Infernal Vices (Resurrectionist #3)

CHAPTER 13

THE RED BOOK

Friday 18th February 1898

I paced nervously in the vestibule of my home, awaiting Charles Ashe’s carriage to arrive, the mysterious red leather book secure in my inner breast pocket. Mr. Troy stood sentry and I could feel his gaze as he watched me fidgeting. I did not owe my valet an explanation however, to fill the silence I admitted, “I find I’m rather nervous. It is quite an achievement to be invited to such an esteemed soirée as the Temple of the Muses. Mr. Henry Ashe purportedly has an exceptional library of rare books and I have wanted to inspect it for many years,” I rambled.

“Indeed sir,” Troy said dryly.

I strode to my study, checked the time on my mantle clock and then my pocket watch. They matched to the second. It was five minutes to six. I heard footsteps in the hall, and then a discrete,

“Hmmm. Sir, the carriage has arrived.”

“Ah, yes. It’s early. Very good, very good.”

I turned and stepped out into the hallway where Troy awaited holding my greatcoat open. I eased my arms into the sleeves and hoisted the heavy, warm coat onto my shoulders. Troy was in front of me then, fastening the buttons and ensuring the coat sat correctly and was free of dust or lint. I observed my reflection in the hall mirror for a moment. Dark curls fell to my shoulders and ordinarily, I would arrange for a trim, but Sebastian so loved my long curls that I had resisted thoughts of asking Troy for a haircut!

Mr. Troy handed me my top hat which I placed securely on my head. Content with my reflection, I nodded to Troy who then passed my white kid leather gloves, which I eased my hands into, and then he presented my favourite cane, ebony with an engraved Fritz handle which felt comfortable in my grip. He opened the door and the breeze whipped at my hair. I nodded my thanks to Troy then I hurried down the steps and ducked inside the Clarence carriage. I sat back on the black leather banquette opposite Charles. The door was closed and then the carriage rocked a little as the coachman re-seated himself and with a cry of ‘walk on now’, moved the horse off to travel around Bedford Square. Our destination was the Ashe residence just five minutes away on Russell Square.

We passed a streetlamp that sent illumination into the carriage. Charles seemed to light up when his gaze met mine. I supposed I should be flattered that he’d taken such a shine to me. I found I enjoyed his company very much, in a platonic way, of course.

“Good evening, Benedict,” my companion beamed.

“Good evening, Charles.” Over the past weeks I’d discovered Charles and I shared an interest in beautiful things—in art, history, architecture, and of course, men! But niggling in the back of my mind was the fact I was supposed to present the cabal’s intention to approach his sister Cecily. The reminder pricked at me and made me distinctly uncomfortable. Any man, no matter their means, would feel as outraged as I at the thought of involving an innocent in such a wicked game.

The carriage turned onto Russell Square and I noted that the construction of the new five-star Hotel Russell was well underway. The building work meant that access to Russell Square was restricted and slow. A number of growlers and carriages queued up, their occupants alighting when they reached number 52, the home of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Ashe. Like Bedford Square, this was a very well-to-do area. The Ashe residence was an elegant five storey stucco-fronted Georgian corner property, the frontage facing Russell Square with Southampton Row to the right. It was double the size of my home.

We watched starchy gentleman after gentleman step down from their carriages and make their way up the steps and into the house.

“Egads, will you just look at them! Father’s friends are such a stuffy lot of anally retentive windbags!” Charles harrumphed.

“Should I remind you that these are my peers and competitors, Charles? It is good for my business to remain cordial with them.”

“Rather you than me, old chap! Every bally time father has his friends over I have to perform as the attentive son and smile like a music hall ventriloquist’s dummy,” Charles imitated the creepy smiling face of a puppet for effect. “I’m grateful you’ve accompanied me tonight, for at least we will each have one friend who won’t bore us to sleep.”

I laughed then, surprising myself.

“They really are quite insufferable,” Charles continued. “Mother and Cecily always seem to be in the country when The Temple of the Muses is on and so father insists I attend. You’ll see how the sycophants buzz around me, desperately seeking my favour.”

“To be invited at all is a great honour. What more could a man want? ”

“Hmmm. You might just find that out tonight! My father has much influence and access to sights most men are never privileged to see.”

“That’s rather cryptic.”

Charles laughed. “You, my friend, are in most privileged company! You’ll understand what I mean by the end of the night,” Charles grinned and I returned the smile. What did Ashe senior have in store for me?

Our carriage slowly moved forward as Charles and I continued an idle conversation about the weather. When the carriage came to a halt outside the house I stepped out with Charles behind me, but he took the lead, mounting the steps two at a time and pushing past men waiting to leave their coats and hats with the servants. Charles cut the line and stood in front of the elderly butler whose final strands of grey hair were glued to his liver-spotted pate. By the time I reached Charles’ side the butler was instructing an under-butler and footman who were collecting the hats and coats from the attendees.

“Feathers, please let my father know I’m back. This is my companion, Mr. Hannan,” he introduced as he hurriedly shrugged out of his greatcoat and passed it to the butler. “I will be in my rooms; we have some business to attend to before dinner.”

“Very good sir,” the butler took Charles’s coat and hat while a harried looking under-butler helped me out of my greatcoat and I placed my scarf and gloves into my top hat before offering them to him too. I kept a hold of my cane. It was then that I noticed something I had not previously realized: Temple of the Muses was a strictly male affair. There was not one wife, or learned women in tow. I turned back and saw one of my competitors, a foppish man by the name of Mr. George Smedley, whose auction house Butterworth’s, was in Greenwich. He was in conversation with another man and had not seemed to notice me. I wondered how the devil he’d managed to acquire such a sought after invitation. But before I could even catch his eye and nod a greeting Charles placed his hand on my elbow to direct me toward the stairs. I was not pleased that he had touched me and eased my elbow out of his grip, but I followed him, observing as we continued along the hallway, that the gentlemen were filing into the drawing room for pre-dinner drinks and conversation.

“Don’t fret, old bean. You’re not missing anything,” Charles asserted when we reached the first floor landing of the large townhouse. “Dinner will be served at seven thirty, so we have an hour to attend to important matters. ”

We climbed the next two flights of stairs until we were on the fourth floor. In my much smaller home the rooms on the fourth floor were for Mrs. Twigg and the maids, but in the Ashe household this whole upper floor was Charles’ domain. He opened the first doorway opposite the stairs and stepped aside to permit me to enter. A bank of skylight windows made the space feel huge, the night sky was clear, the full moon sending shafts of silvery illumination into the room. Charles closed the door and switched on electric lights that buzzed as the filament warmed up.

The large main room of his quarters was bohemian in its decoration, with mirrors, turquoise flock wallpaper, silk and velvet drapes in rich reds, green and purple hues, along with wonderful Persian rugs on the floor. Opposite a roaring coal fire there was a wide grey velvet couch that appeared continental in style. Henry Ashe’s business was that of importing luxurious fabrics from the Empire, so I gathered that the exotic décor in Charles’ room was inspired by the spoils of his father’s travels. Art was displayed on the walls from framed oil paintings with an erotic subject matter, to sketches in charcoal, graphite, ink, and watercolour. I stepped further into the room and gravitated toward Charles’ grand mahogany desk in an area designated as a studio space. An oak plan chest sat to the right of the desk and the top drawer was open. Yet more sketches spewed from the drawer as if the chest was vomiting artwork. At a glance I could see many of the drawings on his work desk were the kind I would see in the Illustrated Police News, swiftly penned renderings of coppers, their truncheons raised as they chased a thief, while other sketches were finer in their rendering: male nudes, couples, and traditional group compositions that matched work I had seen from life drawing classes at the Royal Academy.

Charles strode across the room towards a credenza above which a painting of Achilles and Patroclus entwined in a homoerotic embrace stole my breath.

“Did…did you paint that?”

“Oh, yes, in my first year at school,”

“Good Lord!It’s…astonishing.”

“Thank you. Forgive the bally mess. I keep meaning to sort and tidy my sketches but I’ve been so busy,” Charles said apologetically. I was fond of order and neatness, but I understood the artistic temperament, having visited many artists’ studios in a state of far more disarray.

“There’s nothing to forgive. I am a guest in your studio. All I can see are the scattered seeds of creativity. ”

Charles eyes met mine and he smiled warmly. “I knew you would understand Benedict. Care to whet your whistle?” He wagged his brows. Charles’s eyes then flared with amusement at my alarmed reaction. “I mean brandy, wine, whisky?” he offered, gesturing to the array of bottles on the credenza.

“Oh, brandy would be welcome, thank you.”

“Please go ahead and take a seat.”

The room was warm and comfortable. It smelled of Sandalwood and the musk of male sweat…of Charles. It was not unpleasant. I unbuttoned my jacket and eased onto the couch, my fingers absently running over the soft velvet fabric as I glanced up at the frames on the mantle. There was a loose sheet of paper propped between two silver frames. I recognized it to be one of the sketches Charles had drawn of me. I grew hot around the collar understanding the significance of the prized position of the artwork. Charles had placed the sketch of me beside a framed photograph of himself in military uniform, and a photograph of young Cecily Ashe, the latter made the question I was supposed to ask Charles on behalf of the cabal more tentative.

“You were in the Military?”

“No, not in service. The photograph was a jape of sorts for a newspaper story about the lot of the artillery soldier. The only way I could gain access to talk to soldiers was to pretend to be one. I dressed in the uniform and hung around in pubs near the Royal Artillery Barracks in Woolwich.”

“Goodness, how covert. Did you get a story?”

“Oh yes, and a few back-alley uprights!” Charles snickered. “I took the story to Benjamin before I showed it to my editor. Benjamin spoke in the House of Commons about the hardships that our brave boys are dealing with and he demanded that Gascoigne-Cecil increase funds for the military. By the time the story was printed I’d turned it into a good news story for the government.”

I saw it now, how those in the cabal enabled their brothers to succeed and profit. I also saw that it was a double edged sword. Personally, I did not require the rails greased, but I also could not reject any help offered for fear of the cabal using my homosexuality as a weapon to ruin me.

Charles sauntered across the room and handed me a glass of amber liquor. He sprawled on the opposite end of the couch and took a gulp of his drink, and then put the glass down. “Do you have it with you?” he asked a smile in his voice.

“Have what?”

“The red book! ”

“Yes, of course, of course.” I placed my glass on a side table and retrieved the confusing volume from the inner pocket of my jacket. “Would you please put me out of my misery? I have turned that volume over time and time again and for the life of me I cannot uncover the puzzle,” I pleaded as I handed the book over. Charles sat up and absently pushed his unruly curl off his brow.

“While I would gain much enjoyment ribbing you, we don’t have time to play games. I understand that our wayward pup wrote to Benjamin and work is afoot to bring him back to London.”

“Indeed, and I have a request for you in regards to that matter. But first, show me what this damnable book is all about.”

Charles slid off the couch and onto the rug in front of the roaring fire. ”Join me,” he encouraged. I was not the kind of man who was comfortable crawling around on the floor like a child…unless I had the prize of Sebastian as an enticement. But reluctantly I acquiesced and lowered onto my knees beside Charles.

“It is a wondrous sight to behold and a credit to the bookbinder Euan paid to make the volumes for us. The key to the secret is here, at the headband,” Charles said, pointing a manicured nail to the red and white band at the top of the stitched pages that gave an extra support to the spine. He wedged his thumb nail beneath the headband and flicked it up to reveal and draw out a finely worked curved sliver of Ivory. Charles pulled the bone spine out completely and laid it on the rug, and then he carefully opened the book. The blank pages separated from the book cover and were now in a loose concertina. Charles unfolded the pages which turned from say thirty leaves, to one large sheet of paper.

“This is most intriguing,” I said, flabbergasted at the intricacy of the clever binding. “But the page is still blank. I do not understand.”

“Ah, behold the magic!” Charles enthused. He pushed up to his feet and then retrieved a candle on a silver holder, and a box of sulphur matches. He then returned to kneel by my side. He struck a match and lit the candle. I waited patently and then gasped when Charles lifted the edge of the page and held it a two hands height above the heat of the candlelight. Within seconds the heat had made a chemical reaction occur. Words, and…my goodness, an erotic drawing of two men in flagrante delicto appeared. Charles moved the fine sheet of paper wafting the flow of heat to spread beneath the page and soon enough more images and words appeared.

“What the devil? Who made this? What did the scribe use to make the writing invisible? ”

Charles’ tongue was sticking out between his lips as he concentrated on not allowing the thin paper to become too hot and burn. It took another minute to expose the entire page to heat and allow the transformation to occur.

Charles then blew out the candle, and laid the large page flat for me to see, and then he sat back against the couch.

“It was me. I did the work on the book pages, all inscribed by hand. It took a whole month, you know.”

“I am…confounded. It is a remarkable achievement.” I turned to Charles I could see how he blushed and preened with pride, twiddling the end of his moustache, delighted with the praise.

“What do you think I used to create the sympathetic ink?”

“This is a very fine paper.” I held my chin as I considered. “It wasn’t lemon juice. Application of a wet fluid would have altered the paper surface fibres. I did not observe any discolouration or cockling of the pages,” I mused, intrigued by the mystery.

“Would you like me to tell you?” Charles was bursting to reveal his secret.

“Very well,” I grinned, finding his excitement was a little infectious .

“Seminal fluid. Isn’t that marvellous!” he guffawed and then the entire explanation burst out.

“I worked with a chemist friend. We experimented with the known invisible, or sympathetic inks and it was decided that ejaculate was perfect, as long as the paper was bone dry and I used it sparingly. We discovered that a particular type of paper, an onion skin paper, is most suitable. The paper was made in Italy. I soaked each sheet in vinegar and then stored it between fine layers of gypsum to ensure all moisture had been removed before the final pressing. Then it was ready for use.”

“And you worked on each page with ejaculate and a pen?” I admit I was rather stunned by Charles admission.

“Yes, it’s perfect, no? Though, I nearly gave myself friction burns while producing the ink!” Charles snickered. I stared, aghast at the page where the illustrations and writing were now a sepia brown hue caused by the chemical reactions of the onion skin paper, vinegar, semen, and heat.

Charles then surprised me once again when he folded the large sheet back on itself, and fitted it into its red leather cover. Then he slid the fine bone spine and headband back home. He handed me the red leather book and I opened it to find the book filled with words and erotic images. To be found with such a book would most definitely see me arrested under the Obscene Publications Act and so as soon as I returned home it would be stored in my secret room! I read the title on the first page and suddenly understood what I was looking at.

“This is a translation of the erotic rituals that accompanied the Staff of Asklepios,” I exclaimed.

“Damn, how do you know that?”

“Because I’ve seen it—the scroll, in its original Greek form.”

“What?Where did you see it?When?”Charles demanded.

“It was a lifetime ago. I accompanied Euan to his father’s Scots pile for the shooting season. He showed me the phallus and the scroll. I didn’t understand a bally word of that scroll…it was all Greek to me!” I laughed humourlessly.

“And you have not seen it since? The Staff is the final object required for the great work!”

“No,” I lied. “But Blake has asked me to look out for it, and talk to my business connections to discover what became of it after the Ardmillan estate sale.”

I knew that Euan had used the last of his money to have the scroll translated and the books bound as a gift for Fratres Seminis . I leafed through the book, looking at the original Greek and the translation side by side, with the erotic illustrations that accompanied them. It seemed that acolytes were required to be involved in rituals in order to generate the heightened state of sexual energy required for the ritual to awaken the magic. There were drawings of both men and women, and strange archaic devices for domination and ritual restraint, but the drawings that interested me the most were those of men engaged in sodomy in many positions, mutual cock sucking, semen drinking, and a host of erotic poses that made my bawsack ache with need. There were devices that had phalluses of different sizes attached, one was a bench, and the other was attached to a wall and an acolyte had impaled his backside upon one of the pricks. I then turned the page and saw what looked like a spell petitioning the Gods. The ritual was ancient and fascinating but I didn’t have time to read it quite yet, for there was an illustration for the final ritual that showed a woman wearing a harness with the Staff of Asklepios cradled in it and positioned at the fundament of a man lying prone–as if they had reversed traditional roles and sexual positions.

“Fascinating,” I heard the awe in my voice.

“We have to learn the incantation by rote. Every one of us and our seed is vital to the ritual. I’m making some Papier-maché masks of satyrs and fawns in the Greek style for us to wear for the ceremony. Isn’t it exciting?” Charles enthused.

“Euan told me that for the staff to work those using it must be in love. Love is the key to all things,” I revealed.

“Indeed, and that is why having Leopold returned to us is a blessing. Lawrence adores the scamp.”

I was unnerved by these revelations, for Fratres Seminis plan was closer to fruition. All members retained a copy of the red book of ritual, and soon their vessel would be returned. All they required to put the plan into action was the ancient phallus that I kept hidden in my secret room—which Sebastian and I appeared to have activated with our spilled mingled seed.

Charles reached for his brandy and took a gulp. I asked my next question tentatively, for I did not want to reveal my disquiet about Blake’s plan.

“Charles, do you really believe in this…this great work?”

“What? Do I believe that Blake can use a fabled magical cock to breach the veil of death and return to tell us what heaven looks like?” He let out an almost childish guffaw, “Of course not! Between you and me, Blake is either a little bit mad or a little bit of a charlatan! Maybe he’s both. But it’s all a game to me, old chap, just a marvellous adventure. I don’t believe the Staff is anymore magical than say, your ebony cane, there,” he said gesturing to the cane I’d lain beside the couch.

“Then why are you involved and so invested if you don’t believe in the theosophical hullabaloo?”

Charles gave me a pitiful look, as if I were touched in the head.

“For the sex, my dear man, for all the wonderful, filthy sex!” His eyes sparkled with amusement. “You know as well as I that men like us need places to…be ourselves. I love having sex with men. I love sucking, fucking, and getting ploughed in return. I’m a hedonist, darling! Pleasure is life, and life is pleasure.”

“But, but what about the rituals…the masks, and the robes,” I stuttered aghast at hearing that Charles was just a sexual explorer, not a believer in resurrection.

“The rituals add an air of theatre to it all. For me it’s as simple as that. For others, well, it could be that our fraternity ensures mutual enrichment. Each of us promises to protect our brotherhood. We ensure our compatriots rise, in both meanings of the word , and we can be our full selves among select company.” Charles absently reached out to pat my knee. “It’s okay my dear man, I can see you have reservations. I’m relieved you asked actually. It’s good to have an ally who doesn’t take theosophist, spiritual woo-woo seriously. There are times that I think, my goodness, Lawrence Blake is quite, quite mad! ” Charles grinned. “We shall keep one another’s secret, yes,” he said tapping a finger to the side of his nose, giving me a wink.

I was losing the threads of the countless secrets and lies. But this new information that Ashe was with Fratres Seminis for sex and not the theosophical experimentation made the task Blake had given me even more taxing. I liked Charles. I did not want to damage this fragile new friendship by asking Charles to give his sister for use by the cabal. I could not do it! Not now, maybe not ever. I reached for my glass of brandy and downed the lot!

****