Infernal Vices (Resurrectionist #3)

CHAPTER 15

THE SECRETUM

As a matter of fact, I had heard of the Secretum—it was a clandestine archive within the bowels of the British Museum that housed a collection of objects considered ‘erotic and obscene’. I did not know if what I’d heard was true, but the rumour was that there were many ancient phalluses in the collection, some removed from sculptures by vandals, others used in ritual and worship. My personal interest lay in particular with a vanished collection that had belonged to a doctor named George Witt. Witt was a man after my own heart, and he was obsessed with ancient artefacts concerning the worship of Priapus.

In Greek mythology the phallus as the organ of generation was venerated. Priapus was God of gardens, son of Venus and Bacchus, and his symbol was the phallus. The ancients were not squeamish about depictions of the penis and would wear phallic jewellery for protection. Phallic statues were also commonplace.

I understood that Witt donated his collection to the Secretum in 1865 and yet the objects and the accompanying book titled A Collection Illustrative of Phallic Worship was deemed too sexually explicit to be seen by any but those who retained connections with the board of the British Museum. I had petitioned the board several times over the years asking for access to inform my personal study, but my requests were rejected. But now, unexpectedly I would finally have the privilege of viewing the most splendid phallus collection in the world…after my own collection, of course!

I must admit, I had been reluctant to engage in friendship and social gatherings with any members of Fratres Seminis , and yet with a few glasses of excellent claret I found myself seduced by the talented and impish Charles Ashe and all that he had shown me tonight. There was great artistry and ingenuity in the creation of the red books, and he was to create special masks by hand for the final ritual. I was also intrigued by how his father, Henry Ashe could gain access to this archive of the most secret erotic artefacts in the Empire. I hoped my friend could explain this to me.

The night was moonlit and frigidly cold. The Bloomsbury streets remained silent and empty as anyone with sense was tucked up in a warm bed! The carriages rounded Russell Square and turned onto Montague Place for the short journey. We were met at the open rear gates of the British Museum by a night watchman with a glowing lantern held aloft. He stepped aside to permit the carriages to enter. When both carriages passed through the tall iron gates they were closed. I was equally excited and terrified at the thought of entering the museum at night, and offered Charles a look of concern.

The grand, monumental Greek revival style British Museum building sat at the heart of Bloomsbury amid British academia. It was filled with artefacts of world history from England, Europe and expeditions into the New World. It was at times overwhelming to my senses to discover the new objects on display. The artefacts of belief and worship from ancients and native tribes were most intriguing. Even during the day there was a peculiar energy and a kind of tingling electricity about the atmosphere in the museum that I could not accurately describe. It was as if the worshipful power of millennia was concentrated in this one building. Each time I visited, the feeling grew with every step that this was indeed hallowed ground.

Henry Ashe was the first to leave the carriage followed by his son, and then I gestured cordially for Mr. Herbert to step out before I did. Herbert climbed out and then strode to mingle with the four men who alighted from the second carriage. I stood with Charles whose eyes smiled so wickedly one would think that this extra-curricular viewing was his idea!

I leaned toward Charles and whispered, “How the devil are we allowed access after-hours?”

“When on his travels father doesn’t only purchase learned books, he has a fondness for erotica. He’s donated many artefacts to the Secretum, as we cannot rightly have them displayed around the house. Imagine. Mother would have the vapours!” he laughed. I noticed how he wobbled a little on his feet. I feared that all the port and claret he’d consumed was finally hitting its target.

“Come along gentlemen!” Henry Ashe smiled knowingly as the night watchman with the lantern lead us around the side of the vast Portland stone building to an employee’s entrance.

Inside the museum we walked in echoing hallways where researchers, archaeologist’s, and other staff spent time during the day. The back halls had an odour of damp wood, tobacco, and human sweat, and even though I wore my heavy wool greatcoat, hat, and gloves I felt an icy chill in my bones.

Covertly and silently we followed the night watchman along a marble tiled hallway and down two wide cut stone staircases in to a sub-basement area, his lone lantern the only illumination. Here the halls were lined with glass fronted book cases crammed with catalogued objects that were not required for public display. My blood pulsed with the reminiscence of boyish adventures as we followed like well behaved schoolboys through the maze of hallways, past unopened packing cases with shipping stamps of voyages from Egypt, darkest Africa, and the Orient. I was fascinated and a little terrified, for should the light be extinguished we would be lost in the darkness. Finally, the watchman paused outside a closed door. Henry Ashe removed a large brass coloured key from his waistcoat pocket, pushed it into the keyhole, and turned it. He nodded to the night watchman who pivoted and walked away down the corridor, taking his blessed lantern light with him and leaving us in total darkness.

“I….I say Henry, can we get some light? I’m not one for japes in the dark.” One of our party said, his voice reedy with fear. The same fellow let out a yelp, “W…who was that, who touched me? S…stop playing games,” he whined. His drunken compatriots then bellowed with laughter, the sound reverberating eerily in the empty corridor.

“Calm yourself Brookes, all in good time,” Ashe said, and then he opened the door and reached inside where he switched on an electric light. Illumination blazed, blinding me for a moment, making me step back and raise and arm to cover my eyes. I backed into Charles, who steadied me, his hands firmly on my hips and his crotch pressed to my backside. He groaned. Any protest about him touching me died on my lips as my eyes became accustomed to the dazzling scene before me. I stepped out of his grip and into the vast hall that housed such wonders that I could nary catch a breath. Finally, I could explore the artefacts of the Secretum.

If my bearings were correct, the hall we had stepped into was below the Kings Library and mirrored its dimensions. Ancient sculptures and antiquities were exhibited as they would have been above in the main public museum, but these displays were for select eyes only. The first item I saw was a huge gilt bronze sculpture of a voluptuous native woman. I strode to stand beside Ashe Senior.

“Beautiful isn’t she,” Henry commented. “This is the Statue of Tara. It dates from the 7th or 8th century Ceylon. It was donated by Robert Brownrigg who obtained it when he was British Governor of Ceylon. Apparently, his wife wouldn’t permit a large breasted sculpture to remain in the house!” Guffaws of laughter echoed around the vast underground hall.

“Please gentlemen, take your fill of the delights of the Secretum. We have an hour and after, a visit to Mother Harriet’s Bordello for any who would care to slake their lust.” Murmurs of approval followed that particular announcement.

In a sly breathy whisper to my ear Charles said,

“Whereas I shall be at an assignation house in Cleveland Street dipping my wick in a pretty young man’s backside…if you’d care to join, we could take turns.”

In my fifty years, even at the depths of my loneliness I had never visited a bawdy house and I would not start now! My agreement with Sebastian ruled my heart, and so I was not about to endanger our relationship!

“Thank you, but no,” I said stiffly.

“Fine,” Charles pouted drunkenly. “You’re under the thumb, yes…Scamper along home, and hope that your boy is waiting to service you like a well trained pup,” he said cruelly.

I ignored the jealous barb and move off to begin my perusal of the objects too obscene for public display. It annoyed me then that Charles was at my back, seemingly mirroring my every move. I wanted time alone to inspect each object and so I wished he would go away. Then I caught myself, realizing how uncharitable that thought was. It was a privilege to be here in this hall, and I supposed that, as birds of a feather who favoured the delights of the male form we should remain together.

“Sorry old bean. I was frightfully mean to you,” Charles whispered pitifully to my ear, “Will you forgive me?” I ignored him. We were silent as we made our way around the hall viewing cabinets filled with sculptures of nymphs, goddesses, goats, and bull statues with shockingly huge cocks and pendulous bollocks. Had they been on display upstairs in the main hall, they most certainly would have driven gentlewomen to episodes of hysteria!

Then we came to a cabinet filled with individual phalluses and my whole body erupted with excitement and heat. The Witt Collection was glorious. Small phalluses of gold, some to be worn as rings and pendants, pricks carved from ivory, semi-precious stone, marble, and ebony, with several of the penises immaculately observed, the artist displaying stunning detail of veins, bulbous crowns, and wrinkled bawsacks. For two artefacts, an inlay of mother of pearl suggested a drizzle of life seed. I licked my lips, unaware until I saw my companion’s reflection in the cabinet glass, that he was watching me with the same lip-licking fervour that I displayed while looking at the ancient cocks. Charles was in his cups and his inhibitions appeared lost in the wind. And with the loss of his inhibition it was clear he was not accepting of my situation as a man in love. He wanted me keenly, and even though in my heart and mind I was Sebastian’s, Charles’ interest was flattering. I had not shared such an erotic outing with a fellow before. There was a swirl of sexual energy in this hidden grand hall and viewing these depictions of ancient eroticism boiled my bollocks and made my member throb with need.

While the other men in the party gathered together and viewed the sculptures depicting a bull penetrating a goddess, and another of the goat god Pan copulating with a female goat, Charles leaned close and said,

“Come; let me show you my father’s latest donation.”

Taking me by the elbow again, he led me to a small ante-chamber on the left side of the hall that contained books of erotica, drawn, printed, and photographic. A dark mahogany desk with a reading slope and two chairs sat in the center of the viewing room. We were alone in here.

“Father purchased a book of homosexual photography in Paris,” Charles explained as he moved unsteadily to one of the book cases and slid a volume from the shelf. He returned to the table and pulled one of the chairs out for me to sit, then took the other chair beside me. The Parisian book of erotica was placed on a reading slope and we read the cover together. It was titled ‘ Fantaisie Exquise pour Hommes de Conviction Lubrique’ which, if my French is correct translates as ‘Exquisite Fantasy for Men of Lustful Conviction’. Charles opened the book. It appeared to be a menu of boys and young men working for a particular brothel. We viewed the first page that listed twenty names but I instantly recognized that something was unusual. “Arakiel, Azrael, Cassiel. These are all names of theological Angels,” I observed.

“Yes, the boys are all angels. It reads like a playbill of performers, don’t you think?” Charles turned the page and we saw the first photograph of the boy given the moniker of Arakiel. It was a monochrome image of svelte young man of no more than sixteen. He lay naked on his stomach on a chaise longue, and another older man with fierce lamb chop side burns and a body so hirsute he could have been a bear was positioned with his meaty prick at the boy’s fundament.

“French men appear to be rather big and brutish, don’t they? I prefer my conquests to be…a little more refined,” Charles commented.

I turned the page, remaining silent as we viewed photographs of young men dressed as girls, close up images of male genitalia, the stretched opening, and penetration by way of fingers, cock, and other objects showing exactly what each ‘Angel’ could offer and the price. I must admit to arousal while viewing these scandalous images, and I knew that from the heavy breathing and jerking wrist of Charles Ashe, he was pleasuring himself through his trousers. But my arousal vanished minutes later as I turned to the final photograph and saw two faces I recognized. Charles recognized them too. His masturbating hand stopped and he hissed, “Damn your eyes!” and then stood pushing his chair back creating an ear splitting sound of wood against marble. The image was of a nude man with familiar, peculiar eyes seated in a huge chair, the kind of throne a Masonic grand master or a king would sit on. Laid across his lap was a willowy younger man, ethereal, beautiful. Mine . Beneath the image was the handwritten script ‘Maitre Nathaniel Everett avec son ange’ which simply translated as ‘Master Nathaniel Everett with his angel.’

“Bloody hell, you know who that is, don’t you?” Charles accused in a fevered sharp whisper. Blood pumped, making my heart throb with fear. If he recognized the young man as Birdie, we were done for!

“I knew it, knew he was a charlatan. It’s not as if jabbering on about bloody spiritualism or half-inching our silver trinkets was enough, oh no! But the blaggard isn’t even using his real name. And so much for being a theosophist, the man’s a bloody Parisian pornographer.”

I was about to jump in and defend Sebastian, but then I heard what Ashe had said. He was talking of Blake only, not of the young man on his lap. Could it be that Ashe did not recognize my lover as a young man?

“What do you mean?”

“Blake,” Ashe pointed accusingly at the photograph. “That man is Lawrence Blake…or as he was previously known, Nathaniel Everett,” he hissed venomously. “I’ve wondered how he was financing his great work. He appears to have no private income. Benjamin is his most devout compatriot. He’s been bank-rolling him most of the time, gave him his West End apartment to reside in too! They dine at the Garrick, Whytes, the Athenaeum…clubs Benjamin is a member of. He has rich appetites, but he has never appeared to have any private means. Several of the brothers complained of missing silver, a pocket watch, a stamp case, a hip flask…small things, easy enough to slip into ones pocket. I’m missing a sliver fish spice box with ruby eyes—”

I near swallowed my tongue when he said that. Could it be that the items Blake bought to me for sale had been stolen from members of the brotherhood to fund Blake’s London lifestyle? I was appalled to have been betrayed and hoodwinked into purchasing stolen goods.

“Blake told me his patrons’ gift him silver,” I gasped. “ You know I purchased several pieces. I shall of course return the silver fish spice box to you.”

Charles held his hands up placatingly, “I do not hold you responsible for his actions, Benedict. You are such a pure darling soul; you would never do something so reprehensible. But Blake, oh, he is clearly a mountebank, a sham and a fraud.” Ashe pinched the bridge of his nose and began pacing on unsteady legs. As he turned from me and walked away, seemingly dizzied by this revelation, I eased the telling photograph from the book and slid it into my inner jacket pocket. I then closed the book and returned it to the space in the bookcase from where Charles had removed it.

“My god, he could ruin us all!” Charles whispered in horror. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a hip flask. Then he took a long swallow. Ashe’s complexion was now grey and waxen. I felt a little sorry for him because he had not only invested his time and money, but belief that Blake was a man worth trusting with his secret preference. Ashe had believed that he and Blake were on the same page and would keep one another’s secrets, but the revelation that Lawrence Blake wasn’t even his true name filled him with doubt and turned the world on its head.

“Come, we need to find a place to discuss what to do. We should retire to my club, yes?” I suggested. Charles nodded and began to stride jerkily towards the door.

While I would have liked to stay longer and peruse the exhibition, the atmosphere had tipped from an air of erotic frivolity to maudlin depression in the blink of an eye. Charles was unsteady on his feet, angry and drunk. I had to get him out of there.

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