He was wonderfully tight, and I felt his muscles work around me, which only served to make me almost dangerously excited. Unable to hold back, I carefully pushed against him, and in response he uttered a low growl at the back of his throat and instantly began to move against me, which had the most alarming effect on my self-control.
God, I want him! I thought.
“Hush,” I managed to say and bit my lower lip until I tasted blood. “Take it slowly…”
However, clearly he had other intentions, and despite my vague protests, he rolled over to his side, grabbed my hips from behind, and forced me deeply inside.
“Come,” he whispered, and reaching down, he began to stroke himself. “I cannot wait any longer…”
I most certainly did not want to hurt him; however, it was simply impossible for me to deny him any longer, and before I had time to stop myself, I began to thrust myself against him again and again, a little bit harder with each thrust.
He came almost immediately, and the sight and smell of his release spilling down over his fingers, thigh, and the crumpled checkerboard quilt was too much. I felt him writhe with pleasure underneath me and squeeze me inside, which irreversibly and resolutely cast me over the brink of desire. Before I had time to react, I shoved myself deeper one last time, and with a short shout, I felt my release leave me with an intensity that made white, flickering lights dance merrily before my eyes for minutes afterwards. I nearly collapsed on top of him, with a small and almost delirious laugh, sweaty and gloriously satisfied beyond belief.
*
~ Chapter Sixteen ~
Three weeks later.
I politely knocked on the door to Mr Powell’s elegant corner office.
“Enter,” he barked from inside and looked up from his massive Chippendale writing desk, which–as always–was filled with manila folders and documents. His disapproving frown melted away when he noticed me. “Oh, is it you, Mr Davidson? Excellent. Please, come on in.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied and closed the door quietly behind me.
“The senior partners have been quite impressed with your work down in Devon, Mr Davidson,” Mr Powell said and rose from his swivel chair to shake my hand. “Most impressed, as a matter of fact.”
“I am happy to hear that, sir,” I replied modestly.
“Please, do sit down,” the older solicitor said and waved his hand towards the visitor chair in front of his large mahogany desk, with a slightly impassive gesture.
“Thank you, sir,” I said and carefully lifted the tails to my long-tailed tweed jacket before I sat down, to prevent them from becoming creased under my weight.
“Now when the Lydford case is up in court, it has reached the news and even got a front page on several of the newspapers, did you know that? Including the Times.”
“Yes,” I replied, “so I have heard.”
“Good publicity is never unwelcome, and business is thriving,” Mr Powell said in a pleased tone. He paused before he continued, “So, I have read the files and your report, of course, but please, Mr Davidson, tell me the whole story and how you figured it all out and what really happened.”
“Well, sir,” I said and cleared my throat slightly before I told him the story from the beginning to the end, except that I deliberately left out certain intimate details, such as any clandestine episodes of a more sensual or sinful nature. “And thus,” I finished, “the only logical explanation was that both Lord Lydford and his brother, James Lydford, must have been murdered.”
“But did not the physician claim that Lord Lydford had died of heart failure and James Lydford had died of a brain fever?” Mr Powell said with a furrowed brow and glanced towards my report next to the Lydford file on his desk.
“That is correct,” I replied, “and that was what made me suspicious from the beginning. While it could have been possible that James Lydford could have died of a sudden brain fever, Lord Lydford had been an active country gentleman and was fond of both shooting and riding. He had not seemed overly upset about his brother’s death, and he was in good health.”
“That is slightly strange, once you put it like that,” the older solicitor agreed.
“However, it was not until later that I understood that they had both been poisoned, together with both of the attorneys that were sent to Lydford Hall from London.”
“And poison is a woman’s weapon,” Mr Powell said thoughtfully and stroked his white handlebar moustache.
“Indeed,” I said. “Lady Lydford had together with James Lydford planned to murder Lord Lydford before he publicly announced that he was divorced and had remarried Sarah Barnes, a housemaid with whom he was having an affair. Lady Lydford did not want to go through the shame of a legal divorce, and James Lydford had been keen to inherit the title and estate since he was nearly ruined due to his poor investments up in the north.”
“Sinful activities,” Mr Powell muttered.
“I beg your pardon?” I said, and my heart nearly skipped a beat before I understood that he was referring to Lord Lydford’s immoral activities on the wrong side of the sheets. “Eh, yes. Indeed. Nevertheless, Lord and Lady Lydford had no children, and I believe that Sarah Barnes was most likely pregnant at the time she married Lord Lydford, which could have provided him with an heir, and–if it had been a boy–one day he would have inherited Lydford Hall, Lord Lydford’s personal and rather extensive fortune, as well as his title.”
“But something went wrong with their plans?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Lady Lydford managed to convince her lady’s maid to poison the whiskey in Lord Lydford’s library, threatening to fire her and accuse her of stealing if she did not obey her. According to the court hearing, the lady’s maid claims that she is innocent and that she was afraid of becoming an outcast if she was accused of stealing, and that she did not know it was a deadly poison that she was going to administer.”
“That seems unlikely,” Mr Powell said and scoffed.
“Perhaps,” I said slowly; however, my thoughts wandered to the tight-knit little community down in Devonshire that I had visited a couple of weeks earlier, where everyone seemed to know each other. Quietly I wondered how easy it would be to get an employment if you had once been accused of theft. “Nevertheless,” I continued, “Lady Lydford knew that her husband kept two crystal decanters in the library, one for visitors and one for himself, and instructed her maid to pour arsenic powder mixed together with water into Lord Lydford’s whiskey when the rest of the company sat down for dinner. However, the lady’s maid–by mistake!–added the poison into the wrong decanter, which killed James Lydford later the same night.”
“A fatal mistake,” commented the old solicitor.
“Quite,” I agreed. “However, once Lady Lydford realised the error, she promptly made sure to poison the other decanter as well, which then killed Lord Lydford the following evening. She had been rather coldly calculating by bribing the family physician, Dr Van Brunt, with sweet promises that he would receive a substantial sum once she had inherited her husband’s personal fortune, and according to Dr Van Brunt’s testimony to the police, she also hinted that she was interested in marrying him. The money would have been more than enough for him to open his own medical practice office, and in exchange he supplied her with arsenic powder and altered the cause of death on the death certificates.”
“A rather devious plan,” Mr Powell mused. “But what about all this gibberish regarding ghosts and supernatural activities, then? It was all utter nonsense, of course!”
He laughed heartedly at his own comment, and sitting in his modern and brightly lit London office, it was rather easy for me to join in. I hoped that my polite laughter sounded natural and believable; however, I shivered slightly as the memories of the last day at Dartmoor came back to me.
*
~ Chapter Seventeen ~
“Thank you for your stay, Mr Davidson,” the innkeeper said as he finished carrying dow
n my luggage from my room. “I hope you have enjoyed it, although it was bad luck with the weather and that you had to stay a couple of days at Chris Morgan’s cottage.”
“Ah. Well, it could have been worse,” I assured him and tried to maintain control over my somewhat depraved thoughts before I added, slightly untruthfully, “Crown’s Inn is much nicer and more comfortable, of course.”
“We do our best,” the innkeeper said proudly and beamed over my praise.
“Oh, that reminds me,” I said. “I left a pile of writing sheets by the desk for one of your servant girls, Letty. I promised that she could have them to practice her writing skills.”
The innkeeper’s friendly smile turned rigid, and his eyes widened slightly.
“ʻOne of our servant girls’?” he repeated and frowned. “But we have only one servant girl working here…”
“What do you mean?” I said, somewhat confused. “I have talked to Letty several times and seen the other girl–although I do not know her name–in the corridor outside my room on at least two different occasions. She has been carrying towels or sheets, and she was wearing a dark servant dress and a white muslin cap, and has her hair in two long braids.”
The innkeeper went dead quiet; however, his wife, who had just entered the room, gave a short shriek. She instantly covered her mouth with her hand, as if she could somehow have prevented the scream from leaving her throat.
“You have seen a ghost, sir!” she gasped and turned rather pale. She quickly crossed herself. “It is the spectre of a servant girl who died here at the Crown’s Inn more than one hundred and fifty years ago. She fell down the stairs and broke her neck, the poor girl. And ever since then, she haunts the place.”
“Martha! Think of what you are saying to our guest,” the innkeeper exclaimed before he quickly added in a rather shrill voice, “I thought I heard the carriage outside, shall we go outside and look, Mr Davidson?”
I gave the innkeeper and his pale wife a somewhat bewildered look before he practically ushered me through the low doorpost.
A ghost? I thought. Surely not!
The innkeeper followed me outside, and we stood in a nervous, tense silence for a couple of minutes before the carriage arrive.
On the other hand, this is a very strange place, I thought to myself and looked out over the moor, which was still covered in thin veils of morning mist. If ghosts exist, this is surely where to find them…
My thoughts were interrupted as the carriage arrived along the country road. It was the same stout man with an Irish accent that had first brought me to the inn from Moretonhampstead less than a week ago, although it felt like a small eternity ago. I remembered when I first arrived at the inn and I had had the strangest sensation that time seemed to have slowed down and that there was something eerie about the place.
“You must not believe my wife,” the innkeeper said at last as I climbed into the closed carriage. He laughed nervously. “She is my better half, but she is slightly prone to gossip and superstition. You know how women are…”
“Of course,” I lied smoothly. “Think nothing of it, and thank you for a very agreeable stay.”
I closed the carriage door and rapped twice on the ceiling to signal to the driver that I was ready to leave. Through the carriage window I saw the innkeeper’s wife join her husband, and I gave them a small, polite wave as the carriage drove off. Just as we went past them, a single black crow slowly took flight from the ground, and I saw it circle the old inn a couple of times before it disappeared up in the sky.
A coincidence, I told myself with a slight frown. There are lots of crows in the area…
However, during my entire journey across Dartmoor’s desolate and mist-covered landscape, I could not help but wonder if I had truly seen a real ghost at the inn or not.
*
~ Chapter Eighteen ~
“Mr Davidson?” Mr Powell repeated and scowled slightly at me. “Are you still listening to me?”
“Of course, sir!” I replied quickly. “I beg your pardon, sir, I got a little bit distracted…”
“So, tell me about this ridiculous idea that Lydford Hall could be haunted,” he said and seemed more than a little intrigued, which made me speculate if he secretly enjoyed reading Varney the Vampire when he thought that no one was watching.
I am not judging, I thought. We all have our own little secrets…
“Well, at first, I thought that everyone who claimed they had seen the Black Widow must be either daft or lying, since obviously there are–” I faltered and cleared my throat slightly again “–there are no such things as ghosts.”
“Of course,” Mr Powell said and leaned forward in his chair, which creaked quietly in protest.
“However, there were simply too many witnesses that said they had seen a woman dressed in a dark mourning gown and a thick veil, so after a while I began to wonder if there was perhaps another rational explanation,” I said and deliberately omitted the fact that even I had–during a very brief period and under the influence of drugs, mind you!–considered that the Black Widow was real. “And indeed, it turned out that the so-called ʻBlack Widowʼ who was said to haunt Lydford Hall was none other than Lady Lydford in disguise!”
“I cannot believe that they all thought it was a ghost!”
“Well, Lydford Hall had an old reputation of being haunted, and she wore an old mourning gown with a conveniently thick veil that covered her face, which she had borrowed from the late Lady Catherine’s room, close to her own bedchamber. Once disguise, she could therefore easily wander around the house after dark and spy on her husband’s illegitimate affair as well as meeting James Lydford late at night to plan the murder of her husband. She was seen several times, but people assumed incorrectly that they had seen a ghostly spectre instead of accepting a more rational explanation.”
“It is extraordinary that most people often only see what they believe they are expected to see, and rarely use their logical and reasonable senses,” Mr Powell mused.
“Most certainly,” I agreed in a deliberately perfectly neutral tone.
You have no idea how true that is… I added silently to myself.
“As a matter of fact,” Mr Powell said and stroked his moustache, “we need more men like you here at Powell and Drakes. I have, together with the senior partners, discussed your excellent performance, and we have evaluated the Lydford case.”
“I see,” I said and felt my pulse increase rapidly. “Thank you, sir.”
“I am very pleased to announce that I had previously hoped that you would be promoted to senior assistant here at Powell and Drakes,” he said and paused. “However, we have decided that we would like to offer you the chance to become a junior partner at the firm, Mr Davidson.”
For a couple of seconds, I let myself thoroughly enjoy the moment and basked in my success and let the rare sensation of pride wash over me, leaving me warm and more than pleased with myself, for once.
Junior partner! I thought, excited and delighted beyond words.
It was almost like my fondest dream had come true, and I thought about what it would include: I would be able to choose my own cases, and I would only select those which were the most challenging to solve or the most interesting. I would be able to shape the future for both our customers and the firm. Perhaps within less than five years I might even become a member of the senior group if I worked hard enough! Powell and Drakes was a firm that I could easily see myself dedicated to for the rest of my life, and I would do my best for the company to achieve new heights through diligence and strong work ethics.
But no.
A month ago, this was my most fervent and strongest wish, I thought. However, so much is changed since then…
I forced myself to stop fiddling with one of the buttons on my brown tweed waistcoat. Mr Powell was waiting for my reply, clearly pleased by my surprise; however, I had an inkling that my answer might leave him somewhat disappointed.
/>
“I… I want you to know that I am much obliged and that I feel deeply honoured over the prospect of becoming a junior partner, sir,” I began and paused to take a deep breath before I continued, “However, I am sorry to say that… I have to unfortunately decline this opportunity.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mr Powell said and raised a bushy eyebrow in disbelief that anyone would ever dare to oppose him.
“My… my health is not what it should be,” I said and tried not to stutter. “As a matter of fact, my physician has recommended fresh air and a change of scenery.”
“ʻFresh airʼ?” he repeated in mild disgust and, with a displeased expression, as if the words had left a bad taste in his mouth, “ʻChange of scenery’? Are you saying that you are leaving London?”
“Ah, well… yes, as a matter of fact,” I said and kept my voice steady. “I have accepted the position to become the attorney and personal secretary to Mrs Lavinia Lydford, who has inherited Lydford Hall. She is quite young and does not know how to run an estate, and I have promised to help her.”
“Really?” Mr Powell said. “Well, I heard that you had been ill during your stay in Devon; however, I did not know that it was something that serious.”
“Long walks in the countryside and lots of fresh air are what the doctor prescribed,” I lied smoothly before I added more truthfully, “Besides, I could never have accepted the position of a junior partner here at Powell and Drakes if I did not know that I would be able to dedicate myself fully and do my very best.”
The old solicitor seemed rather mollified with my answer.
The Mystery of the Black Widow ~ A Gay Victorian Romance and Erotic Novella Page 9