“Is Glass still up?  If so, then I think we should have some cocoa.  Or would you prefer tea Martin?” asked Uncle Alfred.

“Yes, tea please.  Make it Indian,” said Martin who was prostrate with shock on the bed.

Glass responded to the electric bell and appeared at the door in his dressing gown.  “Glass, a pot of Darjeeling and the whisky please.”

They sat in Martin’s room for ten minutes without talking, but their minds were racing with questions and possibilities.  The tea arrived and Martin arose from the bed and put a on a dressing gown.  He checked the doors to make sure no one was listening.  “I do not want even Carlo and Glass to hear this…not yet,” he said.  He sat on a chair and poured the tea- no one wanted whisky.

“Do I understand this correctly, Uncle Alfred: If the date of the marriage of my great-great grandfather—Lord Thomas Poole—to my great, great grandmother, Charlotte What’s-her-name, took place on the first and not the thirty-first of September…”

“October,” corrected Uncle Alfred, “and he was only an ‘Hon.’ at that point because he was just a younger son of the Earl.”

“…October, 1808 then their child born on the 16^th was illegitimate?”

“He was baptised on that date.  We have the record from the Church of Sao Pedro de  Penaferrim.  They did not have to register births in Portugal.”

“Why were they married in the consulate in the first place?” asked Stephen who came closer and sat on a chair backwards, with his chin on his folded hands, resting on its back.

“A divorced person could not re-marry in a Church, of course.  They were obviously in a mad rush…”

“They couldn’t have been in that much of a rush,” said Martin, “or they would have married on the first and not waited—after all he was free to marry again.”

“That’s true,” conceded Uncle Alfred.  “I can only think that there was pressure from General Cavendish-Bentnick who was there in Cintra and would want his niece to be legally married by the time she came home with the baby, but that it wasn’t urgent enough at the time to be too particular about the order of the thing— they were in a war-torn country and a long way from home.  There is one compelling reason, however, to make it appear all right…”

“And that’s because he learned that he would succeed to the title,” interjected Stephen.  “His older brothers were dead already perhaps, or dying, and what he had never imagined would happen, suddenly loomed,” said Stephen. “When did Thomas’ older brothers die?”

“I don’t know,” said Uncle Alfred. Mildred and I never thought to look that up.  We could easily find that out at Somerset House.”

“Does Mrs Polk-Stewart know about this, Uncle?”

Lord Alfred paused for a minute and chose his words carefully— not from motivations of concealment but from trying to recall with fidelity.  “I am not sure,” he began slowly.  “She was with me when the ledger was opened.  I was sitting down at the desk because I was a bit puffed from the walk and she was somewhere behind me, over my shoulder.  I looked at the entry, I blinked and looked again.  I ran my finger along the line to make sure.  I was sure, but I bit my tongue.  I looked for a third time and closed the volume— it was a very large book.  I did not say anything except to remark that I had seen the entry and I thanked Sir Gregory and asked him some more about the visit of Lord Byron in 1809.  I don’t know if Mildred saw it, or if she did see it, if she comprehended its meaning.  She never said a word and we were to leave in a few days so we had other matters to attend to—seeing Mr De Souza our researcher for one.  But she’s an intelligent woman, Martin.”

“This was all so long ago, Lord Alfred,” began Stephen, trying to put things in a more helpful perspective, “and no one could mount a challenge to the status quo now from some error made a century ago.  Why, that’s like saying King George the Fifth should give up the throne because James the Second’s son was stillborn and replaced by one smuggled into the Queen’s bedchamber in a bed pan.”

“Warming pan, Derby.”

“Oh yes, that’s what I meant.”

“You’re quite right, Stephen.  Any such challenge mounted so long afterwards would be very hard to prove and the courts surely would dismiss it,” said Uncle Alfred, and he and Stephen looked to see if Martin had relaxed—he had, very slightly.

“Even if so, what is the worst that could happen?” asked Stephen.

“Well, the titles and the entailed part of the estate could pass to someone with a stronger claim.  Quite possibly the title would simply be declared extinct.  This often happens when there is no male heir.”

“The Earldom and the Marquisate?” asked Stephen.

“Yes, both require a male heir— it can’t pass to a female.  Of course your personal fortune and this house, for example, would be unlikely to be forfeited.  They are not part of the entailed estate.” This was of some consolation.

“And who would benefit from usurping me?” said Martin suddenly.  “It can’t be a woman and Lord Philip and any male children he might produce with Charlotte Polk-Pigsty would be in the same boat as you and me, Uncle,” said Martin feeling some weight lifting.

“That’s quite right,” said Uncle Alfred, “He is descended from Thomas and Charlotte Cavendish-Bentnick too.”

“You know what strikes me as odd,” said Stephen suddenly as he stirred his tea. “Why didn’t your father or mother say something when they went to Cintra in 1880?”

“Yes,” said Martin, “that’s right, Derbs.  And I think that document they had drawn up states the first of October.  I can’t be sure, but I think it did because I remember it was mother’s birthday.  Oh, I wish I had it here right now and we could check it.”

“Well you must search it out when you go to Croome.  Whoever certified it must have seen the erasure if it was there in 1880, unless they were quite blind or else your father bribed the consul and two witnesses.  And why would he do that?  Even if he did know the date of the birth—which I’m quite certain he did not for I never knew it myself— why would he draw attention to it with a false document and a series of bribes; he could have just left the dusty volume to keep its secret?

“Martin, I would like you and Stephen to go to Cintra one day and see it for yourself.  Perhaps I just made a silly mistake.  I am old and poorly and not quite right in the head.  I felt it was a great burden to carry this dreadful knowledge around with me.  I suppose I have passed some of it on to you now, I’m sorry.  I’m almost sorry I started digging.”

“That’s quite alright, Uncle,” said Martin, half thinking that his uncle had been right.  He kissed him on his forehead.  They fell to talking about Desideria-Luiza and then Uncle Alfred saw that it was 1 o’clock and took himself off to bed. 

***** 

For the next few days Martin looked troubled.  He was anxious to go down to Croome but also wanted to stay in London to hear if there was any further news about Uncle Alfred’s condition—it was cancer of course—and quite advanced.  There was also Hélias to visit.  He had been placed in a plaster cast and was in traction in hospital.  The surgeon was sure that there was no infection where the bone was sawn and reset.  Hélias was happy enough, but complained that the plaster cast itched and was glad for visitors, male and female, to scratch him.  Stephen, Martin and M. Lefaux took it in turns to visit and to help him write letters home to his wife.  The Plunger also popped in one day.  Martin was longing to share the news about Cintra with his oldest friend, but thought it best to follow his uncle’s advice and keep the knowledge limited to just a necessary few.

Stephen busied himself with his engineering but also tried to take Martin’s mind off these weighty matters in the best way he knew how.

Carlo too had noticed the mood of his master, but was not in a position to know its cause. His lordship seemed distant, he thought, as he watched him.  Obviously he was worried about Lord Alfred, but he hoped that that was all.  Most of all he was fearful of some sort of falling out between the two boys.  That would be very hard to bear indeed if it were true. These thoughts occupied him below stairs.

He had had a frustrating morning.  He had been folding his masters’ half-hose and there always seemed to be one stocking missing.  How could that be?  He paired them and sorted and resorted.  These were his Lordship’s; these were Mr Stephen’s.  He was just taking the troublesome brood up to the dressing room to be laid out in the mahogany cabinet with its glass-sided drawers, when he heard the most frightful, but familiar, din emanating from the bedroom.  He entered holding the tray of half-hose.  There was his lordship, naked and all fours with Mr Stephen also naked and ploughing him brutally from behind.  His lordship had his face pressed into the satin counterpane, which had been dragged from the bed and spread over the table.  It was on the table that these endearments were taking place.

When his lordship lifted his head, long strands of drool suspended themselves like icicles. They emerged from his nose and his mouth, from which also came animal groans and grunts with every brutal thrust of Mr Stephen’s hips.  These narrow hips flexed athletically above his widespread legs with their muscular thighs dusted in black hair.  His buttocks were taught and dimpled and his straight back was running with sweat down the spine.  His heaving shoulders were soaked and his black hair was slicked and plastered down over his left eye.  Carlo could see a considerable length of his terrible cock and his merrily swinging balls as he repeatedly assaulted the vulnerable noble arse.  His lordship took the entire length but seemed to have little choice in the matter.  The thrusts were hard and brutal.

“You’re hurting him, Mr Stephen!” cried Carlo in alarm.

“No… he’s… not,” huffed a tearful Martin and he made a noise like an emptying bath as he attempted to suck the mucus back into his nose and throat.

Stephen turned and looked at Carlo and then motioned with his eyes to the Spong’s on the floor.  All the time he didn’t release his vice-like grip on Martin.  Carlo dropped the half-hose (they would have to be resorted) and swept up the tube.  He squeezed out a goodly amount onto his fingers (Oh to have shares in that company!) and applied the cooling unction to Mr Stephen’s cock as it slid in and out and he rubbed some around his lordship’s dilated aperture, despite getting his fingers slammed as Mr Stephen picked up the pace again. Mr Stephen suddenly freed one hand and wrapped it around Carlo’s neck, pulling him in for a scorching kiss at the same time as he gave a great thrust with his groin.  Carlo felt the breath go from his body.  He went to wipe Mr Stephen’s forehead with a towel, but he was pushed aside, so he just watched with sustained interest until, finally, there was a point where he knew Mr Stephen had spilled inside his lordship’s guts.

He saw Mr Stephen pull out with a squelching sound and his lordship rolled over, exhausted but smirking.  He had spilled on the counterpane.  Mr Stephen was heaving and dripping.  He stood with his legs apart and with his hands on his hips, slightly bent forward as he tried to catch his breath. “I still want more Mala.”

“I’m too sore, Derby; ask Carlo.”

“You want some of this, Carlo?” he asked roughly, looking down at his huge, slicked member that was still oozing.  Do you want to feel my seed running down your leg like he does?” Carlo looked at his lordship.  It was as he described.  This was one of those questions that doesn’t require an answer—a rhetorical question— Carlo believed they were called as he slipped off his coat and slid his braces aside.  Mr Stephen lent a hand by roughly pulling down Carlo’s trousers without their being first unfastened and with two hands he ripped his shirt open, leaving his tie strangely isolated, and scattering buttons to the four corners.

With shaking hands Carlo tried to apply as much Spong’s as was left in the tube as quickly as possible (Why, oh why was it not the larger size?  And it was so much more economical too) while Mr Stephen roughly pushed his lordship off the table.

“It’s such a convenient height,” said his lordship cheerily as Carlo climbed onto it.  Mr Stephen used all his strength to push him up and turn him over—like a child’s doll, Carlo thought.

In little more than one fell swoop Mr Stephen entered him.  Mercifully his cock was already slicked and the pain would be quickly forgotten— he hoped.  Mr Stephen moved in and out, gathering pace like a train.  Soon the table was shaking and his own body was writhing.  Mr Stephen held him fast.  The big cock was sending electric thrills through his spine.  His body was beyond his control and it was wonderful feeling.  Mr Stephen’s sweat dripped from his chest and forehead and mingled with his own.  He could not see his lordship, but he knew he was watching.  He felt the rise in excitement in his own being. Mr Stephen flicked his head and a stream of sweat rained from his black hair and lashed his face.  The smell and the sensation—all the sensations—precipitated him over the edge and he spilled on his own chest. “Good load,” Mr Stephen grunted in approval as he concentrated more.  Soon he could feel Mr Stephen’s seed being ejaculated inside him.  He had slowed to a stop and held himself in deep to make sure Carlo got the good of it.

He pulled out gradually.  All was messy.  There was a pause and then his Lordship came from nowhere and started to suck on Mr Stephen’s hard-worked member.  Carlo found his muscles again and joined him.  The taste was interesting.  “Let’s see if we can bring him off again,” said his lordship and it took half an hour but it was accomplished.  There was much for the servant to clean up, but Carlo was pleased to observe that Lord Branksome looked more relaxed than he had for some days.  

***** 

Uncle Alfred also made a great effort.  His sleep was poor— probably due to the medicines that Sir Thomas prescribed and in the daytime he tired very easily.  He usually spent the mornings in bed, so it was Higgins who was sent down to Somerset House, which stood between the Strand and the Embankment and housed the birth, death and marriage records for England.  He returned with the dates of the death of the Hon. Thomas Poole’s brothers and Stephen and Martin had joined Lord Alfred in his bedroom where he sat up with the papers spread about him.

“The younger one—named ‘Martin’, Martin—died first.  He had been in the Army also and was apparently killed in Roleica on the 17^th of August in 1808.  He was probably fighting alongside Thomas under Wellington.  Thomas would therefore certainly have known of his brother’s death,” said Lord Alfred.

“Could he have killed him, Uncle?”

“I think that’s going a bit far, Martin. It has been done before, but it’s unlikely— think of your own brother.”  Martin agreed that this was a bit macabre.

“Now Lord William, who was the oldest son, died in February 1810.  It says here that he died of consumption.  It is quite likely that Thomas may have heard of his brother’s failing health, perhaps in the same post that brought his decree absolute from home.  Their father, the Earl, wasn’t a young man and he died in 1832, it says here of Bright’s Disease.  That was also the year that the ‘baby’— who was also called William— married my grandmother. 

“So what do you conclude Lord Alfred?” asked Stephen.

“Well, as they say in detective novels, Thomas had a motive for making a hasty marriage and for altering the date to make his son legitimate.  Perhaps the fact that it was a son and not a daughter was an added inducement.  His father was old and ill, his brother was dying and he was heir presumptive as neither of his brothers had produced a male heir.”

“Could the ‘baby’ William have altered the date when he grew up; he had a lot to lose?” suggested Martin.

Uncle Alfred shrugged. “We have no evidence.  We don’t know if he even went to Portugal.”

“We’re going to Croome tomorrow, Uncle.  I will telephone when I have found the document.”  

***** 

Martin put off all other business and had Chilvers and Stephen help sort through the papers in Martin’s desk and certain cupboards.  “It was not with the other papers in the Library, I’m quite sure of that.  I had it with some photographs of Mother and Father and some of the letters they wrote at the time of their wedding.  You know Chilvers, I could hardly believe it was my father writing in those letters.  He seemed so soft and romantic— not as I remember him in my lifetime.”

“It happens with us all sir; we put on a mask and the mask becomes the real us.”

“That was nicely said, Mr Chilvers,” said Stephen. “Don’t become like that, Mala, being the Marquess of Branksome isn’t worth losing your soul.”

“I’ll try Derbs.  I think this is it— it was down the bottom of this box of old Valentines and Christmas cards.  Thank you Chilvers that will be all.”

When the door closed they opened the manila envelope.  Inside was a single folded sheet of paper.  When they unfolded it, they skimmed down past the British coat of arms and the preliminary wording, which was neatly and legibly penned, probably by a secretary, to the details transcribed from the ledger.  There were the names: Thomas George, Allerdyce Poole and Charlotte Elizabeth Cavendish-Bentnick.  The date of the marriage was in a box.  It read: ‘1^st day of Oct. 1808’.  Underneath there followed other details such as the names of the original witnesses and then there followed he names of the witnesses from 1880; one was the consul, one was probably a secretary and there was a Portuguese one too.  It was as Martin had remembered it.

Martin and Stephen looked at each other. “Perhaps my uncle was mistaken,” said Martin first.

“Perhaps the ledger was altered subsequently.  This,” said Stephen shaking the paper with its wax seal, “can’t be a forgery.”

The news was telephoned to Branksome House.  Glass, who was busy with a footman carrying the broken Sheridan table down the stairs from Martin’s bedroom, answered the instrument.  He took the message down carefully, repeated it back and promised he would pass it on to Lord Alfred directly he awoke.

“I’m going to take this to Sir Danvers in London, Derby, and get him to deposit it in a bank vault and to witness also what it says.”

“Very prudent, Mala.  Just don’t misplace it when we clean up all this mess.” 

***** 

A few days later in Martin’s morning letters was an invitation to spend the weekend at cousin Philip Rous-Poole’s country house.  Miss Polk-Stewart, of Denver, Colorado, whom the Morning Post had announced a few weeks ago was his betrothed, was also staying there, chaperoned by her mother.

The invitation to Tetbury Park was one that could not be politely turned down, save by Uncle Alfred on the grounds of his health.  Stephen had been invited too and the two boys were rehearsing their little speeches of congratulations, with many humorous asides, as they journeyed in Martin’s Rolls Royce into Gloucestershire.  Carlo sat in the back with their luggage.

The countryside was very picturesque, with lovely honey-coloured stone houses in the villages.

Martin found the gates with their pair of cream stone lodges and turned the car into the drive, which ran through a small park and up a slight rise on top of which stood the house.  Tetbury was as how Martin had remembered it: a pleasant Elizabethan manor house with steep roofs and stone mullioned windows.

The engine was turned off and the sound of gunfire assaulted their ears, but it was difficult to tell from which direction it came.  Carlo alighted and was just about to reach for the luggage when there was a shot and a dead moorhen fell at his feet.

Lord Philip came racing up.  “Martin, Knight-Poole, I’m very pleased to see you.”  He thrust out his hand, but then retracted it. “Oh, sorry.  Blood.  We were just eviscerating some hares down by the stream and having a few shots before tea.”

‘We’ was explained in the form of a chap in corduroy trousers and a tweed hacking jacket. On his feet he wore Wellington boots and a deerstalker sat atop a ruddy face.  He must have been around Philip’s age.  He was introduced as Hatchett.  Two setters came bounding up. They had been in the water and were soaking wet and promptly jumped on the three visitors making their clothes filthy.  The two dogs then discovered the dead moorhen and set upon it, nearly knocking the valet over in the process.  They each took an end of the lifeless fowl in their teeth in ghastly a tug of war and were pulling it apart.

“Leave it alone, you mongrels!” growled Lord Philip and hit the nearest one over the skull with his rifle butt.  Then he turned to the visitors and in a different voice said: “Shall we go in and have tea with Constance? She said she was looking forward to your visit.” And to Carlo: “Peel will be out directly to help you with those bags. He’s butchering one of the pigs at present.”

Hatchett and Philip removed their boots in the hall and wiped their gory hands on their handkerchiefs and proceeded into the drawing room where sat Constance, Mrs Polk-Stewart and another women, Harriet, who appeared to be Hatchett’s wife or sister—it was never explained.

Congratulations were extended.  Philip beamed and put his arm around Constance who managed a smile but did dart a quick look at his hands for traces of blood.  Mrs Polk-Stewart began talking non-stop, only pausing when a worried look crossed her visage as she was compelled to pour the tea.  She got into a terrible muddle about the milk being in first or last and in the end asked Stephen to do it.

Hatchett was busy describing the wide variety of birds that had met their death and tried, without success, to interest the ladies.  Martin took the opportunity to look about the room. There was a great display of the taxidermist’s art to be seen, with creatures great and small staring down on the party with their glass eyes.  On one wall was a display of shotguns, ancient and modern, arranged in an attractive pattern.

“I see you’re looking at my guns,” said Philip.

“Yes, they’re very interesting.  That one must be quite old,” he said indicating a blunderbuss.

“Early seventeenth century.  Works though.  I tested it in the fowl yard.  The servants had to eat chicken for a week and pick out the shot,” he roared with laughter.

“Do you like fishing, Mr Knight-Poole?” asked Hatchett and then went on to describe the best way to remove a hook from a young trout.

“Constance likes to fish, don’t you Connie?” said Philip.  “She looks very beautiful in a pair of waders.  Not many chaps can say that about a girl, but I can.  She netted a very big pike only last week.  Had to stun the brute with my prayer book—we had stopped off for a spot of fishing on the way back from morning service— and I was thinking of getting it mounted for our bedroom—it being the first one my fiancée caught, you see.”

“You are a true romantic, Philip,” observed Constance.

There was a tour of the stables and then there were cocktails and then dinner for which they dressed.  Lord Philip’s sister, Sylvia and her husband came.  There was an excellent pheasant whose siblings they had seen hanging on iron hooks until they were ‘gamey’ in a stone-floored room off the kitchen.  The talk centred on fox hunting and the use of kelp as fertilizer. Martin was able to describe the new flower garden he was constructing, but Sylvia said, rather shortly, she thought it sounded better suited to asparagus and seakale and opined that flowers were a waste of time.

“You are going to have a three heap system for your compost, Lord Branksome, aren’t you?” she almost demanded before describing how at Twyching, her place nearby, she ground her own bone meal.

They did some killing on the Sunday after church and there was some bridge in the evening, although Philip kept breaking off to clean his 12 bore, which he had brought into the drawing room.

Martin and Stephen said goodnight rather early and departed for their respective rooms at either end of the house.  They left at half past eight on Monday morning, regretting to their hosts that they would miss going out for young hares with the ferrets. 

***** 

It was in some weeks after this that they were able to transfer Hélias from the hospital to Branksome House and then, taking him by motor, down to Croome.  The plaster had come off by now and Hélias had been visited by a doctor twice a week and given exercises to do. Carlo was a magnificent help and Hélias was too scared of Martin and Stephen to slacken off.  He now walked with a limp and was using a stick, but his foot was no longer twisted and he seemed to have regained more control over its muscles.  It could be envisaged that the limp would gradually fade and that he would make a complete recovery.  The move to Croome was the result of this.

As they came up the drive, Martin and Stephen both watched Hélias slyly as the house hove into view on the bend in the elm avenue.  Hélias’ jaw dropped and he almost climbed out of the car. “I cannot live there!”

“Of course you can Hélias, you’ll love it.  Just don’t get lost,” said Stephen.

Hélias was introduced to Chilvers and this time he did not go to shake the butler’s hand.  He was put in the Chinese room— usually only reserved for the most distinguished guests.

“The Prince of Wales slept here in 1914, Hélias,” said Martin.

“Mon Dieu!” replied Hélias, not daring to walk right in.

Hélias was driven down into the village. “Est-ce le vôtre?”

“Ah huh,” said Martin smiling at him and trying not to grin.

He was introduced to Titus Knight, and Stephen explained that this was his home and that Titus was his stepfather.  This caused Hélias to kiss the old man on each cheek.  He then hugged him for good measure.  The four of them then repaired to The Feathers.  Hélias liked it better than the pub in London.  He attracted some attention and the barmaid flirted with him, for which Stephen was tremendously grateful.

Despite being full of beer, they stopped in at Miss Tadrew’s.  Her hand was kissed and Hélias sat carefully in her tiny parlour where he managed a teacup and plate with great skill. “You could be an Englishman, Hélias,” joked Stephen looking at him as he stirred his tea and ate a scone.

The burning question, which was put to Chilvers, was: should Hélias be admitted to membership of the Branksome Big Boys’ Club?

“Oh why do you ask me such things your lordship?” asked Chilvers with irritation.  “I can’t believe that you have got me sunbathing on the roof.  If he’s your friend he probably already enjoys taking his clothes off.  I suppose he must become one of us.”

Thus Hélias emerged onto the roof with Carlo and Stephen (Martin had gone up to London to see his uncle) and he had suffered so many surprises over the last few months that seeing Mr Chilvers come through the low door and take off his dressing gown and lie down naked alongside them didn’t seem to even register.  Stephen explained the rules and Hélias agreed to be a good boy.  Unfortunately on his inaugural visit Hélias was driven inside with the others by a sudden shower—although Stephen said he would like to lie in the rain and get his balls wet, but Carlo told him not to be so silly and dragged him in.

On his return, Martin made one of his frequent inspections of his new garden that was slowly taking shape according to the plan that Miss Jeykell had approved and for which she sent a planting scheme and an invoice.  It was very comprehensive and detailed.  There were to be mirror-image beds with catmint spilling out over the paths and tall hollyhocks and gladiolus against the walls.  Jackman clematis and white Chinese wisteria were to clothe the pergola walk to the tennis court and Miss Jeykell had called for old-fashioned pinks, lavender and delphiniums to emerge through grey santolina.  There were to be some old China roses and rosemary for remembrance.  Along the narrow waterway, which was not more than a foot wide between its brick borders, there were to be irises and also sagittaria and butomus- two plants that Martin had never heard of.  These would have to be looked up.

At the moment, however, it was still being paved and the pillars of the pergola had yet to receive their crosspieces.  Martin cast his mind back to Tetbury Park.  Sylvia was probably right about the manure, compost and blood-and-bone.  He was going to get the soil perfect before he planted anything so he went to speak to the head gardener, Oldham, about what he needed to do.

Hélias was also quite interested in the construction and, although on a stick, he helped the bricklayers and stonemasons with some of the cutting.  Martin was pleased for his sake.

The weeks passed.  The pavilion and the tennis court were completed.  They had lunch there on fine days and played some tennis while Hélias looked on.  There were visits to London and The Plunger came down twice.  Stephen wrote to Donald Selby-Keam and he came one weekend.

“I’m sorry we haven’t seen you, Donald,” said Stephen. “Before I forget, will you come with us to Antibes in August?  The Plunger will be there.”

“Has he found a boyfriend yet?” asked Donald.

“I don’t believe so,” said Stephen giving him a wink.

It was inevitable that they all ended up in Martin and Stephen’s bedroom one night.  Martin turned the key in the door.  They fell to talking about their happy holidays in Antibes in those far off days before the War.  Donald again promised to come.  For a minute they silently thought of Christopher.

Donald then told them all about coxing for the Cambridge rowing team.  Some of his duties were very pleasant indeed, although it is doubtful if these alone were responsible for the three victories in a row over rivals Oxford since the War.

“I will be going down at the end of term and I’ve been promised a position in the Foreign Office— it’s just as a junior clerk, but it will be fun to be living in London.”

These things were translated for Hélias who seemed exited for Donald too.  Then Donald fell to recalling how he used to masturbate Stephen under the desk in the middle of lessons at school.  He demonstrated and Stephen acted with great exaggeration how he responded while trying to answer questions from their lady teacher.  There was laughter and Hélias wished with all his heart that he had gone to an English public school.

Stephen then felt it was time they were all naked and in bed.  The bed was a large one and Donald did not take up a great deal of room, but with four young men in it there was little need for warming pans— with or without smuggled infants.

When Donald was stripped he was found to be wearing cotton drawers.  Stephen frowned but proceeded.  Then when his privates were revealed it was quite obvious that he had been shaved smooth—the fate that Hélias had so feared. The three stared.

“The boys like me to be like this,” explained Donald.  “If I don’t do it, two of them will hold me down and a third will do it.  I quite like it actually.”  There had not been much hair on Donald’s chest to remove in the first place and the hair on his legs and arms remained, but everywhere else was glabrous.  Stephen parted his cheeks.  Here was smooth too.  “I let them do me there; it’s too hard to do it alone.”

Stephen spent some time on his knees, running his hand over Douglas in some wonderment. Donald was getting hard.  He was passed around to the others.  Hélias ran his top lip over the shaved regions and pronounced them “Très sympa.”

“Show us how you can swallow cocks, Donald,” said Martin getting excited.

So he did, taking each in turn for a very pleasant sucking.  Stephen and Martin urged Hélias to pay attention—as if he needed urging.  Donald slicked up Stephen’s organ for some time and then climbed onto Stephen’s chest and, with his head facing Stephen’s feet and his mouth positioned convenient to Stephen’s urgent erection, he took the organ into his wide-open mouth and sucked up and down.

“Wait for this, Hélias!” said Martin giving him a nudge.

Donald then opened up his throat and took Stephen down, down into his gullet.  He breathed through his nose and didn’t gag.  The boys could see Stephen’s cock distending Donald’s throat in its passage.  Soon he had his nose completely in Stephen’s pubic bush and the entirety of Stephen’s manhood was inside Donald.  He held it there for half a minute and then slowly drew himself off.  It was the sword swallower’s trick from the circus.  There was applause all around.

Stephen then decided to reward Donald by sucking his cock— thinking that Donald possibly didn’t get enough in return.  He lay on his back and wrapped his big arms around Donald’s slim buttocks and pulled him into his mouth.  Donald was enjoying it and tugged at one of Stephen’s hands and encouraged him to feel his hairless hole.

“Spill in my mouth, Don.  Spill for me!” said Stephen when he paused from sucking for a moment.  Donald did and Stephen drank it all down, smacking his lips when Donald pulled off.

“I think Hélias would like to fuck you Donald,” said Martin.  “But be careful of his leg.”  Indeed this was so and Hélias slid into Donald, who was clearly used to being fucked, while Stephen fucked Martin in parallel.  Hélias enjoyed being next to Stephen and being the object of masculine attention.  Both their partners were quite satisfied by the time the lamp was turned out, but at two o’clock Stephen cruelly insisted that Donald and Hélias must return to their own rooms as he wanted some time alone with Martin.

Following this weekend, the three were up in London for Hélias’ appointment with Sir Thomas and to see a matinee— a farce at the Lyric Theatre, ‘Whirled into Happiness’, whose silly plot revolved around a hairdresser being mistaken for a Marquess at a music hall. It was very funny and Hélias ‘got’ most of it. 

“Je n’ai pas de cigarettes,” said Hélias innocently when he opened his case.

“I know where we can get some,” said Martin who was in an excited mood.

They went back to Branksome house and were puzzled when Martin took his Rolls Royce from the mews.  They piled in and headed off into the London traffic.  They crossed the Thames and were somewhere near St Georges Circus at the back of Waterloo Station when Stephen said: “Why are we coming here for cigarettes, Mala? I don’t understand.”

“You will, Derby,” said Martin as he kept turning left then right until he apparently found what he was looking for—an ordinary tobacconist’s shop.  He parked the car out of sight and they walked back a little way to the shop.  Some pedestrians passed, there was a brewery dray pulled up opposite and a motor bicycle and sidecar sat at the kerb.

“Don’t you remember? Armistice night?”

Stephen did! Those sailors!

The bell sounded as they entered. The foxy-looking man came out and Hélias practiced his English and obtained his French cigarettes.  The foxy man looked at them.  “Is there anything else, gents?”

“Is Norman here?”

“Norman? Why he’s out the back.”

“Could we see him if he is in business.”

“Do I know you sir?”

Perhaps you remember Armistice night?

“Why sir, how could I ever forget.  Forgive me.  The rum.  My old ship mates.  We was just setting up in trade, Norman and me.  Yes, come through.  Norman will be on his knees and pleased to see you.”

Norman was pleased and patted Stephen through his trousers. “Biggest I’ve ever had,” he said with some standing. “Two bob each.  Tell me how you like it if you have any preferences.

“Our friend here is from France.”

“That makes no never mind with me, sir.  All gents is gents with their trousers down, if you take me meaning.”

The cheerful Norman was down on his knees and had Hélias sucked to hardness in a moment.  He bobbed and slobbered and ran his hands over Hélias’ torso and buttocks.  Then he used both his mouth and hands to really get him worked up and, with nice professional judgement, pulled back so that just the head was in his lips when Hélias spilled.  He presented the seed on his tongue for Hélias’ inspection and, without rising from his knees moved on to Martin.

After Martin had spilled Norman excused himself and drank a glass of water. “We’ve done all right, the Bos'n and me.  See that motorbike out front?  That’s mine.  Paid cash for it, I did and I took Bos’n down to Eastbourne last Sunday.”

Refreshed he started on Stephen.  Norman began, as Martin instructed, by chewing and teasing his foreskin until he was hard.  Then he let Norman make the running, but reminded him he liked his balls stretched towards spilling.  Norman did a good job and was happy to be battered with Stephen’s seed.

“That was a terrible lot, sir!” said the Bos’n who had come to watch. “But ain’t that just a beautiful sight: my boy smiling with his face all plastered with a big gent’s seed.  That will be six bob, sir.”

Here’s ten shillings, said Martin.  He’s earned it.

“Yes I suppose we should charge extra for something that size, he said inclining his head in the direction of Stephen who was buttoning his fly, but Norman enjoys them big or small; on land or sea.  We’re taking a little holiday in Dieppe this year—a friend will take over the shop— but not the sucking—and we hope Norman will get some more French cock.” And turning to Hélias, he said rather loudly, as if in the mistaken belief that Hélias was not French but deaf: “Thank you sir for your custom.” 

As Hélias’ leg mended, the letters from his wife became more urgent.  Hélias too became a little homesick, especially after a few weeks of wet weather which kept them cooped up inside; he missed the southern sun and so following a final visit to Sir Thomas and the surgeon, Hélias said goodbye and departed with Stephen and Martin for his home.  Stephen and Martin also had their secret instructions from Uncle Alfred: They were to make their return via Portugal to see the ledger in Cintra for themselves.

Hélias was a new man or possibly a renewed man; in his luggage he had two new suits as well as the cuff links and many little presents to bring back to his wife and family.  Jean had taken him to Liberty and he picked out a very pretty shawl and a blouse that he said would go well with his wife’s sealskin coat that was the talk of Vallauris.  He now sat in their compartment holding his umbrella in his gloved hands.  Periodically he offered cigarettes from the silver case, although he knew neither boy smoked.  Most importantly, he now had but an imperceptible limp and the scars on his leg from the operation would soon fade.  A second operation was not necessary and his original condition reflected poorly on French army doctors, Sir Thomas said quite bluntly.

Hélias returned in triumph to his family and friends.  There was to be a church service of thanksgiving where Hélias would walk (without even the umbrella) into the church with his wife on his arm, both of theme dressed à la mode Anglaise.

Martin and Stephen had a few days’ rest.  They paid their calls on Mrs Chadwick and the Mission to Seamen (but did not stay) and dined, of course, in the Bistro de Blazon.  They looked at L’espoir but it was too rough to take her out.  Stephen watched Martin in the shower as he sat reading a war novel, Tell England.  “Between your pretty cheeks, Mala!” he called through the open door.

They departed, promising to return soon, and took the train for Bordeaux.  They were a little tense and tried to talk of other things.  Martin told Stephen to offer the job of his secretary at Croome to Myles.  He did not put any other stipulations on it.  He would love Stephen no matter what eventuated.  He discussed his garden and Stephen spoke of one day turning the attic in Antibes into a large bedroom for future guests.  They talked of Hélias and of The Plunger and of Uncle Alfred.  Meals came and went, they changed to a Spanish train at the frontier and with halts at Valladolid and Salamanca, crossed into Portugal with the mountains always on their left.  They crossed these mountains eventually and descended into the valley of the Tagus and arrived in Lisbon.

It was a busy and beautiful old city.  There were wonderful old churches and palaces everywhere but they were constantly told of the damage done by the great earthquake in 1755, which had destroyed much of what had been even more wonderful from Roman and Moorish times.  The city was bustling with trams and ferries and the citizens were handsome and well dressed.  Martin kept looking at the boys; they were all beautiful, with dark wavy hair like Stephen’s and while they were olive skinned, they were fair rather than dark like Carlo was. Two or three times strangers spoke to Stephen in Portuguese, despite his blue eyes, and Martin giggled.  The women were handsome too and Martin looked forward to seeing for himself the two portraits of Desideria-Luiza that his uncle had merely photographed.

They left the Avineda Palace Hotel for the twenty-mile trip up to Cintra.  The taxi went beyond the old town and through the suburbs of Greater Lisboa that stretched out along the Tagus.  They climbed into the hills that overlooked the Atlantic.  Martin and Stephen both had tight knots in their stomach.

Cintra, when they reached it, was a most beautiful hill station.  There were charming old buildings, with terracotta tiles and white stucco.  There were glimpses of fantastic mansions of the more recently wealthy—reminding them off what they had seen in Philadelphia and Chicago— their mad Moorish domes and gothic spires could be seen protruding intriguingly above sub-tropical gardens like those behind Cannes. Even without these modern intrusions, one could easily see why Byron and the Pooles had fallen in love with the beautiful town.

With some difficulty they found the British Consulate.  The maid fetched the secretary who curtly informed them that Sir Gregory had retired back to England two months ago and a new consul had yet to be appointed, with the implication that all consular matters would have to wait.  This was a blow.

Martin then explained who he was.  The secretary gave a little bow and addressed him as ‘your lordship’ and suddenly became more helpful.  Stephen realised that this must have happened all through Martin’s life; people treated him differently and smoothed away obstacles because he was from the aristocracy.  He wondered for a moment what that must be like and even if it were a healthy thing for people like Martin.

“I have the record number here and the volume number.  They were given to me, so it shouldn’t be too hard to find, Mr Young,” said Martin.

“I’m quite sure it won’t be any trouble, your lordship.  Won’t you come into the consul’s office and I will look for the book.  Tea?  No?”

Martin and Stephen were seated where Uncle Alfred must have sat those few months before. Mr Young had the maid fetch a stool and he climbed up to reach one of several large leather-bound ledgers that had to be laid flat on the shelves.  He heaved it out and passed it down to Stephen.  It was put in front of Martin who consulted the piece of paper his uncle had given him.  Stephen distracted the secretary by asking about the Montserrat Villa they had seen down the road and Mr Young began an account of its builder, Sir Francis Cook Bt, while Martin opened the book.  Stephen watched him out of the corner of his eye.

Suddenly there was a cry from the desk. Stephen and Mr Young both turned in alarm.

“It’s gone Derby. The page has been torn out!”

To be continued… 

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