The Erotic Memoirs of Ambrose Horne

by Chrissie Bentley

  ‘But they have all been investigated,’ Penny protested, but Horne hushed her. ‘They have been investigated, indeed. But they were investigated from the point of view of plotting mass murder. But what if that was not their scheme? Then your questioning would have struck them as mere gobbledygook. And their answers would have been shaped accordingly.’

  He glanced at the clock. ‘It is, sadly, too late into the evening to advance our investigations as far as I would wish,’ he sighed. ‘But, if we dress and hurry, we should catch Inspector Toynbee before he retires for the night, so that he might be ready to move at the opening of the business day tomorrow.’ He glanced down at his still impressive erection, bobbing almost comically out in front of him. ‘And you, my purple-headed friend, will just have to be patient a while longer.’

  Penny leaned forward and kissed the very tip, dispatching a violent thrill down Horne’s spine. ‘Which should not be any problem for either of you,’ she whispered; then she rose and dressed.

  Inspector Toynbee was not surprised to find Horne hammering on his front door just moments before he himself retired to bed; was not in the least put out to find himself dressed and journeying back to his office at Scotland Yard to set in motion the next morning’s movements. What did shock him was the casual ease with which Horne dismissed almost every one of the Yard’s own findings, from the identification of the pictured poisons, to the nature of the weapon itself.

  ‘I agree, on first inspection, that the photographs might indeed be construed as showing the poisons that your scientists deduced. But black and white is an awkward medium in which to discern colour, and a still life can never reveal movement. What if I were to inform you that the poisons were, in fact, potions? And that, far from aiming to stifle life, the goal of the ghoul you have been pursuing was to create it – or, at least, to induce the circumstances under which it could be created?’

  Toynbee stared spellbound at Horne. ‘You are, I assume, going to explain yourself?’

  ‘I am. As you may or may not be aware, the corset that we have known and wrestled with since time immemorial, is soon to come under sustained attack from an altogether different piece of lingerie, the so-called Breast Supporters that have just been introduced in the United States. As you may also be aware, the corset manufacturers themselves support this assault. Manufacturing costs will be slashed, but profits will soar, for we all know that the smaller a piece of women’s clothing, the higher the price it commands. The manufacturers, meanwhile, will no longer be in thrall to the whalers and renderers who supply them with the bone that is essential to their trade, and that, too, will increase their profits.

  ‘Only one thing stands in their way. The very appearance of these new garments, as with anything that is novel and modern, is so alien that it prompts gales of hilarity from every woman who claps eyes upon them.’

  He produced his own example and, perfectly on cue, he heard Penny stifle a snort of derision. Indeed, Toynbee himself seemed more amused than intrigued by this latest example of Yankee ingenuity. ‘So, the Breast Supporter needs its own supporters,’ he choked.

  Horne smiled wanly. ‘Yes, you could say that. But now, imagine if the handful of women who do agree to wear these contraptions, or one particular brand, should suddenly report ... to their friends, to their men, to their closest confidantes ... that they are suddenly experiencing a whole new range of physical sensations; that they feel, shall we say, more amorous than usual?’

  Shocked, Toynbee instinctively flashed a glance of concern towards Female Detective Penelope Cruikshank, fearful that she should have heard such coarse language; then corrected himself as he recalled with whom the girl had spent the last few hours. ‘And what, perchance, might engender this peculiar feeling?’

  ‘Our potion, Inspector. Your scientists inform us that the material was most likely to be used to manufacture under-garments. Your detectives tell us who those manufacturers might be. Now, utilising my own knowledge of the various chemicals involved, I am telling you what their intentions are. You have been ensnared not in a murder mystery, but in an ingenious display of advertising acumen.’

  Horne paused, expecting Toynbee to respond. The policeman, however, simply gestured for him to continue his explanation. ‘The remainder of the matter is clear to me. But to satisfy your curiosities, I have taken the liberty of instructing your own chemists to mix up the formula that I have already detailed to you, so that we might scientifically analyse its properties and its powers.

  ‘I hope to take delivery of it in the morning. Until then, I can only apply my own understanding of the chemicals involved. However, I think you will find that, liberally applied to a piece of cloth and allowed to dry, the mixture will remain absolutely inert until a certain temperature is arrived at – the 96-or-so degrees that, almost unique to the human physiognomy, is the median temperature of a woman’s cleavage. From there, the process is as you have always believed it to be. The chemical comes to life, enters the skin, and thence the bloodstream, and works according to its function. But it is its aphrodisiacal properties that our so-called poisoner seeks, not some random lethal quality.’

  He considered again his experiences with Millicent, earlier in the day, how he had contemplated the sensory highway that links a woman’s breasts to her vagina. But he saw no reason to further confound the Inspector with that piece of knowledge. The poor man already had enough to chew on – as, he suspected, did Penny. Either that, or he had completely misread the mischievous flash that crossed her face as he spoke.

  ‘So what, exactly, are we searching for tomorrow, when we visit the establishments you have requested we investigate?’ asked Toynbee.

  ‘Confirmation of my theory, of course,’ replied Horne. ‘There are just three companies currently involved in the manufacture of the Breast Supporter: Mr B_____, Mr G_____ and Madame L_____. Others will doubtless follow. But, for now, I believe the answers you seek will be provided at one of those three addresses; together, I trust, with a sample of their own potion, so that we might compare it with that which I have devised. Oh, and to raise the subject of my bonus, I would appreciate an example or two of their treated wares, so that I might include them in my Blue Museum.’

  ‘There will be no arrests?’ Toynbee continued – to Horne’s ears, the man sounded slightly disappointed.

  ‘No, for there has been no crime; no true crime, anyway,’ Horne shrugged. ‘I suppose you could venture a conviction for knowingly administering an undisclosed substance to the populace-at-large, but every perfume, toiletry, food and drink manufacturer in the land does that with impunity, every day.’

  ‘But the photographs!’ Toynbee blustered. ‘Why go to the expense of posting us the photographs?’

  ‘That, I must confess, baffled me for some time,’ Horne admitted. ‘And I still believe the sender could have been a little more transparent in his attentions. But, clearly, he believed that, by lodging evidence of his work with Scotland Yard, and addressing them to one of the Yard’s most trusted servants, he had confirmed his ownership of the process beyond any legal doubt. Who, after all, would not trust the word of Inspector Toynbee?’

  Toynbee smiled. ‘Perhaps we should have brought you in at the outset of this case, rather than wait until we’d exhausted all of our natural suspicions,’ he suggested, but Horne shook his head. ‘I would not have been interested, Inspector. I need to know that all conceivable avenues have already been explored before I will look at any map. And now, if you do not mind, I will take my leave of you both.’ He raised his hat to Penny, and bowed slightly to the Inspector. ‘I fear my time will be very full once daylight has arrived.’

  In fact, by the time Horne was ready to receive visitors the following morning, Toynbee had already completed half a day’s work. Following Horne’s instructions, his investigations had indeed uncovered the maker of the mysterious mictus; his scientists had confirmed Horne’s suspicions regarding the potion; and a middle-aged garment maker with a small manufactory off
Petticoat Lane, had proudly informed the astonished Inspector that, in the two weeks since the first chemically-coated Breast Supporters left his premises, orders had more than quadrupled.

  Not only that, but completely unaware of how close he had come to the hangman’s noose, Mr B_____ also insisted on shaking Inspector Toynbee’s hand, for helping safeguard his methods. ‘As soon as I learned there would be a delay in issuing my Patent,’ he explained, ‘I knew I needed to act quickly to safeguard my formula from my most jealous rivals. Thankfully, I knew I could rely upon Scotland Yard.’ Speechless, Toynbee simply smiled and accepted the happy man’s praises.

  Female Detective Cruikshank, meanwhile, was conscientiously adhering to the instructions Horne had given her the previous evening, and had been wearing a treated Breast Supporter for four hours. She was also, she was pleased to report, ‘feeling extraordinarily amorous ... although I don’t know if it’s this stuff I’m wearing,’ she confessed, ‘or the possibility that it might be.’

  ‘It matters not,’ Horne murmured as he took her in his arms. ‘There is plenty of time for blind testing in the future. For now, I have other investigations that I need to conduct.’ He kissed her firmly on the lips, and cupped one of her Supported breasts in his hand. ‘As I suspected. Access is vastly improved.’

  Unfastening two of the buttons on her blouse, he slipped a hand inside. ‘Vastly. Perhaps there are certain refinements that could be made – a peephole, perhaps, for the nipple. Less coverage of the breasts themselves. But time and necessity will uncover any serious failings in that direction.’

  His hand eased around the girl’s back, his fingers wrestling with the knot of lace that connected the straps. ‘Removal, too, could be better facilitated. But ... ah, I have it.’ The Breast Supporter visibly sagged, and Horne deftly unbuttoned the remainder of Penny’s blouse with one hand, as the other dealt with his own trousers.

  ‘Now, my dear, before I so abruptly interrupted us last evening ... where exactly were we?’

  Penny pushed him gently back onto the bed, and knelt upright before him, manoeuvring his erection between her breasts, and smiling as she began to knead her orbs. ‘You know, you can rub all the oils you want on my breasts. But if you really want to get me going, a good hard cock will do it an awful lot faster.

  The Strange Case of the Magical Mushroom

  Her face pressed against the cold glass of the window, Katie awoke with a sharp pain in her neck, and it took a moment for her foggy mind to remember where she was. But, slowly her body comprehended the swaying motion of the carriage, and the clatter of the horses’ hooves on the road, and she glanced across to the man seated beside her.

  ‘How long was I asleep?’

  ‘A couple of hours.’ Ambrose Horne lay down his book and looked out of the window alongside him. ‘We’re just crossing Rochester Bridge.’

  Katie stretched, then winced as her neck kicked out a sharp jab of pain. ‘How do you sleep in these things?’

  ‘I don’t. That’s what beds are for.’

  ‘I wish someone had warned me.’ All the years that she’d spent watching her mistress, Lady Batsford, riding around the village in this luxurious carriage, she had imagined it was as vast and comfortable on the inside as it looked from the outside. Now she was actually riding in it, however, she wasn’t so sure. She glanced at the timepiece that her fellow traveller had placed on a makeshift table in front of him. It was nearly four o’clock. So long as the driver kept to schedule, they’d be in Nether Winchington by nightfall.

  ‘Do you often make journeys like this?’

  Horne shook his head. ‘I prefer to take the railways on the occasions that I have to leave town. But the lines have yet to reach Nether Winchington and, as Lady Batsford was kind enough to send both her best carriage and you, her favourite parlour-maid, to collect me, it would have been rude to decline.’

  Katie abandoned her attempts to make herself comfortable. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to solve the business for which she engaged your services?’

  Horne turned to look at her. ‘My dear girl, the problem has not yet been set that I cannot solve. Or, if it has, I have yet to encounter it. And this is surely one of the simplest yet. Your mistress retires to sleep at night and, when she awakens, another precious jewel or trinket has been stolen from the very chamber in which she sleeps. The police have investigated the entire household and found nothing. The Lady herself has replaced her staff four times. There is barely a soul in the house today who was employed there when these disappearances began – and yet still they continue. On the surface, it does sound a little puzzling. But unsolvable? Forgive me for my presumption, but no.’

  Katie rubbed her still nagging neck. ‘You must think I’m terrible company, falling asleep like that.’

  ‘Quite the contrary. In my eyes, the very best company is that which knows when to speak and when to remain silent. And when I am reading or thinking, then silent company is by far the best.’ He watched as she continued massaging her neck. ‘Are you alright?’

  ‘I just slept in an awkward position.’

  They rode in silence for a while, the milestones flashing past. Again and again Katie felt herself drifting, but the moment her head began to lean towards the window, a jolt of pain shot up her neck. ‘Ouch.’

  ‘If you want to lie down,’ Horne said, ‘you may. There isn’t much room on this seat and it will still be a little confined, but at least you could keep your neck straight.’ With her eyes, Katie measured the cushioned distance between the passenger door and Horne’s seat. If she folded her legs ... ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  The top of her head pressing against the detective’s left leg, she lay on her side and closed her eyes. ‘Is that better?’ he asked solicitously.

  ‘It’s still a bit of a squeeze.’

  He shifted over a little. ‘How’s that? Or, if you want to use my lap as a pillow?’

  Again – ‘You don’t mind?’ She shifted a little and lay her cheek on his thigh. ‘I’m not in your way?’

  ‘Not at all. I’ll wake you when we get to the village.’

  Lulled by the clip-clop of the horses, Katie slept, waking only as she felt the carriage slow slightly. Opening an eye, she sought out the clock. Nearly six. Still over an hour to go. Not moving, she lay there thinking – how odd it felt, riding through the evening like this, her head nestling on a stranger’s lap, and then she felt something else, hard beneath her cheek, pressing against the fabric of his trousers.

  Her first thought was panic. It mattered not that Ambrose Horne was one of the greatest detectives in the history of the world; nor that her own mistress had spoken of him with such respect that the very thought of accompanying him from London had impressed Katie as the greatest honour she had ever received. She still should have known better.

  But then a more rational part of her mind took over. It was her decision to lie down, it was her choice to use him as a pillow. He couldn’t help it if ... She remembered growing up on the Batsford estate, how all the neighbourhood children would ride to church in the gamekeeper’s cart, clutching their Bibles and hymnals to their laps, and how she and the other girls would watch as the boys trouped off, to see who was holding their bag, or their hands, over the tell-tale bulge at the front of their trousers.

  It was just something that happened to men. Sit them on a moving vehicle, place something heavy on their lap – a Bible, their luggage, a girl’s head – and, sooner or later, something would stir. She tried to imagine how Horne himself must feel; he was probably desperately willing his manhood to subside, terrified that she might wake up and find it burrowing into the side of her face.

  She closed her eyes, but the thought was locked inside her mind now, and cemented itself even deeper whenever the carriage’s wheels passed over a bump and the hard shaft twitched or shifted beneath her. And then another thought. How long was it since she was last this close, this incredibly close, to a cock? So close
she could almost smell its musky odour; so close she could almost taste it.

  Her heart was beating so loud that she was sure Horne would hear it above the horses, but he showed no sign that he even realised she was awake. Occasionally he wriggled a little in his seat, but his cock never seemed to move, as if it had a mind of its own, and didn’t want to lose its place. And she was a little shocked to find herself hoping that it wouldn’t.

  She pictured Horne in her mind. Frightfully well-spoken, very good-looking, and known the length and breadth of England as a genius. There would be worse men than him to have a little fun with. Still feigning sleep, Katie shifted a little, moving her head to give his dick a little more leeway. She was rewarded with another twitch and, feeling bolder, she moved her left arm, so that she could cradle her cheek on her hand, palm down, of course. Her hand lay across his left thigh; her fingers just resting across his cock. Lightly, she pressed down with her fingertips, feeling his circumference.

  She felt her heart speed up a little, and a moistness between her legs. But she didn’t want to move too fast; she was still meant to be asleep, after all. Still she was wondering what thoughts were going through Horne’s mind. It was 6.05. She made up her mind not to move again for ten minutes, but it was difficult to resist the temptation. She could feel the heat rising from his lap, and now her nostrils had picked up his scent. Her fingertips squeezed him again and, this time, she heard him give a sharp gasp. When he looked down at her, however, her eyes remained closed, her face the impassive innocence of a guileless sleeper.

  Again she lay stock still, waiting for ten minutes to pass. Again her resolve cracked after just four or five. She’d teased boys before, of course she had. But never this deliberately, this delightfully. She shifted her position again, raising her head a little, then laying it down again. If she’d got her bearings right ... yes. The tip of his cock was pressing against her lower lip now, and she could half feel, half sense the dribble of pre-come that was soaking into the fabric of his trousers. Horne, too, now seemed finally aware of what was going on, and she felt one hand drop from his book to brush her hair lightly. She responded with another gentle squeeze, then let her fingers slide a little, to touch his balls. Horne didn’t speak, but started stroking the side of her face, very gently.