomely to do so and leave without question.

I didn’t know the identity of my employer, or of the servants who swept, polished, and remade Wychwood after the debauchery of the previous soiree.

The maid servants had completed their tasks and scarpered as per their orders, and now it was my turn to follow my instructions.

I pivoted and moved off, the tip-tap of my boots on the polished checkerboard tiles of the foyer echoing.

Regimentally, as I had done every month since I secured my secret employment here, I checked that the music room, billiard room, library, drawing-room, the gentlemen’s parlor, and the dining room had been swept and dusted.

Then I lit the fires that had been readied by the now absent maids.

The fires would need to burn for several hours to take the frigid chill from the rooms so I’d be back and forth all afternoon topping them up with coal.

I prided myself on being fastidious, with my exemplary standards honed in the army.

Recognition of my light-fingered skills, my attention to detail, and of my preference had somehow reached the notice of my unknown moneyed employer who believed I was the perfect fellow to organize these gentlemen-only parties.

If I’m honest, I hadn’t even known there was such a thing as a preference until I was a trapped on a ship with hundreds of sweaty soldiers, traveling to fight a rebellion in India.

You see, war changes a man, as does the understanding that he could be dead with the thrust of a cutlass, or a flash of powder.

I realized that we men should take our pleasures where we can, and oh boy, we certainly did aboard that ship!

The story books might have tales of heroic soldiers and sailors, but the reality is that things happen during the rolling too-and-fro of a long sea voyage that no sane man admits to when he’s back in Old Blighty—like a brotherly tug in a dark corner to pass the time, or a drunken night-time suck with a cove to scratch a lustful itch and find sleep.

I learned well on those sea voyages what my appetite was for, and that, when back in England, my particular preference would see me hang if I was caught at it.

So, I decided I would not get caught!

Returning to the grand tiled foyer, I checked my pocket watch which read twelve-twenty-nine p.m, and as if by magic, there was a loud rapping on the kitchen door.

I grinned, getting quite a rush of excitement when things went exactly to my employers' design.

I strode down to the kitchen and opened the back door.

Outside an elderly man stood, a grey shaggy beard that held a few strands of ginger warmed his jowls and his long silver hair was tied into a tail.

He was wearing a black flat cap on his head and a weathered brown leather apron over his layers of shirt, wool waistcoat, jacket, and topcoat.

He rubbed his fingerless gloved hands,

“Afternoon Felix,”

he said with a nod .

“Afternoon Jim,”

I replied.

That greeting was the only words we ever shared.

I knew nothing about Jim and he knew nothing about me.

All was as our employer designed it.

We was told that that if we don’t know we can’t tell.

With the wage on offer and nature of the parties, everyone involved in this little enterprise knew which side their bread was buttered and kept schtum.

Behind Jim there was a pushing cart laden with baskets and boxes.

We nodded to each other in mutual understanding and then unloaded the cart in silence, placing the items on the kitchen table.

When the task was completed, I fished the second five-pound note out of my pocket and handed it to Jim.

As always, he unfolded it, held the edges of the large white bank note, and moved it to the gaslight to check that the print and signatures were correct.

Satisfied that I hadn’t palmed him a dud, Jim folded the note, tucked it into his inner breast pocket, doffed his cap, and left with his empty cart, closing and latching the garden gate behind him.

With the delivery over and the kitchen door locked, now was the time for me to begin my work.

The baskets contained freshly baked bread, cheeses, and exotic fruits from warmer climes, the likes of which we never usually saw in England, and most certainly not during the winter.

The boxes contained hothouse flowers, French pastries, confectionary, and other epicurean delights straight off the boat from the continent.

Over the next few hours, I readied for the evening.

I worked in the kitchen where I created floral arrangements just as my mother had taught me to do.

You could say I was brought up in the family business cos while my Pa taught me sneak-thief skills, my Ma taught me the skills needed to thrive below stairs, so I could work my way into rich households and case them for my old man.

My sneak-thief days were long over, but I’d excelled when it came to preparing a feast!

I lay out silver platters where I displayed treats and fancies, sliced fruits, bread, cheese, pastries, and cold cut meats.

Pleased with my displays, I carried each platter and vase upstairs to the grand dining room and laid them out on the long mahogany table.

Next, I collected bottles of wine and spirits from the well-stocked cellar, and refilled the drinks cabinet, putting aside a bottle of Cognac for myself, of course.

When the foods, flowers, and beverages were set out I took the stairs to the upper floor to tend to the bedrooms.

I carried out this task as I had done every other task, regimentally, in silence, and even though some of the instructions were a little peculiar, I dealt with them without second-guessing my employer or his guest’s wishes.

There were fifteen bedrooms at Wychwood and each luxurious grand bed had been stripped and remade with fresh linens before I even set foot in the house.

Club Fifty-five was a secretive, anonymous affair for gentlemen with particular, illegal tastes, and so there were strict rules of membership.

No names were ever shared, and instead of names, each member was given a numbered gold token to identify them as one of the fifty-five.

I was a curious sort and convinced that some of the members must be known to one another outside of this house—such were the circles these men socialized in.

The molly houses of London were well-known to men such as these.

But those establishments were far too popular and the peelers regularly raided them.

My employer offered an exclusive safe place where members could enjoy their pleasures and the mutual protection of men with the same proclivities.

I enjoyed the cloak and dagger nature of this arrangement, but sadly, I wasn’t permitted to take an active part.

I believe that assignations occurred everywhere in the mansion, but trysts requiring a bedroom and accoutrements were arranged beforehand.

I wasn’t quite sure how the communication flowed between the club members and my employer.

Sometimes there was one party a month, other times—particularly during the London Season, they occurred more often.

I was notified about the date of the next soiree by letter, straight into my pigeonhole at work.

I brightened each time I saw the flourishing, purple-inked penmanship on that ivory linen envelope–for I knew, just like winning on the gee-gee’s, I was in for a payday!

To ensure secrecy and mutual protection, members didn’t invite anyone to events outside of the fifty-five.

If a member did try to sneak a friend or lover in, the employer would find out and the member was removed from the list.

Removal or death were the only ways that a new member would be invited to a party, and, don’t ask me how I know, but as some of these gents were in their older years, I’d say that the latter was a strong possibility!

I pulled today’s letter of instruction from my jacket pocket, together with a stick of white chalk.

I strode down the corridors and marked each dark timber bedroom door with the appropriate member’s number and then returned to inspect the bedrooms one-by-one to make sure they were prepared according to requirements.

I checked the linens were clean, and the washstand was stocked with towels, water, soap, and lubricating unguents.

I lit the fires that were laid in each fireplace.

I ensured a silver tray with a bottle of Claret or Brandy with glasses was positioned on the credenza in each room.

My final task was to ensure that any particular accoutrements the members required were on display.

I grinned as I read that room one requested handcuffs, a length of chain, and a horsehair flogger.

The gentlemen taking room four had requested lady’s hosiery, silky knickers, and a whalebone bodice.

The occupants of room fifteen had requested red candles and a cut-throat razor.

I loosened my collar and gulped at reading that request.

For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine how those items could be the least bit erotic, but such requests were not unusual here.

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