Page 7 of The Demons of Wychwood

THE UNEXPECTED GUEST

Two weeks later, I sat at my sorting station, my hands trembling with trepidation as I held a small square envelope addressed to:

Mr. Felix Lazarus,

Sorting Office,

General Post Office,

St Martin’s Le Grand,

London .

There was no postmark or stamp affixed, so I didn’t have a notion where the letter had begun its journey. I wondered, as always, how the letter had made its way to me. Who was delivering the letters and how did they have access to my workplace? Was someone else at the GPO on the take from my mysterious second employer? Looking at handwriting on envelopes written by the thousands of people, all day, every day, gives a man an appreciation for a good hand. You should see some of the envelopes that pass through my here—with writing like it was done by a drunk spider dipped in ink and set free on the page. I liked it when I saw pretty handwriting and so I’d always appreciated the hand of whoever wrote these particular letters, cos they went to the trouble of making their words stand out, and they used lovely purple ink.

I knew what this particular letter entailed before I’d even broken the seal. I let out a sigh of relief, and the anxiety flowed from where it had cramped my shoulders. For two weeks since meeting Lord Penhelligan in the flesh, I’d fretted, hoping each day that I would find this particular letter in my pigeonhole and have a reason to spy on my mysterious nobleman again. Now the letter had arrived I found I was rather reluctant to open it. In my mind’s eye, I could already imagine where it would lead me, and even though I’d said that last time would be an end to my spying on men fucking, the lustful craving was upon me, and I was convinced now that I couldn’t stop.

My obsession with Christopher Havelock had not subsided in the slightest since our real-life meeting on St James’s Square. I now saw Kit Havelock everywhere I looked, and that Byronic handsome face plagued my waking dreams. Not a day had gone by for the past two weeks without me seeing a man with red leather gloves, or smelling the scent of lemons, or seeing Lord Penhelligan peering out of the window of a passing carriage. I’d seen him while I was crossing a road, I’d seen him stepping out of a pub on the Holborn Road that I occasionally frequented, and I even saw a man with red leather gloves get on a Stepney bound omnibus when I travelled home to Elowen and Bess. I was surely going mad. I knew it wasn’t really him. It couldn’t be him. Why would a Duke with his own liveried coach and four be travelling on a bleedin’ omnibus? It was absurd to have Kit’s features so burned into my imagination that I saw him everywhere. I even popped into St Paul’s Cathedral to pray, cos it felt like I was somehow being haunted by a man who was not yet dead—well, I hoped that Kit wasn’t dead!

I pushed the purple penned letter into my waistcoat pocket and stood. I walked along the line of sorting stations, men and women’s hands flying as they expertly pigeonholed letters. When I reached the men’s privy, I stepped into a cubicle and closed the door. I took the envelope from my pocket, hurriedly broke the seal, and pulled out the sheaf of paper. All it said was Saturday 24th March 1860— the date of the next Club Fifty-five soirée. Blessedly, it was a day off. I tore the letter and envelope into tiny pieces and dropped them into the privy hole, then flushed.

****

Three days later I stepped off the omnibus on Prince Albert Road. I always made sure I took a different route to Wychwood to avoid detection, cos you could never be too cocky when it came to queer business. Everyone who worked for the employer was warned to be on the lookout for suspicious characters cos the reputations of the elites who attended the house were worth more than any of our lives.

It was another grey miserable March day. The air was thick with soot and there was a stiff breeze that couldn’t quite encourage the fog to budge. I headed for the road that met the other end of the track behind the house, listening all the while for the echo of footsteps. I could hear the cries of seagulls even though I saw bugger-all in the gloomy sky, so I supposed it was rough weather at sea and the scavengers had come inland. The gas lamps on the exterior garden wall at Wychwood blazed like beacons calling me to sin.

I strolled down the alley and stopped by the garden wall. As was my routine, I drew out the brass pocket watch that had travelled with me to India and back. I pressed the release button to see the worn enamel clock face was at ten minutes to the midday bells. So keen was I to see my favourite that I was earlier than usual. I glanced up and down the track straining my eyes to see through the foggy haze. Nothing moved in the murk, and I was assured that I was completely alone. I stepped to the grey stone wall, counted ten bricks up, and then to the fifth brick in the row. I pushed on the left side of the brick and it swung out to the right. As expected, the recess concealed a key and a small square envelope. I reached for the contents, but suddenly a gloved hand covered my mouth stopping my breath. I was dragged backwards and held flush against some coves body. Panic washed over me and cold fear set all of my senses on high alert. I felt the weight of the firm body at my back. I struggled to breathe and my heart fluttered in anticipation of a fight, and by God, there would be a bloody fight. The person behind me was most definitely male, hard-bodied, and strong. How dare he! No shrill whistle was blown so this wasn’t a copper. I wanted to know which little shit had the nerve to attack me, ME , in a place where I am one of the betters! There was no way I’d risk letting any filthy toe-rag get hold of the key to the back door of Wychwood. If that happened my life wouldn’t be worth living. After signing my agreement to work at Wychwood , my mysterious employer sent a cultured bruiser to visit me, who, although he hadn’t hit me, made it quite clear that should the house get raided, evidence could be provided to Bow Street that ensured I’d be framed for running a molly house. I would swing, and the Dukes, Lords, and la–de-dah’s that frequented the club would never be connected.

I gripped the wrist of the hand that covered my mouth and pulled but it wouldn’t budge. I was bloody annoyed with myself. I’d been so lost in thoughts of Kit Havelock that I missed this thief creeping up on me. My old Pa would have scalped my arse for making such a stupid mistake. But here I was facing the damp, cold; stone wall with a hand across my mouth—and shit…was that a knife pressed to my ribs? The man’s warm breath tickled the nape of my neck, and I couldn’t stop myself from squirming. I tried to calm down and not let the blaggard know I was scared. Then, in a throaty whisper, a cut-glass, masculine voice said,

“Who the devil are you, Lazarus?” He ground out the words, far too close to my ear, the closeness making me shiver.

“I’ve been hunting you for weeks,” he admitted. I tried to squirm away from the blade and pulled at his wrist again. How was I supposed to answer his questions if my mouth was covered?

“Your life is so… ordinary , so mundane. I was becoming quite bored with you, and then, you surprised me. Not many men surprise me these days, Mr. Lazarus. So, tell me what the hell are you doing here ?” The tone of the man’s voice was tempered anger, a coiled spring ready to unravel and he seemed…familiar. I wracked my brains and couldn’t think of who in the demimonde I’d slighted to require them to send one of their men to stalk me around London like an animal. I couldn’t think of anyone that I could’ve pissed off. I didn’t owe money to no one, and I’d carried out all of the under-the-table tasks that came my way. As the blaggards hand continued to cut off my breath I decided I’d had enough of this shit.

My army training came to the fore. I’d made myself small and subservient as the man ground out his words into my ear, and then in a swift move that I was rather proud of, I sent my elbow into his left side, while stamping on my captor’s right foot—hard. He yelped, dropped his knife—a flick knife with a mother of pearl handle skidded away from us. The man’s hand slipped from my mouth, and I gripped his index finger and twisted. The villain roared in pain and surprise, then he stumbled back and I heard an ooff sound as he hit the opposite wall. I quickly palmed the key and envelope, and shoved them into my coat pocket then pushed the brick back into place. I turned from the wall to see…Lord Penhelligan was sprawled on the ground. What the bleedin’ hell was going on here?

“My…my Lord!” I exclaimed with surprise. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me…I…Let me help you up.”

Havelock sent me a baleful stare that I’m sure the nobs must practice in front of the mirror, cos under different circumstances that look would have made me hang my head like a kicked dog. But after having this man’s knife pressed in my side, I didn’t care that he was a ruddy Duke. Refusing my assistance, he groped for his top hat and eased himself up the clammy wall to stand. Shamefaced, he looked at his booted feet, and then his eyes darted down to the Mother of Pearl handled knife between us. He lurched for it, but I got there quicker and scooped the blade from the ground.

“I don’t think so, milord,” I sneered, brandishing the blade in his direction. He raised his hands in surrender and kept his back to the alley wall.

“You’re…you’re quite right Lazarus,” he stuttered, all of the bravado gone from his voice. We stared at one another, our breathing laboured, and our eyes wary. There was fear and confusion in his gaze, and I bet he could see the bloody fury in mine—cos even though most people see ‘good old Felix Lazarus’ and think ‘ blond-haired, blue-eyed, butter wouldn’t melt’ , I had a fierce temper when roused. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why he’d attacked me. Why, if what he said was true, had Lord Penhelligan been following me since I hand delivered the letter to St James’?

“I think we need to have a little chat, don’t you?” I suggested, my voice sounding calmer than I felt. I folded the blade into its handle and dropped it into my trouser pocket. Hoping that Havelock wouldn’t attack me again, I stepped to the wrought iron gate for Wychwood and unlatched it. I pushed the gates wide and stepped into the barren winter garden. Glancing back, I saw Kit Havelock hadn’t moved a muscle.

“You coming then?” I barked, a little too roughly. He nodded and made to follow. “Leave the gates open,” I added confidently as I strode off down the garden path like I owned the place. “ Deliveries is coming soon.”

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