I traced my finger along the map - the turning should be just ahead. Doug was leaning over the steering wheel nervously like an expectant father. I squeezed his thigh and he gave me a milky smile. A bend in the lane offered us a by-road along a narrow spinney.
‘Shall we try this?’ Doug asked.
‘What have we got to lose? Don’t you remember the place at all?’
‘The last time I was here, I was ten. I’m as much in the dark as you are.’
The fog swallowed up the road. Doug changed down to second, and edged along the uneven track.



Doug leaned over and kissed me, like a man who had been given a last-minute reprieve. ‘We made it, Frank.’
‘Just.’
I looked up at the apex of the slate roof, stark and black against the dirty fog. ‘So this is uncle’s house?’
‘Yes,’ Doug said. ‘The puritanical old goat. I remember childhood summers here, bored to death,listening to his sermons.’
‘You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.’
‘That’s what they say. Let’s take a look inside.’



I rested a hand on Doug’s shoulder, ‘So, how does it feel to be the new lord of the manor?’
‘A bit strange, I suppose. I wouldn’t want to live here full time. But it might be an inspiring place for you to work for a while. Just the kind of place Madame Blavatsky would have hung out in.’
‘True.’
‘A few days here and you’ll easily finish the last chapter.’
‘Are you chivvying me along in your capacity as my editor or my illicit lover?’
‘Both.’
Doug turned me towards him and I lifted my head to meet his lips. Our bodies stirred as they touched, hungry for what was forbidden. I pulled away, mindful of the large bay window behind us. What if someone was watching the house? ‘There are a couple of valises in the boot that need rescuing, handsome.’
‘Sure,’ Doug said. ‘How about I do that and you see if you can rustle up some tea?’
I closed the curtains against the advancing darkness. The kitchen was high-ceilinged, airy and bare compared with the rest of the house. I found an old copper kettle and lit the burner. Doug’s uncle had died less than a month ago - I reckoned the tea in the caddy would still be reasonably fresh.
I heard Doug’s heavy footfalls on the stairs and found him up in the master bedroom. The fourposter bed had been made up neatly.
‘Looks like someone’s got the place ready for us,’ I said.
‘Uncle Nathaniel’s housekeeper.’
I raised my eyebrows.
‘Don’t worry,’ Doug said. ‘She doesn’t live in. But, speaking of which.’
He took my suitcase and put it in the other bedroom.
‘Just in case she pops round unannounced.’
There were two studies, one upstairs, one on the ground floor. The only typewriter in the house was a clunky old Royal Signet with no shift key. I realised I was going to have to write the last chapter longhand. The housekeeper had left a chicken pie in the kitchen for us, and we ate it hungrily, listening to the radio. The main story was the London rail disaster. At St. John’s Railway Station, just outside Lewisham, two trains had collided in heavy fog when one of the drivers missed the stop signal. As one train veered into a bridge, it collapsed onto carriages packed with rush hour commuters below. The other main story was the first parliamentary debate on the Wolfenden Report, instigated by Lord Pakenham.
‘Do you think they’ll ever decriminalise?’ I asked.
Doug shrugged. ‘If they do, it won’t be for years yet, specially with Kilmuir as Lord High Chancellor. He’s got too much power. In Great Britain we prefer leisurely revolutions.’
‘This would be one hell of a revolution.’
‘You and I, my darling, are going to have to continue operating undercover for the foreseeable future.’ He squeezed my hand but I didn’t return his smile.
‘You make it sound so glamorous but we’re really just skulking about in the shadows.’
‘Come on, it’s not so bad. We’ve got chicken pie.’
Doug always knew how to buoy me up.
‘But nothing to drink.’
‘Uncle Nathaniel was a teetotal sourpuss. We could buy some tomorrow, maybe pop into Cambridge? In the meantime, I’m sure we can entertain ourselves without wine.’ Doug stood up, extended his hand. ‘Shall we retire to the bedroom, beautiful?’
It took Doug a long time to get the fire going. We huddled together under the icy sheets, pressing close for warmth. It had been a while since we’d been alone like this and I nestled into Doug eagerly. The swirling hairs on his chest tickled my face as I traced my hand across his stomach. He swiped a drop of vaseline onto his fingers and readied me. Then he forged inside, his movements strong and measured, resisting the urge to climax too soon. His hands gripped mine, knuckles white, and I kissed his lips as his fire flowed through me. He stayed inside as long as he could, resting his head next to mine, and we sailed away into sleep.

*

I woke up needing a pee. The bedside clock said 2am. Doug had shifted away from me, turning on his side to face the window. His breathing was slow and heavy. The fire had long since died and the room was very cold. I crossed the landing to the bathroom, lifted the toilet seat, steadied my aim, and leaned forward to gaze out the window. There was someone standing outside in the dark, staring back up at me. I skidded backwards on the tiles and cracked the back of my head on the sink as I went down. The next thing I knew, Doug was crouching beside me and I was watching multi-coloured blotches flare and fade behind my eyes.
Doug walked me across the hall. I sat on the edge of the bed and he examined the bump on my head. ‘What happened?’
‘I saw someone. There was a man outside looking up. It startled me and I must have slipped.’
Doug went over to the window. ‘There’s nobody there now.’
‘There was someone, Doug.’
‘I think you’re very tired. You were probably half asleep, still dreaming perhaps, spooked yourself in a strange house.’
‘No, there was someone out there.’
‘Shhh,’ he whispered and pulled me close.
Doug was a very rational, practical man. I knew he didn’t believe me. Back in bed, I lay on my side, trying to get comfortable. Why would someone be standing outside the house, in the freezing cold, at two in the morning? I shut my eyes. My head was throbbing, then the walls of the mansion were pressing in blackly around me.

*

The fog had almost disappeared and the morning sun was starting to burn through the haze. Doug insisted on calling the local physician, a well-fed, squire-of-the-manor type, businesslike with a bullish tone. He diagnosed a ‘nasty old bump’ but no concussion, instructing me to take Fizrin Instant Seltzers at regular intervals and avoid exertion. Then he trotted back to his cherry red AC Ace and sped away, churning up a little mud in his wake. We abandoned our trip into Cambridge, and Doug spent the rest of the day poring over manuscripts. I made painfully slow work on my biography, researching A.P. Sinnett’s Incidents in the Life of Madame Blavatsky. In the evening we listened to the radio again and finished the rest of the chicken pie. Harold Watkinson, Minister of Transport and Civil Aviation, announced an inquiry into the rail disaster and paid tribute to the work of the emergency services. The death toll now stood at seventy-six.

*

Doug was already asleep. I lay next to him in the suffocating darkness. When I finally drifted off, my dreams were full of wolves, fitful shadows, minacious wolf howls, shapes in the dark. By 2am I needed another Instant Seltzer, and was craving a cup of tea. I got up as quietly as possible to avoid waking Doug.
I was grateful for the moonlight, bright through the tall arches of the windows in the kitchen. I put the kettle on, dropped an Instant Seltzer into a glass of water, and sat down at the table. A face appeared briefly at the window obscured by some kind of black cowl. I dropped my water glass. The glass broke on the floor and I ran headlong into Doug as I raced back up the stairs.
‘What’s going on, darling? What was all that noise?’
‘There’s someone outside again. Outside the kitchen window.’
‘You stay here. I’ll take a look.’
‘Careful, there’s broken glass on the kitchen floor. I’ll come too.’
The kettle was whistling angrily. Doug switched off the gas.
‘You saw someone through this window?’
I nodded.
‘Okay. I’ll go and look around.’
Cold flooded the kitchen as Doug unbolted the back door and went out into the night. The trees hissed like geese in the wind. The door creaked on its hinges and I reached out with tented fingers to steady it.
‘Doug?’
No answer. The tops of the oaks were whipping backwards and forwards. The moon rode dark waves of racing clouds. A shadow fell suddenly across the step and I was ready to slam the door in the face of the assailant.
But Doug appeared instead.
‘There’s no one out there. I’ve been around the whole house.’
‘I definitely did see someone.’
‘It’ll all look different in the morning. Let’s clear up the broken glass and get back to sleep.’

*

The next day we slept in, then Doug drove us to Cambridge. We bought a couple of dinner suits at Eaden Lilley followed by two lacklustre fish salads at the Lyons’ Corner House.
‘How are you feeling today?’ Doug was stacking tomatoes and lettuce onto his fork.
‘My headache’s gone.’
‘And no more visions of men lurking in the bushes?’
‘I really did see someone, Doug.’
‘Your imagination can play tricks, especially in a strange house, in the dark.’
‘What if there’s a local Satanic cult and they just don’t like strangers?’
‘What if aliens have landed in the woods?’ Doug laughed.
We got back at sundown. The shadows of the oaks were long against the front of the house. Doug unloaded the car, and I broke open the bottle of Mouquin we’d picked up in Cambridge. We settled in front of the fire and Doug told me about his plans to sell the house. I was relieved. I’d been afraid he might want to use it as a second home or secret love nest. I was starting to feel the mellowing effects of the brandy. Doug unbuttoned my shirt and ran his fingers through the patch of hair between my chest and navel. I unzipped him and he fluttered and grew in my hand. I covered his firmness with my mouth. Suddenly there was a heavy pounding at the front door. Doug zipped himself up clumsily and went over to the window. ‘I can’t see who it is,’ he said. ‘They’re standing inside the porch.’
The knocking came again.
I followed Doug into the hallway. He started to open the door but was thrown against the wall as the door was forced open from the other side.



I ran at the intruder, aiming my knee sharply into his groin. He fell back. The force of his falling body slammed the door shut, locking him in with us. I tried to drag Doug away. Doug’s blood was snaking in a slow trail across the floor. The man leapt at me, riding me backwards. We spun across the floor in a macabre embrace as he slashed at me with the knife. I felt a burning sensation in my chest and saw a dark patch spreading across my shirt. I kicked and punched wildly to stop the blade striking home a second time. I landed a glancing blow to his temple and he staggered sideways. I clambered up the stairs. His breathing was close behind. His arm caught around my neck as we came up onto the landing. The blade glinted and arced towards me, and I thrust my elbows into his stomach as hard as I could. Stairs, walls and ceiling revolved in a sudden blur. Then I was lying at the bottom of the staircase. The intruder was lying underneath me, unmoving. Warily, I turned him over. His eyes told me he was dead. Doug was shaking and drenched with sweat. My own injuries were superficial compared to his. I bandaged his arms with towels as best I could then phoned for an ambulance, and then the police.

Doug had lost a lot of blood but the ambulance men said he was going to be okay. When the police arrived, they recognised the attacker: Seth Burke, the estate gardener. Like Doug’s uncle, he was a puritan, a firm believer in hellfire and damnation. When the police searched his body, they found a small pocket diary with his pledge to watch over the house, ensuring it remained a place of ‘good morals’.
An Inspector Ronald Weston took charge of the crime scene.
‘Mr. Burke believed he was doing the Lord’s work,’ the balding Inspector told me. ‘He believed you and Douglas Henstridge were deviants. Do you have any idea why he might have formed that impression, sir?’
‘No, Inspector, I don’t.’
‘Why were you and Mr. Henstridge in the house?’
‘Doug inherited it when his uncle died. He wanted to check it over before putting it up for sale.’
‘And why did he need you here, Mr. Blakeley?’
‘He’s my editor and I needed somewhere peaceful to finish my book.’
‘What is your book about, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘Not at all, Inspector. It’s about Madame Blavatsky.’
‘Madame Blavatsky?’
‘The founder of the Theosophical Society.’
‘I’m not familiar with it.’
‘It’s a spiritual organisation.’
‘Christian?’
‘No.’
‘I see.’



‘Inspector, when can I go and see Doug?’ I asked.
‘Hold on a minute, sir. We’re not quite finished yet.’ He took a deep breath and looked around the room before returning his gaze to me. ‘How long have you been staying here with Mr. Henstridge?’
‘Since Wednesday.’
‘So, two nights?’
‘Yes. Two nights.’
‘It appears that only one bed has been slept in during those two nights. The one in the master bedroom. There’s a suitcase in the second bedroom, but the bed is undisturbed.’
I had no idea what to say.
‘Sodomy is a criminal offence in the United Kingdom, Mr. Blakeley. Have you engaged in sexual perversion with Mr. Henstridge? Are you a pervert, a homosexual?’