The Back Passage
Page 18
“I hope so.”
“But you don’t love me as you love Belinda.”
“No. Sorry.”
He was honest, and had always been honest. And as I gazed sadly at him as if for the last time, he pulled his shirt over his head, kicked off his shoes and socks, and removed his pants. He stood naked before me—the beautiful, slim, dark Harry Morgan, with his messy black hair, his trusting handsome face, and his cock as stiff as an iron bar, just as it always was.
Did I love him? I’d convinced myself that I did. I wanted him, certainly—and my plan to seduce him had been far more successful than I had ever dreamed. More successful, to tell the truth, than my attempts at sleuthing, which were, at best, hit or miss.
But love? Love as Rex and Charlie knew it? Love even as Sir James had felt for Reg Walworth—an infatuation, an amour fou that would lead a man to risk everything? No—I didn’t feel those things for Harry Morgan. I wanted to spend time with him, to have adventures with him, to fuck him and be fucked by him. But for the rest of my life?
That reminded me of something that Morgan hadn’t forgotten all day: he had not yet fucked me.
I grabbed his cock, kissed him on the mouth and set about rectifying that oversight.
EPILOGUE
MR. AND MRS. HENRY MORGAN, OTHERWISE BOY AND Belinda, were married in Drekeham parish church on a beautiful day in October. Sir James gave the bride away, but remained silent and thoughtful throughout the ceremony and absented himself as soon as possible from the wedding breakfast. Lady Caroline was unable to attend, being detained in a Belgian prison whence she was about to be extradited to England to face charges of conspiracy to murder. Rex attended with Charlie Meeks, both of them as handsome as matinee idols in their morning suits, and, despite some initial tutting and whispering from the guests, they were soon the stars of the show. Morgan’s family, who were Methodists, pretended that nothing out of the ordinary was going on—may, in fact, have thought nothing of it.
I was best man, and faced that rather solemn duty with as much good humor as I could muster. Of course I’d taken Morgan out the night before, we’d drunk too much, and ended up fucking each other’s brains out in our room above the village pub. In the morning, he’d been so jittery (and hungover) that I’d had to suck him off, and then come in his face, before he would calm down, bathe, and dress. I knew that Morgan’s powers of recovery were such that there would be plenty left for his blushing bride, come the wedding night.
Morgan did not return to Cambridge, but took a job instead in Sir James’s firm, in which he proved himself an able, enthusiastic worker, and he soon rose through the ranks, filling a vacuum left by Sir James’s own withdrawal from public life and Rex’s decision that he could no longer work for his father. Within a year, the company was back on its feet, the coffers were full—and Morgan and Belinda were the proud parents of a beautiful daughter. They live in London, I see them frequently, and Morgan and I remain as close as ever. I am happy to say that my romantic longings in that direction have changed into a lasting affection, a friendship spiced by occasional, athletic bouts of sex.
Sir James spent the months after the death of Reg Walworth in a black depression, barely talking to his children. The scandal took a terrible toll on him—and even though Barrett’s report in the papers the week after the murder had presented a highly sanitized version of events, there was enough suggestion of wrongdoing in the death of the “unemployed young man” who was “in Sir James’s intimate circle” and in “Lady Caroline’s desertion with her chauffeur” to ensure that Sir James, once a man of power and influence, was obliged to retire. Drekeham Hall was like a haunted house; without Burroughs or Mrs. Ramage, who recovered slowly in a private clinic, at Sir James’s expense, the household rapidly fell to pieces. Wages were unpaid, and the chef left, followed by the kitchen maid and the rest of the indoor staff, with the exception of Simon, the deaf-mute hall boy, who was left to attend to Sir James’s every need. The gardener and the stable boy remained, happy to tend the grounds and the horses—and each other, I was sure.
It was Simon who eventually coaxed Sir James out of his private hell and back to life. I never knew exactly how it happened, but little by little he became not just a servant but a friend, a mainstay—and, of course, a lover. Sir James found in Simon, with his docile nature, his smooth skin, and his quiet endurance of a hard life, exactly the companion he needed. Simon and Sir James now live quietly together in a few rooms of the huge house that so recently had been turned over to chaos.
Leonard Eagle did not exactly turn over a new leaf, but he was sufficiently chastened by his experiences to keep well away from the rest of the family, and settled into a life in London that made it unlikely their paths would ever cross again. The charge of attempted murder was dropped on the ground of insufficient evidence; I imagine that Sir James was behind that. After two days of incarceration in Drekeham Police Station, Leonard was a free man, and he was never seen in the village again. Funnily enough, neither was PC Piggott. I suspect, but do not know for certain, that this was no coincidence. Sergeant Kennington reappeared, as Rex had predicted, to attempt blackmail of Sir James; he was rapidly apprehended, tried, and hanged. Much as I deplore the death penalty, I couldn’t help thinking that this was a suitable end for a man who had shown such a flair for strangling.
PC Shipton was promoted, and now runs the station, where I visit him occasionally for a smoke.
Lady Diana Hunt made a new life for herself in Paris and soon became a regular fixture in the gossip columns on both sides of the English channel, notorious for her excessive lifestyle, her fashionable cocaine use, and her string of engagements to men from all walks of life, most of them rough working types. Of Hibbert we never heard again. I am sure that someone, male or female, is willing to pay handsomely for his considerable charms.
And me? I returned to Cambridge and continued with my postgraduate studies. It was a lonely place without Morgan, but I had much to do, and I was soon enjoying my new role as a tutor to a new generation of undergraduates, who learned much under my guidance. After the excitements of the summer, however, I found myself longing for new cases to crack—but that’s another story.
And to my delight and surprise, I found myself with a new roommate—none other than Vincent West, Sir James’s former secretary, who left Drekeham Hall and was allowed to resume his Cambridge studies after the college authorities were persuaded that he had been unjustly sent down. The moment he arrived in Cambridge, he looked me up and proposed a beer at a small pub by the river.
He appeared younger than when I had last seen him at Drekeham Hall; liberated from his lonely life and the burden of responsibility, he had flowered. He stood straight, his eyes shone, his skin was no longer pale and pasty but tanned by the sun. And no sooner had we sat down with our pints in the garden, savoring a day of early-autumn sunshine under the golden leaves of a chestnut tree, than he delivered a carefully prepared speech.
“Mitch, I hope you won’t think I’m being forward, but ever since I first saw you at Drekeham Hall, I’ve thought of nothing else all summer. I nearly wrote to you a thousand times, but I never posted the letter, because I thought that you and Morgan...well, you know. But now he’s married, and you’re here on your own, and I’m here on my own...well...”
His words faltered.
“I had it all worked out, but now it makes no sense.”
“Just say it, Vince.”
“Damn it, Mitch, I just want you so badly it hurts.”
That was all that needed to be said.
“Finish your beer, Vince,” I said, and downed mine in one gulp. “We’re going back to my rooms. And you’re staying.”
How we made it up the staircase I don’t know; we were already tearing at each other’s clothes the minute we entered the building. The door slammed behind us, and we devoured each other with kisses. We didn’t make it as far as my narrow single bed; instead, we made love on the thread-bare rug in front of the empt
y fireplace, the last rays of the sun shining through the window and onto our naked flesh. He was passionate—perhaps the most passionate lover I have ever known, with months, years, of frustration pent up inside him. When I entered him, as he lay on his back, his legs resting on my shoulders, I thought he was going to cry with joy.
We didn’t leave the room until hunger drove us to the refectory. He moved right in the next day, and the college very grudgingly gave us another narrow bed. Pushed together, these were ample for our needs.
And so we lived, worked, and loved together for the rest of the year. My thesis is nearly finished; Vince will graduate with flying colors. When I return to Boston in the fall, he will be by my side.
THE END
Copyright © 2006 by James Lear.
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television, or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States by Cleis Press Inc.,
P.O. Box 14697, San Francisco, California 94114.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Lear, James, 1960-
eISBN : 978-1-573-44434-7
1. Murder—Investigation—England—Fiction. 2. Upper class—England—Fiction. 3. Americans—England—Fiction. 4. Gay men—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6069.M543B33 2006
823’.92—dc22
2006006030