Page 27 of Infernal Vices

CHAPTER 13

THE RED BOOK

Friday 18th February 1898

I paced nervously in the vestibule of my home, awaiting Charles Ashe’s carriage to arrive, the mysterious red leather book secure in my inner breast pocket. Mr. Troy stood sentry and I could feel his gaze as he watched me fidgeting. I did not owe my valet an explanation however, to fill the silence I admitted, “I find I’m rather nervous. It is quite an achievement to be invited to such an esteemed soirée as the Temple of the Muses. Mr. Henry Ashe purportedly has an exceptional library of rare books and I have wanted to inspect it for many years,” I rambled.

“Indeed sir,” Troy said dryly.

I strode to my study, checked the time on my mantle clock and then my pocket watch. They matched to the second. It was five minutes to six. I heard footsteps in the hall, and then a discrete,

“Hmmm. Sir, the carriage has arrived.”

“Ah, yes. It’s early. Very good, very good.”

I turned and stepped out into the hallway where Troy awaited holding my greatcoat open. I eased my arms into the sleeves and hoisted the heavy, warm coat onto my shoulders. Troy was in front of me then, fastening the buttons and ensuring the coat sat correctly and was free of dust or lint. I observed my reflection in the hall mirror for a moment. Dark curls fell to my shoulders and ordinarily, I would arrange for a trim, but Sebastian so loved my long curls that I had resisted thoughts of asking Troy for a haircut!

Mr. Troy handed me my top hat which I placed securely on my head. Content with my reflection, I nodded to Troy who then passed my white kid leather gloves, which I eased my hands into, and then he presented my favourite cane, ebony with an engraved Fritz handle which felt comfortable in my grip. He opened the door and the breeze whipped at my hair. I nodded my thanks to Troy then I hurried down the steps and ducked inside the Clarence carriage. I sat back on the black leather banquette opposite Charles. The door was closed and then the carriage rocked a little as the coachman re-seated himself and with a cry of ‘walk on now’, moved the horse off to travel around Bedford Square. Our destination was the Ashe residence just five minutes away on Russell Square.

We passed a streetlamp that sent illumination into the carriage. Charles seemed to light up when his gaze met mine. I supposed I should be flattered that he’d taken such a shine to me. I found I enjoyed his company very much, in a platonic way, of course.

“Good evening, Benedict,” my companion beamed.

“Good evening, Charles.” Over the past weeks I’d discovered Charles and I shared an interest in beautiful things—in art, history, architecture, and of course, men! But niggling in the back of my mind was the fact I was supposed to present the cabal’s intention to approach his sister Cecily. The reminder pricked at me and made me distinctly uncomfortable. Any man, no matter their means, would feel as outraged as I at the thought of involving an innocent in such a wicked game.

The carriage turned onto Russell Square and I noted that the construction of the new five-star Hotel Russell was well underway. The building work meant that access to Russell Square was restricted and slow. A number of growlers and carriages queued up, their occupants alighting when they reached number 52, the home of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Ashe. Like Bedford Square, this was a very well-to-do area. The Ashe residence was an elegant five storey stucco-fronted Georgian corner property, the frontage facing Russell Square with Southampton Row to the right. It was double the size of my home.

We watched starchy gentleman after gentleman step down from their carriages and make their way up the steps and into the house.

“Egads, will you just look at them! Father’s friends are such a stuffy lot of anally retentive windbags!” Charles harrumphed.

“Should I remind you that these are my peers and competitors, Charles? It is good for my business to remain cordial with them.”

“Rather you than me, old chap! Every bally time father has his friends over I have to perform as the attentive son and smile like a music hall ventriloquist’s dummy,” Charles imitated the creepy smiling face of a puppet for effect. “I’m grateful you’ve accompanied me tonight, for at least we will each have one friend who won’t bore us to sleep.”

I laughed then, surprising myself.

“They really are quite insufferable,” Charles continued. “Mother and Cecily always seem to be in the country when The Temple of the Muses is on and so father insists I attend. You’ll see how the sycophants buzz around me, desperately seeking my favour.”

“To be invited at all is a great honour. What more could a man want?”

“Hmmm. You might just find that out tonight! My father has much influence and access to sights most men are never privileged to see.”

“That’s rather cryptic.”

Charles laughed. “You, my friend, are in most privileged company! You’ll understand what I mean by the end of the night,” Charles grinned and I returned the smile. What did Ashe senior have in store for me?

Our carriage slowly moved forward as Charles and I continued an idle conversation about the weather. When the carriage came to a halt outside the house I stepped out with Charles behind me, but he took the lead, mounting the steps two at a time and pushing past men waiting to leave their coats and hats with the servants. Charles cut the line and stood in front of the elderly butler whose final strands of grey hair were glued to his liver-spotted pate. By the time I reached Charles’ side the butler was instructing an under-butler and footman who were collecting the hats and coats from the attendees.

“Feathers, please let my father know I’m back. This is my companion, Mr. Hannan,” he introduced as he hurriedly shrugged out of his greatcoat and passed it to the butler. “I will be in my rooms; we have some business to attend to before dinner.”

“Very good sir,” the butler took Charles’s coat and hat while a harried looking under-butler helped me out of my greatcoat and I placed my scarf and gloves into my top hat before offering them to him too. I kept a hold of my cane. It was then that I noticed something I had not previously realized: Temple of the Muses was a strictly male affair. There was not one wife, or learned women in tow. I turned back and saw one of my competitors, a foppish man by the name of Mr. George Smedley, whose auction house Butterworth’s, was in Greenwich. He was in conversation with another man and had not seemed to notice me. I wondered how the devil he’d managed to acquire such a sought after invitation. But before I could even catch his eye and nod a greeting Charles placed his hand on my elbow to direct me toward the stairs. I was not pleased that he had touched me and eased my elbow out of his grip, but I followed him, observing as we continued along the hallway, that the gentlemen were filing into the drawing room for pre-dinner drinks and conversation.

“Don’t fret, old bean. You’re not missing anything,” Charles asserted when we reached the first floor landing of the large townhouse. “Dinner will be served at seven thirty, so we have an hour to attend to important matters.”

We climbed the next two flights of stairs until we were on the fourth floor. In my much smaller home the rooms on the fourth floor were for Mrs. Twigg and the maids, but in the Ashe household this whole upper floor was Charles’ domain. He opened the first doorway opposite the stairs and stepped aside to permit me to enter. A bank of skylight windows made the space feel huge, the night sky was clear, the full moon sending shafts of silvery illumination into the room. Charles closed the door and switched on electric lights that buzzed as the filament warmed up.

The large main room of his quarters was bohemian in its decoration, with mirrors, turquoise flock wallpaper, silk and velvet drapes in rich reds, green and purple hues, along with wonderful Persian rugs on the floor. Opposite a roaring coal fire there was a wide grey velvet couch that appeared continental in style. Henry Ashe’s business was that of importing luxurious fabrics from the Empire, so I gathered that the exotic décor in Charles’ room was inspired by the spoils of his father’s travels. Art was displayed on the walls from framed oil paintings with an erotic subject matter, to sketches in charcoal, graphite, ink, and watercolour. I stepped further into the room and gravitated toward Charles’ grand mahogany desk in an area designated as a studio space. An oak plan chest sat to the right of the desk and the top drawer was open. Yet more sketches spewed from the drawer as if the chest was vomiting artwork. At a glance I could see many of the drawings on his work desk were the kind I would see in the Illustrated Police News, swiftly penned renderings of coppers, their truncheons raised as they chased a thief, while other sketches were finer in their rendering: male nudes, couples, and traditional group compositions that matched work I had seen from life drawing classes at the Royal Academy.