The Demons of Wychwood E-Book

Isobel Starling

• Herausgeber: Decent Fellows Press
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

London 1860 Felix Lazarus - I suppose you could say I was a voyeur and what I was doing was wrong, criminal even. But I’d suggest that no hot-blooded man could resist a look after finding peepholes behind the walls of Wychwood. Through the peepholes I saw my most secret desires playing out before my eyes. One of the gents I watched was deliciously handsome with brooding stormy eyes and darling black curls. So taken was I that he haunted my dreams. I knew the comely young man only by a number, 27 as none of the queer fellows who attended Wychwood gave their names. 27 didn’t know I existed. But when I saw how he got into trouble with a violent partner, I didn’t think twice about rushing to his aid. It was in my nature to help him...even if it cost me my job... and my heart. Trigger warning: Suicide attempt, dub-con

Leseprobe

Inhaltsverzeichnis

CHAPTER 1

FELIX LAZARUS

CHAPTER 2

A LITTLE NOSEY …

CHAPTER 3

THE PASSAGE

CHAPTER 4

THE BRUTE

CHAPTER 5

DESPERATE MEASURES

CHAPTER 6

THE SPECIAL DELIVERY

CHAPTER 7

THE UNEXPECTED GUEST

CHAPTER 8

KIT HAVELOCK

CHAPTER 9

CHORES

CHAPTER 10

THE DEMON WITHIN

CHAPTER 11

PARTNERS IN CRIME

CHAPTER 12

KNOCK KNOCK!

WICKED ABANDON

CHAPTER 14

RELEASE

CHAPTER 15

THE GREAT ESCAPE

CHAPTER 16

ELOWEN

CHAPTER 17

SLOW AND STEADY

CHAPTER 18

THE NEXT DAY

CHAPTER 19

ARRANGEMENTS

CHAPTER 20

PENHELLIGAN HALL

CHAPTER 21

BED FELLOWS

CHAPTER 20

THE MAGISTRATE

CHAPTER 23

THE RECKONING

EPILOGUE

TWO YEARS LATER

The

Demons of Wychwood

WYCHWOOD BOOK 1

Isobel Starling

www.decentfellowspress.com

Copyright © 2024 Isobel Starling

ISBN: 9798339484134

ASIN: B0DG9CRGG5

First Edition:

All rights reserved worldwide. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the author, except for the purposes of reviews. The reviewer may quote brief passages for the review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

The characters and events described in this book are fictional. Any resemblance between characters and any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

The use of real-life locations is for fictional purposes. The plot, actions, and characters in this work are fictional and in no way reflect real-life occurrences at these establishments.

This book is a work of art created by human imagination. No AI was use for the writing or artwork in this book. Theft of the contents of this book or cover artwork for machine learning (AI) is strictly prohibited.

The Demons of Wychwood,

Copyright © 2024 Isobel Starling

Cover Art Illustration by Emity

Email: [email protected]

Authors Note

The Wychwood series consists of three historical stand-alone novels.

THe Demons of Wychwood

The Songbird of wychwood

the keeper of wychwood

Each novel is an M/M Romance set in 1860. The series is connected by characters and locations, and all of the stories happen in the same time frame.

All of the novels end on a HEA.

Happy reading

Isobel Starling

CHAPTER 1

FELIX LAZARUS

It was a miserable foggy February day, and a chilly breeze stinking of piss blew along the Regents Canal from the tanneries. I stepped off the blue Waterloo line omnibus on Prince Albert Road and then dawdled until I heard the horses move off. I unbuttoned my coat and threading my fingers into my waistcoat pocket; I drew out my worn brass watch, and with a flick of a fingernail opened the dented cover. The watch face told that it was five minutes to the midday bells. Grey fog tinged with orange billowed around me and with no sign of blue sky you wouldn’t have believed this was daytime at all. This particular type of fog near the tanneries was the worst. The taste and smell of animal piss mingled with chimney smoke made for a lethal miasma. When this kind of fog descended on the city the familiar grand landmarks of London were lost to the eye and even the iron railings lining the garden squares that we used as guides became greasy and clammy to the touch. Luckily, I could rely on the omnibus to get me close to where I needed to be. I hated being out on such a day, but the lure of easy lucre was my master! I began to walk, seeing figures pass me like shadowy ghosts in the haze of fog. You wouldn’t think it, but this here was a well-to-do area of London. The nobs can buy all the posh houses they want, but they can’t buy fresh air in this filthy city!

I was on the outskirts of Primrose Hill, a huge area of open parkland close to the city, and not a stone’s throw from London Zoo. This was once all heath land, with just a few big mansion houses. The gentry liked to pretend they was in the country and just be a quick carriage ride away from their gaming hells, mistresses, and gentleman’s clubs in town. So Primrose Hill was now on the up-and-up.

I walked uphill past a wooded coppice, and then came upon a tall, grand, cut stone wall that surrounded a mansion. The wall was the boundary wall for my destination, but the likes of me could never enter through the front door! I followed the wall and turned down a side road that was nothing more than a wide dirt track lined by overgrown bushes. Carriages calling at the house would take this track after offloading their masters, and the drivers would see to their horses care in the stables behind the house. I took a right turn to the rear of the property. The eerie haloed glow of gas lamps blazed at my destination. I stopped and glanced through the foggy haze to the left and right, up and down the track. The distant rattle of a carriage and the metallic beat of horseshoes on cobbles sounded muted in the rolling fog. Nothing moved, not a bird sang, and although I heard my heart hammering in my chest, there were no approaching footsteps. Assured that I wasn’t followed by the law or a scallywag making use of the fog for cover, I made my way to the gas lamp, stepped up to the grey Portland stone wall, counted ten bricks up from the ground, and then to the fifth brick in the row. With my fingerless-gloved hand, I pushed on the left side of the brick and it swung out to the right. Inside the brick was a hollowed recess in which a bright metal key sat, accompanied by a small square ivory envelope addressed to yours truly, Mr. Felix Lazarus. I smiled privately as I palmed the key and the envelope cos I knew what the envelope contained—another step towards my freedom. I pushed the brick back into place and then stepped a couple of paces to my left where I unlatched the tall wrought iron back gates. Leaving the double gate wide open, I strode through the wintering gardens of a luxurious mansion house called Wychwood. The Regency-style house had once stood alone in this plot, surrounded by woodland and the heath, but the clamorous-clawed-reach of London was on its way and this grand house would soon be over taken by the detritus of the filthy city.

Using the key, I let myself into the house through the kitchen door. I stepped into the back porch and was pleased that the maid remembered to set the fire as I was welcomed by a wave of comforting warmth. Closing the door, I wiped my feet on the door mat, swiftly shrugged out of my topcoat, took off my flat cap, gloves, and scarf, and hung them on the line of hooks on the porch wall. I removed the handkerchief square that Elowen had sewn for me and gave a customary blow of my nose to dislodge the remnants of the filthy orange fog, then snuck the hanky back into my trouser pocket. I plucked the envelope from my coat pocket, and strode deeper into the large kitchen. The mansion house kitchen smelled faintly of vinegar and lime, but it was nice and clean. The kitchen walls were whitewashed, and the floor was grey flagstone. I sat heavily on a chair at the scrubbed oak table and let my weary bones rest for a moment. Then I opened the envelope. Inside there was a letter and two crisp white five-pound notes, one of which now belonged to me, thank you very much. This single payment was the equivalent of more than two month’s wages from my regular employment as a sorting clerk at the General Post Office at St Paul’s. The letter contained the purple-inked scratchy penmanship I’d become familiar with these past twelve months. I smiled as I read the instructions for this evening’s party. With this coded information I could imagine what debauchery was about to happen here! I folded the letter and placed it and the filthy lucre into my trouser pocket. I stood and strode to the door of the curved stairway that led to the ground floor of Wychwood. Lots of big houses had curved stairs leading from the kitchen. They were designed that way to give servants a moment to pause and listen in case their master was about the house. Some masters were very strict, see, and while they wanted to be waited on, they didn’t want to see those serving them.

My old Ma taught me a lot about serving in a big house. She said that the less a servant was seen, the better, and that information worked well for me. Gods! I missed Ma something awful. She used to say I was built like a willow tree. That was until I had a growth spurt and put on a bit of muscle. I’d say I’ve got quite the masculine physique now, I’m six feet tall, my hair is wheat blond and if I’m honest, in need of a trim. And although I ain’t as well turned out as a dandy, I’d say I’m a good-looking fella—I get plenty of looks and winks if you know what I mean!

I moved up the curved stairway, my tread catlike and soundless. It was something I’d been trained to do since I was a nipper, move quietly, and not attract attention. My old man had made a game of it.

“Walk as if you’s stepping on the back of a giant angry dog,” Ferron Lazarus would say in his Devonian burr, when teaching me to always be alert and tread lightly when on the rob. He knew how scared I was of mutts, and so I’d stepped warily so as not to wake the bleedin’ imaginary dog. I’d always thought it was just games, but little did I know back then that my Pa was training me up to be a sneak thief!

“Small hands, light feet, butter wouldn’t melt looks. Who’d think an angel child-like Little Felix Lazarus could have picked a Lordling’s pocket?” Pa had jested proudly after I’d relieved a nobleman of his weighty coin purse at seven-years-old. I remember that feeling to this very day, of how good it felt to make my Pa proud. He taught me well, and I robbed for him cos I wanted to get that feeling back, I wanted to please him. But as I got older and wiser, I realized that what Ferron Lazarus taught me as games, were in fact crimes that could see me in gaol. He’d say we were thievin’ to feed the family, but then he’d drink and gamble the money away. Pa was a wastrel and no mistake. He made me so angry and disappointed me at every turn. I didn’t want to rob for him no more. I ran away so many times to escape his clutches, but he always found me and gave me a beating. By the time I was sixteen I was relieved my Pa was in Dartmoor gaol and Ma worked in the kitchens at a big house, with my sister Elowen slaving as a scullery maid. I didn’t want to end up like my Pa, so I ran away to London, and joined the army of the East India Company. I sailed away from my troubles on what I hoped was to be a grand adventure.

When I returned to England from the hell of battle, I was a different man. I sought out my family to discover my Ma had died from Tuberculosis and Elowen was with child and abandoned. So, I did what any decent brother would do. I stepped up and became the savior of my sister’s virtue.

Pulled from reminiscence I was standing in the middle of the grand foyer of Wychwood. With my hands on my hips I listened intently for movement. The only sounds were the ticking of an array of ornate clocks that were displayed all around the rooms of this luxurious uninhabited house.

“Hello?” I called out in enquiry. “If there’s anyone there, show yourself. You won’t be punished.” Silence ensued, with not a footstep, a scurrying mouse, or a creaking board from the floors above. I was pleased. The maids never met me or our paymaster. Each employee was given a set time to complete their tasks and paid handsomely to do so and leave without question. I didn’t know the identity of my employer, or of the servants who swept, polished, and remade Wychwood after the debauchery of the previous soiree.

The maid servants had completed their tasks and scarpered as per their orders, and now it was my turn to follow my instructions. I pivoted and moved off, the tip-tap of my boots on the polished checkerboard tiles of the foyer echoing. Regimentally, as I had done every month since I secured my secret employment here, I checked that the music room, billiard room, library, drawing-room, the gentlemen’s parlor, and the dining room had been swept and dusted. Then I lit the fires that had been readied by the now absent maids. The fires would need to burn for several hours to take the frigid chill from the rooms so I’d be back and forth all afternoon topping them up with coal.

I prided myself on being fastidious, with my exemplary standards honed in the army. Recognition of my light-fingered skills, my attention to detail, and of my preference had somehow reached the notice of my unknown moneyed employer who believed I was the perfect fellow to organize these gentlemen-only parties.

If I’m honest, I hadn’t even known there was such a thing as a preference until I was a trapped on a ship with hundreds of sweaty soldiers, traveling to fight a rebellion in India. You see, war changes a man, as does the understanding that he could be dead with the thrust of a cutlass, or a flash of powder. I realized that we men should take our pleasures where we can, and oh boy, we certainly did aboard that ship! The story books might have tales of heroic soldiers and sailors, but the reality is that things happen during the rolling too-and-fro of a long sea voyage that no sane man admits to when he’s back in Old Blighty—like a brotherly tug in a dark corner to pass the time, or a drunken night-time suck with a cove to scratch a lustful itch and find sleep. I learned well on those sea voyages what my appetite was for, and that, when back in England, my particular preference would see me hang if I was caught at it. So, I decided I would not get caught!

Returning to the grand tiled foyer, I checked my pocket watch which read twelve-twenty-nine p.m, and as if by magic, there was a loud rapping on the kitchen door. I grinned, getting quite a rush of excitement when things went exactly to my employers' design. I strode down to the kitchen and opened the back door. Outside an elderly man stood, a grey shaggy beard that held a few strands of ginger warmed his jowls and his long silver hair was tied into a tail. He was wearing a black flat cap on his head and a weathered brown leather apron over his layers of shirt, wool waistcoat, jacket, and topcoat. He rubbed his fingerless gloved hands,

“Afternoon Felix,” he said with a nod.

“Afternoon Jim,” I replied. That greeting was the only words we ever shared. I knew nothing about Jim and he knew nothing about me. All was as our employer designed it. We was told that that if we don’t know we can’t tell. With the wage on offer and nature of the parties, everyone involved in this little enterprise knew which side their bread was buttered and kept schtum.

Behind Jim there was a pushing cart laden with baskets and boxes. We nodded to each other in mutual understanding and then unloaded the cart in silence, placing the items on the kitchen table. When the task was completed, I fished the second five-pound note out of my pocket and handed it to Jim. As always, he unfolded it, held the edges of the large white bank note, and moved it to the gaslight to check that the print and signatures were correct. Satisfied that I hadn’t palmed him a dud, Jim folded the note, tucked it into his inner breast pocket, doffed his cap, and left with his empty cart, closing and latching the garden gate behind him.

With the delivery over and the kitchen door locked, now was the time for me to begin my work. The baskets contained freshly baked bread, cheeses, and exotic fruits from warmer climes, the likes of which we never usually saw in England, and most certainly not during the winter. The boxes contained hothouse flowers, French pastries, confectionary, and other epicurean delights straight off the boat from the continent. Over the next few hours, I readied for the evening.

I worked in the kitchen where I created floral arrangements just as my mother had taught me to do. You could say I was brought up in the family business cos while my Pa taught me sneak-thief skills, my Ma taught me the skills needed to thrive below stairs, so I could work my way into rich households and case them for my old man. My sneak-thief days were long over, but I’d excelled when it came to preparing a feast!

I lay out silver platters where I displayed treats and fancies, sliced fruits, bread, cheese, pastries, and cold cut meats. Pleased with my displays, I carried each platter and vase upstairs to the grand dining room and laid them out on the long mahogany table. Next, I collected bottles of wine and spirits from the well-stocked cellar, and refilled the drinks cabinet, putting aside a bottle of Cognac for myself, of course.

When the foods, flowers, and beverages were set out I took the stairs to the upper floor to tend to the bedrooms. I carried out this task as I had done every other task, regimentally, in silence, and even though some of the instructions were a little peculiar, I dealt with them without second-guessing my employer or his guest’s wishes.

There were fifteen bedrooms at Wychwood and each luxurious grand bed had been stripped and remade with fresh linens before I even set foot in the house. Club Fifty-five was a secretive, anonymous affair for gentlemen with particular, illegal tastes, and so there were strict rules of membership. No names were ever shared, and instead of names, each member was given a numbered gold token to identify them as one of the fifty-five. I was a curious sort and convinced that some of the members must be known to one another outside of this house—such were the circles these men socialized in. The molly houses of London were well-known to men such as these. But those establishments were far too popular and the peelers regularly raided them. My employer offered an exclusive safe place where members could enjoy their pleasures and the mutual protection of men with the same proclivities.

I enjoyed the cloak and dagger nature of this arrangement, but sadly, I wasn’t permitted to take an active part. I believe that assignations occurred everywhere in the mansion, but trysts requiring a bedroom and accoutrements were arranged beforehand. I wasn’t quite sure how the communication flowed between the club members and my employer. Sometimes there was one party a month, other times—particularly during the London Season, they occurred more often. I was notified about the date of the next soiree by letter, straight into my pigeonhole at work. I brightened each time I saw the flourishing, purple-inked penmanship on that ivory linen envelope–for I knew, just like winning on the gee-gee’s, I was in for a payday!

To ensure secrecy and mutual protection, members didn’t invite anyone to events outside of the fifty-five. If a member did try to sneak a friend or lover in, the employer would find out and the member was removed from the list. Removal or death were the only ways that a new member would be invited to a party, and, don’t ask me how I know, but as some of these gents were in their older years, I’d say that the latter was a strong possibility!

I pulled today’s letter of instruction from my jacket pocket, together with a stick of white chalk. I strode down the corridors and marked each dark timber bedroom door with the appropriate member’s number and then returned to inspect the bedrooms one-by-one to make sure they were prepared according to requirements. I checked the linens were clean, and the washstand was stocked with towels, water, soap, and lubricating unguents. I lit the fires that were laid in each fireplace. I ensured a silver tray with a bottle of Claret or Brandy with glasses was positioned on the credenza in each room. My final task was to ensure that any particular accoutrements the members required were on display. I grinned as I read that room one requested handcuffs, a length of chain, and a horsehair flogger. The gentlemen taking room four had requested lady’s hosiery, silky knickers, and a whalebone bodice. The occupants of room fifteen had requested red candles and a cut-throat razor. I loosened my collar and gulped at reading that request. For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine how those items could be the least bit erotic, but such requests were not unusual here.

***

CHAPTER 2

A LITTLE NOSEY …

As the church bells of London congregated and chimed out seven o’clock, I returned to the lower floor of the mansion. I laid out cards and board games in the games room, and then moved to the library, music room, dining room, and drawing room, topping up the coals in each fireplace, lighting candles, gas lamps, and incense burners. The burners sent out the heady scents of Patchouli into the air. The scent was said to have aphrodisiac properties as well as lifting the mood and relieving tension or anxiety, but I didn’t care for the cloying scent myself. I preferred good honest male sweat, tobacco, and hard liquor.

At seven-thirty, there was a knock on the front door, the heavy lion-faced knocker resounding in the vast uninhabited house. I strode to the door and rapped twice. The person outside knocked three times, then once in response. I unlocked the door, and opened it. A gust of icy air rushed into the foyer. The long driveway to the road was shrouded, and the lamps at the end of the drive shimmered like beacons in the mist. A carriage was moving off down the drive, hoof beats echoing. I grinned as I saw my three familiars. We’d performed this dance so many times that even though I knew nothing but their names I was comfortable in their presence. We were partners in this illicit activity and so I stood back, bowed, and invited them inside.

“Blimey, it is a stinker out zere tonight, Felix.” Mr. Hugo exclaimed his accent German, as he stepped into the house rubbing his leather-gloved hands together. He was a short man, with a round face wearing a heavy moleskin coat and bowler hat, which, when removed showed an over-pomaded head that made it appear as if his remaining black hair had been painted onto his scalp. Swiftly stepping aside and undoing his coat, I saw Mr. Hugo wore a green velvet jacket and cravat with smart black trousers. He was accompanied by an androgynous young man who went by the name of Miss Georgette.

“My bleedin’ balls have retreated in fear of the cold!” Miss Georgette snickered lewdly. “I guess I’ll have to sing some bawdy songs to get the old blood pumping down there again!”

“You always sing bawdy songs, that’s why you’re invited back!” I reminded her, which made us all laugh. Miss Georgette’s face was made up with white powder, rouged cheeks, and deep carmine red lips like a doll, and to complete the look she wore a blonde wig of girlish ringlets and a heady perfume. On removing her cloak Miss Georgette revealed a red silk and lace gown with a low-cut bodice neckline displaying a pale powdered flat upper chest.

“Very fetching, Miss Georgette. You’ll certainly get ‘em going tonight!” I smiled and she curtsied.

The third man nodded solemnly in greeting as he removed his bowler hat and greatcoat. He went by the name of Mr. Joshua. He wore a dark brown beard and round brass spectacles. Beneath the heavy wool coat, there was the smart, tidy suit of a servant. I’d not yet been able to identify the livery of the household he belonged to, but he had an air of authority about him, like he was the sort to make the rules and ensure they were followed. I had the sneaking suspicion that this man worked in the home of our employer and attended the Club Fifty-five not only to act as the butler, but to ensure that his master’s wishes were carried out to the letter!

Mr. Hugo’s coat and Miss Georgette’s cloak were handed to Mr. Joshua, who took them to the cloak room.

“It’s time. Places please, boys and girls!” Mr. Joshua instructed on returning to the hall, his open pocket watch in his hand. Mr. Hugo and Miss Georgette walked through to the dining room, and Georgette pinched a slice of pineapple from a display.

“Oi, that ain’t for you missy!” I scolded. She giggled coquettishly.

“It’s not as if the nobs‘ll miss it, there’s plenty of other things for them to eat,” she said, hitching her dress and flashing the frilly pink French knickers she wore over a pale firm boyish arse. Georgette was a tease, and apparently a favourite of many of the rich men who attended the club, but I had no idea if she was anything more than a songbird for them.

Mr. Hugo opened double doors from the dining room that led to the music room. He took his seat at a grand piano, and Miss Georgette arranged herself to her comfort on a high stool beside the piano. Soon there was melodic piano with a countertenor voice lifting high in song banishing silence from Wychwood. Miss Georgette’s voice gave me chills right down to my nethers and always stopped me in my tracks with its beauty, but as the performers were in their places my work was done for the evening. Mr. Joshua took his post beside the front door awaiting the first arrival. I was to leave the same way entered the house—through the kitchen porch door. But tonight, and not for the first time, my curiosity had gotten the better of me and I wasn’t quite ready to leave Wychwood.

****

To any fellow on the street, I was just another worker bee striving to feed his family, doing the right and honest thing, and not acting as I desired—such was the fate of the common man. Everything that I desired was out of my reach anyway, not only because of the low status of my birth, but because my desires were a hanging offence. I lived with my younger sister Elowen and her baby daughter Bess. No one in Stepney knew that we was brother and sister. The arrangement suited us both, ensuring that Elowen and Bess looked part of a traditional family and that I wasn’t an invert. How could I be when I had a wife and kiddy? My employment at the General Post Office gave me a respectable, honest living and ensured I kept a roof over my family’s head and food in our bellies. The extra money I made from my mysterious side job was my secret, and I squirreled the five-pound notes away to fund my future. Elowen was pretty as a peach and still got advances from coves, even with the ring on her wedding finger. If she fell for a gentleman, I’d be more than happy to welcome a good man into our family to take care of Elowen and Bess. But if that didn’t happen Elowen promised that when Bess was older, they could find work together in a big house so that I was released from my responsibility. Then I would live life as I wanted with my bountiful nest egg. I’d be free to travel and follow my dream of seeing the Americas.

Wychwood was a hundred-years-old, if not more, and from what I’d gathered by nosing around the library, it had once belonged to a shipping magnate, and it was while in the library that I discovered the house had a secret. My Pa’s training came in handy once again when curiosity led me to the book of architect's plans. I understood how to read the drawings, see, and it was while perusing the plan book for Wychwood that I saw something worth investigating—the layout of the upstairs rooms was peculiar, and there were passages that led from a linen closet upstairs to behind the walls of every bedroom. This meant that the inhabitants of the bedrooms could move between rooms unseen…and be secretly observed. Initially, I wondered if the peepholes I’d found were known to my employer and used during the Club Fifty-five parties, but on inspection of the passages, I found them to be cobwebbed and unused for generations. Up until that point I’d carried out my tasks to the letter, taken the money, and told myself to think no more about what salacious doings occurred when I left Wychwood. But as the months progressed, I became more and more curious. I knew full-well that I preferred cock to cunny, but I didn’t know how men loved, if they could love one another or if what happened here in this house was like scratching an itch or an outpouring of the ‘demonic sin’ the clergy always harped on about! And so, I became adept at secreting myself behind the walls and got myself quite an education observing the erotic goings-on.

****

I said goodbye to Mr. Joshua, and waved to Mr. Hugo and Miss Georgette, then returned to the kitchen. There I shrugged into my heavy coat; thrust my cap, scarf, and gloves into my pockets. I opened and then closed the back door without leaving. Then I picked up a small box of treats and a bottle of Cognac I’d put aside for myself, and silently scurried up the servants back stairs to the first floor. When I opened the servant’s staircase door I heard the resounding thud of the door knocker, and then the deep rumbling murmur of the highfalutin voices.

“Welcome Gentlemen, welcome. Let me take your hats and coats.” Mr. Joshua’s voice resounded. I scurried to the linen closet.

In the closet, I lit the lantern I’d previously left there, took off my coat, and sat on a shipping trunk. The trunk was covered with labels from many of the foreign destinations I longed to see. I was determined that one day I’d have a trunk just like this one showing all of the wonderful places I’d visited. I relaxed and listened to the distant songbird Miss Georgette as she sang a music hall number with filthy lyrics.

---ENDE DER LESEPROBE---