by Alan Jansen
Lady Janet paused here to drink the remaining brandy in her glass, helping herself to a fresh glass before continuing. ‘Your photographing thing intrigues me, dear Pierre. I wouldn’t mind posing for you – that is, if you would concede to paint my portrait using you unique photograph technique. We are, after all, living in the twentieth century! Besides, prudishness isn’t my cup of tea. And oh, I will pay your professional fee, of course!’ She arched her eyebrows in a seductive manner after finishing speaking. We had, or so it appeared, manoeuvred ourselves into the only possible outcome …
‘I would be delighted to paint you, my dear lady. There is no question about it. Don’t bother about payment now. If you feel that my final work is satisfactory, you can pay me a small sum later on. You have taken me in, in my time of need, and I would be more than happy to paint your portrait. Let’s begin at once. I would suggest your bedroom, where none of the servants could possibly be around to spy or probe. You know what servants are like. They pretend not to be visible, but they are always peeping through doors and windows and trying their very best to poke their noses into one’s affairs. I’ll fetch my camera from the Rolls and will be with you in a jiffy. I will need at least five or six photo shoots. After the pictures are taken, I’ll have them developed in my darkroom at my chateau in France, and set about painting your portrait immediately afterwards. Once the films are developed, I will send you the negatives – all of them – so that everything from then on will be in your hands and you will be in sole control of the whole matter. Of course, you may choose to destroy the negatives. I personally strongly advise you to do so. To have them fall into the wrong hands would be a problem. If you insist, we can sign a document saying that the negatives will be returned to you in their entirety. I did sign such a document a couple of times for my female clients who did not know me very well.’
‘Wonderful, Pierre! My bedroom is the third from the left on the landing. I will keep the door unlocked. Knock four times so that I will know it’s you and not one of the blooming servants. I shall be ready and waiting. And yes, the negatives must be sent to me by special courier as soon as you have developed the pictures. I have no doubt of your integrity. We blue bloods understand each other, unlike the lying, cheating plebeian masses, but just for the sake of formality, we can sign a paper after breakfast tomorrow to guarantee your return of the negatives. I know a thing or two about legal documents and I can easily draft a brief paper. Hurry now and fetch your camera and things.’
I sped off to the Rolls on Mercurial wings, fetched my camera equipment which I had especially bought for carrying out my master plan, and hightailed it back to the house. I knocked four times on Lady Janet’s door as she asked and was rewarded by her answering the door herself. I immediately took in what she was wearing. Her thick legs and thighs were covered in pinkish stockings that were almost transparent. The stockings ran up to her upper thigh, where they were firmly held in place by a frilled garter attached to a suspender holder. She was wearing transparent black knickers that showed generous glimpses of her womanhood.
As she calmly undressed before me, I watched her undergarments fall to the floor one by one. First her stockings were loosened from her garter clip, and then her knickers dropped, exposing her nakedness totally. She then calmly removed her mini corset, from which the white elastic straps holding up her gartered stockings dangled loosely at the sides of her huge thighs. Finally, she unclasped her brassiere and sent her generous breasts rolling down. In the bright light of her bedroom, she looked very vulgar. The vulgar effect came mostly from her enormous thighs, which were in sharp contrast to the rest of her figure. They were like small tree trunks that didn’t taper down gracefully to her knees but seemed to be one big mass of solid flesh and muscle extending to the knee. From the knees downward, her sturdy legs were slightly bowed. The whole effect was startling. It was even strongly erotic and appealing; at least it was to me! There was an animal-like quality in her bent legs and thick thighs – a suggestive erotic deformity that simply cried out, ‘Take me.’ Anyway, there she was, the high and mighty Lady Janet exposing her body shamelessly and as cool as a cucumber. There was a faint flush on her face, and her breathing sounded heavy even from the ten yards that separated us. I was admittedly a walking cliché in sexual matters concerning women, but I found it difficult to keep a straight face. Hiding my emotions as well as I could, I proceeded to get busy with my camera, adjusting the light fixtures, the zoom, and other details. Finally I attached a flashbulb onto the extended holder and indicated to Lady Janet that I was ready. She struck a pose immediately, a rather lewd and enticing one, keeping her hands on her hips, her face held high. I immediately took a picture, and then in the course of the next fifteen minutes took several more, instructing her to strike even more-erotic poses. She didn’t question the reason for the suggestive poses, seemingly carried away by her own lustful inclinations. I took a final picture and then, unable to control myself any longer, found myself in her arms, kissing her passionately and meeting no objection. Soon we were at it hammer and tongs, engaging ourselves in mind-blowing coitus over and over again. Finally, thoroughly exhausted by her efforts in combination with wine at dinner and the brandy afterwards, Lady Janet dozed off, still naked as the day she was born. She looked extremely disturbing and vulgar sleeping on that great big bed of hers – a comatose white slug the best thing to which to liken her. The sight was overpowering, so much so that I covered her with a thick blanket. I then dressed hastily, packed up my camera equipment, and with a last look at the slumbering Lady Janet, tiptoed my way to the servants’ quarters and Rogers’s room.
Of course I had pre-planned everything. … Rogers was waiting for my arrival, fully dressed and ready to leave. We left quietly through the front door, meeting no servant on our way. The great oak door was locked, but I was a past master at forcing locks. Soon we were outside in the garden and heading for the Rolls. I instructed Rogers to drive me to the farm, where I knew everybody would be sound asleep. Well at the farm, I got out and spoke to Rogers.
‘Well, Rogers. That will be all, my dear chap. Drive the car over to Rothwell and the Royal Hotel there on Main Street. You will find a room booked for you for the night. Have a good dinner and a refreshing night’s sleep, and check out the next day. Drive the Rolls back to the chateau in France and await my further instructions there. You will not speak of this matter to anybody.’
Saying thus, I handed over an envelope with some money inside. The sum was substantial, not to buy Rogers’s silence, as he was the most discreet of employees, but because I really liked the man and was happy to reward him a little extra now and then. Rogers had gone along well enough in this matter. He had acceded to many such unusual demands I had made of him the past years, never, ever questioning my requests or methods – a model employee and a rare breed these days.
I bade Rogers goodbye and then walked down the rough gravel road leading to the farmhouse door. Well inside, I removed my shoes and tiptoed to my room so as not to awaken the sleeping ménage. I think the ever-alert Inky must have heard me, for he woofed a couple of small barks. He had sensed it was just me; otherwise, if he had sensed a burglar or a stranger, he would have torn down the landing from Turtle’s room barking madly. I did a vigorous shower to wash Lady Janet’s odours off me, and then went to bed.
The following morning after breakfast, I set about writing a letter to Lady Janet. Julia was slightly sore at me for having ‘disappeared’ for nearly two days, but I explained to her, untruthfully of course, that I had been away in London trying to sort out the matter of Lady Janet’s encroaching, or rather her legally correct, land-robbing.
‘Oh, Cheroot! Is there some hope then? What did your lawyer say? Come on, spit it out, Cheroot. Let me have it straight. Is the new boundary by the apple orchard to be permanent then? Or is there some hope we will get it back? What was the outcome of your visit?’
I coughed delicately, more to appear gra
ve and meaningful than anything else, and answered solemnly, lying through my teeth about a fictitious meeting with a fictitious team of lawyers. ‘I do believe that things will shortly be in order, my dear Julia. I have had some very positive discussions with a whole team of legal advisors and other experts. I am confident the fence will be removed and withdrawn back to the original dividing line that used to be. Don’t worry about it anymore. I am expecting a positive outcome by the end of this week.’
Julia embraced me fondly at the news. Jim, a silent observer, gaped at me with open-mouthed wonder, turning over my statement in his mind …
‘My dear, dear man, how wonderful! I knew you would find a way. That’s a stone lifted from my bosom, dear Cheroot.’
After much babbling between Jim and Julia, and with even Turtle joining in over my scintillating and uplifting news, I left them all for the privacy of my room, saying that I had important letters to write in connection with the whole matter. I sat at my desk in my room and drafted a letter to Lady Janet. It read as follows:
Right Honourable Lady Janet De Court Plutney
Plutney Manor House
Wentworth-on-Tyne
Rothwell
Dear Lady Janet,
You may have known me as Chevalier Pierre Gaston de Descamps, but I must inform you that my real name is Cheroot Voldemort. I am staying at your neighbours’ farm that adjoins your property. The guise and the circumstances under which I arrived at your house were, I am sorry to say, bogus but necessary. I am Julia Southton’s cousin and have been much appalled by your steamrolling actions. You have forcibly yet legally confiscated a large piece of Julia’s apple orchard. The negatives of the interesting photographs I took of you will be kept in my possession until you solemnly undertake to withdraw the fence you have erected back to its original point of place. You have a week to get this work done. If you don’t do it, I will reluctantly hand over the original negatives to the editor of the Rothwell Daily News. The newspaper is, of course, quite conservative and might never publish these photos, but I’m sure the staff and the editor will be quite entertained by the sight of your naked genitals. I will also send a few developed photos to other, less conservative media outlets that, I am positive, will publish the lot gleefully. If you comply and withdraw the fence, all the negatives and any balance photos I may have developed will be returned to you immediately and I will take no further action. You have to trust my discretion in this matter.
Yours truly,
Cheroot Voldemort
Uncle’s account of the incident did not end with that diary entry. After a few blank pages, he resumed his account of the matter as follows:
It was now four days since I had posted the letter to Lady Janet. Early morning today, a small pole-lifting mobile machine operated by two workers started to dismantle the new barbed wire fence. By late evening, the fence was mounted back in its original position. There was no communication whatsoever from Lady Janet to me regarding the matter, nor were there any letters from her prominent London lawyer to Julia or Jim. I was never in doubt she would reallocate the fence to where it stood originally. I had manoeuvred her into a cul-de-sac, and it was the only decision she could make. There was no other way out. She had not gotten around to drawing up new deeds of ownership as of yet, so the old deeds and plans for both properties were still officially valid. Julia was very grateful, and so was Jim. Julia had gotten her beloved orchard back, and Jim’s ruffled feathers were smoothened. Even Inky and Gobble were pleased. The two animals had sorely missed that part of the lost orchard. It was Inky’s wont to follow Julia whenever she painted there, and he had sorely missed the spot. The ever-inquisitive canine found many interesting spots to sniff and poke around after the workmen had dug up and disposed of the fence. Even Gobble found a vast food source in the ground that had been unearthed in the form of pupae, eggs, and grubs hidden deep inside the soil to outlive the cold winter.
I am by my own admission something of a rake, so I don’t intend to destroy the negatives in my possession as I had promised Lady Janet I would. Instead, I will get them developed by a photo studio in London where I know the proprietor very well and also arrange for the negatives to be returned to me. The proprietor is a discreet man and a long-standing friend at the present time. I shall keep the photos in my chateau in France amongst all my other odds and ends and maybe take them out sometimes to gaze at Lady Jane’s naked body. I am really not interested in looking at nude pictures, but I find Lady Jane’s body fascinating. Her upper body is quite normal, even the projection of her bulging breasts centred by enormous brown nipples, but her unusual lower body from the waist downwards isn’t. Pivotally, there are her strange upper thighs that are so thick they look like one big tree trunk harbouring her fat and large womanhood. It is grotesque but, at the same time, amazingly erotic and appealing. I could gaze at it and admire it far more than I could all the nude women painted by Botticelli, Goya, Zorn, or any other artist. What is even more amazing is that Lady Janet looks quite unconcerned about her unusual nudity, on the contrary appearing smug and utterly proud of that strange body. Perhaps with hindsight she was right to do so, I concluded, because I for one found it very difficult to take my eyes off her photos once I started to look.
I do not think I will be seeing Lady Janet for some while in future. Maybe on and off I might find an article or two about her in the society column in the Times or some other newspaper in England or France. She is the kind of woman who often gets mentioned in society columns …
Uncle never did see Lady Janet again, as he supposed in his diary entry, and I believed him – but we did. That is to say, Mom, Ben, Pop sometimes, and yours truly saw her. We met on and off at Sunday church service, although Lady Janet made it a point to avoid us as much as possible. On the occasions when a head-on meeting was unavoidable, Lady Janet always blushed a deep shade of red upon seeing us, mumbled a hasty ‘Hello’ or something like that, and then walked away rapidly in a determined fashion. I guess she suspected we had seen her nude pictures and was very much ashamed of it all …
Chapter 5
The Church Ghost
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
alone and palely loitering?
John Keats
During Uncle’s third visit to us at the farm about two years after Lady Janet’s ‘fence encroaching’ incident, Pottersworth the village tramp abandoned the church porch – his home for many years – confiding wildly to anyone who cared to listen that the church was since recently haunted by an awful demon. The garrulous tramp, frightened to his wits, talked freely to anyone in the village about the manifestation. Even old Johns the vicar, and John’s ‘unofficial’ boss Verity Hayward, were forced to admit that the church was harbouring an entity not entirely of this world. John’s real boss, according to the church’s hierarchy, was the bishop of Rothwell, but snob and busybody Verity had the vicar eating from the palm of her hand. She controlled Johns and, through him, most of the important matters the church lorded over, through massive cash donations and the like, which Johns gratefully accepted with grovelling-like thanks. Johns was honest though, and didn’t pocket any of the cash himself – happy for the much-needed money, seeing how much the church was badly strapped for cash. Johns often made valiant pleas to his immediate superior the bishop of Rothwell for additional financial support, other than what church nomenclature allowed, but the latter, a parsimonious boss, besides being quite draconian in his ways, held tight to his purse strings. The bishop’s strict policy was that rural village churches should be self-supporting through various means and activities and not put unnecessary strain on the Rothwell diocese coffers. I was not involved in any way in this story, but I found a complete and long diary entry wherein Uncle described the full story. Before I include Uncle’s account of what happened, I must disclose the following facts …
The haunting, or manifestation, or whatever it was, didn’t happen during
the day, but after dusk something frightening took possession of the church. The protective statues of saints, Crucifixion images, and other religious artefacts that filled the church and that were supposed to ward off evil had no effect on the entity. Johns tried his best to keep mum about the whole affair, anxious that the news of the haunting would spread to the nearby villages and to his boss, the bishop at Rothwell. Pottersworth, on the contrary, couldn’t and didn’t keep his mouth shut. Frightened to his wits and forced to abandon his home at the church porch, he spread the news of the manifestation to anyone he met, even to those who didn’t bother about church services and rarely ever visited the church. Johns made a valiant effort to perform an exorcism ceremony or service, or whatever you call it, only to fail miserably. One evening just as the sun had set, he gathered a few daring senior churchgoers and, together with them, went through the motions of the exorcism, but was rudely interrupted halfway through – the entire company of would-be ghostbusters getting the fright of their lives instead. A heinous entity made itself known through loud, banshee-like screams, sending all manner of objects flying through the air. Even Johns’s prayer book was wrenched from his hands, the entity striking him over the head with it repeatedly before sending the holy book flying through the entry door. The entity was obviously invisible, but the screams, the flying objects, and old Johns being struck on the head repeatedly by his own prayer book were enough to send quivers of fright down the spines of those witnessing it all. Everybody, including Johns, fled the church in panic, the priest clutching his head with the palm of his hand to see if the blows he had received had broken skin.