Early Wednesday evening, after days of not being able to work on the Atherton case, the harsh ringing of the telephone made Orlando scowl over his newspaper. Yes, the invention was useful, but why did it have to intrude just as a man had got his nose into an interesting story? He left Jonty to answer it, as he seemed to delight in the instrument, and returned to his reading, only to have a puzzled—and slightly offended-looking—expert in the sonnets peer round the door a moment later to say that it was Lavinia.
“And she insists on talking to you, now.” Jonty sniffed. “I would like to pretend that it’s all about a secret Christmas present for me, but I expect it’s much more prosaic. Something to report.”
“You’ll find out soon enough, pest.” Orlando leaped from his chair. He was always prepared to take calls from the females of the Stewart line. “Hello, Lavinia,” he said, having shut the door behind him so that Jonty couldn’t casually listen in.
“Hello, Orlando. I bet that brother of mine is less than pleased at having to wait in line for information.” She sounded highly amused.
“It won’t hurt him to have something to think about. Shakespeare doesn’t tax his brain enough.” Orlando spoke the last bit loud enough for anybody with their ear applied to the door to hear. “He says you have some news for me?”
“I do indeed, although it’s a bit cryptic. I talked to the publisher, as you suggested. Met him over lunch, as he seemed rather unwilling to see me at his office.”
“How extraordinary. What happened?”
“I had a splendid lunch with a surprisingly charming man. Very handsome.” Lavinia lowered her voice. “He didn’t wear a green carnation, but I had my suspicions that he might have been the type of chap to do so. If you follow me.”
“Ah. And you think that’s relevant to the case?” Could the publisher’s interest be concerned with any references to the doomed Oxford love affair? If love affair it was?
“Quite possibly, although it’s not necessarily what we anticipated.”
“What are you talking about?” Jonty’s voice at his shoulder made Orlando jump. He must have sneaked through the door while Orlando was concentrating.
“The publisher. Atherton’s memoirs.”
“Actually you’ve made an assumption too far, there,” Lavinia remarked. “Mr. Parkins, for it was he who wined and dined me, knew nothing about Atherton. Or any memoirs.”
“Oh. Not even Robertson’s?” Orlando chose his words to ensure Jonty couldn’t get too many clues from them. The man would have to employ some patience, especially as the extension in his study was temporarily not working so he couldn’t do his usual trick of listening in.
“No. Mind you, they may have been more up the publisher’s street. Remember I told you I had a bit of a hunch?”
“I do indeed.”
“Well, I pursued it. I have a contact who reckons James and Parkins produce material that sails pretty close to the wind. Just this side of what’s considered decent, although I suppose that if one was in the know the stuff could be rather filthy.”
“Quite likely.” Orlando remembered Jonty teaching Georgie those soldiers’ songs. If you didn’t appreciate what certain phrases meant, or might mean, you could remain blissfully ignorant. “They were only playing leapfrog” had always struck him as being extremely near the knuckle. “Did Parkins tell you that’s what they printed? I’d have thought that was sailing pretty close to the wind, too.”
“Close to the wind?” Jonty bounced on his toes in clear frustration.
“Be patient,” Orlando mouthed, then put his finger to his lips.
Meanwhile Lavinia was carrying on blithely. “No, he didn’t say anything like that. Some tosh about his company making some subtle enquiries about their authors beforehand and generally beating around what I took to be a particular bush.”
“Intriguing stuff. So was Robertson trying his hand at writing a romance for the modern man?” Orlando was amused to see Jonty’s eyebrows shoot up.
“No. That’s what I’d wondered. You know, whether he’d put his affection for Buxton into florid prose, but it seems not. James and Parkins also publish poetry. Poetry for the ‘modern man,’ if you please.”
Orlando couldn’t see Lavinia’s eyes rolling, but he had little doubt that they were doing so.
“I think some of it’s respectable enough. War poems.”
“I see.” Orlando had read a few of those since he’d got back; a number of them had an element of hidden meanings for those “in the know,” as Lavinia had termed it. “So had Robertson been trying his hand at poetry? The old ‘corner of some foreign field’ stuff?”
“Apparently. Or that’s what Parkins said. He seemed disappointed that they wouldn’t get a look at the drafts.”
“I bet he is.” Although where that poetry had gone, who knew? “I think I should pass you across to your brother, now. He looks like he might explode.”
“Good idea. I have something to tell him, too.”
Orlando handed over the telephone to let Jonty receive his own briefing and indulge in some Stewart and Broad family gossip. By the time Jonty returned to the lounge, Orlando had already got his ideas lined up.
“Paul Robertson as war poet. Who’d have thought it?”
“Why not?” Jonty took his chair, at the other side of the hearth, bearing a pensive expression. “Other medical men have put their thoughts on paper.”
“I doubt if those others had the same motivation.” Orlando leaned forward. “What if his poetry had an element of romance in it? Overt or covert.”
“Concerning Paul’s attraction to his own sex?” Jonty nodded slowly. “It could well be. It would also provide another reason for Charles to have argued with him and then desperately try to make contact. If he was afraid Paul was about to produce a volume of something he’d regard as smut and thus risk bringing the family name into disrepute.”
“Would preventing publication be enough to kill him for?”
“Men have been killed for less, Orlando.” Jonty took in a deep breath. “Charles’s school is a good place. They have the welfare of the boys at heart, or so Lavinia says, which isn’t always the case. Some of these places seem to think their only role is toughening up the little blighters. Cannon fodder.”
“Steady on.” Orlando went over, plonked his backside on the arm of his lover’s chair and put his arm across his shoulders.
“Sorry.” Jonty burrowed his face into Orlando’s jacket. “I was remembering some of the lads in my platoon. Fresh out of school, shiny-faced, and no bloody idea what lay in store for them. Just like Hughes was. I shouldn’t let it affect my thinking, but it does.”
“Have any of us much choice?” What had been seen couldn’t be unseen.
“Maybe not. Anyway, what if Charles was worried that if his brother’s poems smacked of the corruption of young men the school might think he was tarred with the same brush?” Jonty burrowed closer. “He could have lost his job.”
Orlando swallowed. He’d an offer to lay on the table, one he’d been mulling over for days. “If this case upsets you, we can stop working on it. Right now. Tell Mrs. Blackett we’re sure it was a double suicide and just turn our backs.”
Jonty looked up, smiling. “You’d sacrifice putting a final solution to a mystery, all for me? No, don’t answer, of course you would. You’re a hero.”
Orlando could feel the blush rushing up his cheeks, but he didn’t care. To be a hero to one’s own hero was everything a man could want.
“That’s such a treat, to see that blush. I thought professors didn’t have the capacity to get embarrassed.” Jonty squeezed his arm. “The offer is much appreciated, but we have to see this through to the bitter end. Not just because the thought of a mystery unsolved would annoy you; it would haunt me if there was even a miniscule chance that Paul Robertson had coerced men into relationships, Ariadne’s excellent theory about shared glances notwithstanding. And there’s the matter of Saunders. That can’t go away. Lavinia’s seen to that, whether or not I decided to have an attack of cowardice.”
Orlando returned the squeeze. Jonty as an angel of mercy—he’d seen that before. And as an avenging one, which brought his thoughts to Atherton and his musing about St. Michael. “Good man. Brave man.”
“Brave? I’m not sure it’s so much bravery as pigheadedness. I can’t bear the thought of anyone being robbed of their future happiness. And I don’t just mean little boys who are made to grow up before their time, or spring-eyed lads going over the top with thoughts of glory.” Jonty snuggled closer again. “I include you in this. You’ve had more to bear than many men, with your father. When I go into battle against the great dragons of evil, it’s for you, and those like you.”
Orlando smiled. He’d rarely considered the possibility that Jonty was righteous in the cause of anybody’s demons but his own.
“If I were offered a magic wand to wave that would make all that suffering stop right now,” Jonty continued, “I’d give every bit of my kingdom, let alone half—had I got a kingdom and all with the exception of you, naturally—to have that power.”
“I’d expect nothing less. And what has Lavinia seen to, exactly?”
“She’s invited Saunders around to the Broad residence for afternoon tea. Ostensibly in his role as rugby captain, to inspire Georgie. She had the cricket captain round earlier in the year, so there’s enough of a precedent not to create suspicion. And Saunders will have to turn up—honour of representing the school and all that.” Jonty sighed. “I’m invited too, so I can do my turn, as well.”
“When?”
“Not this Saturday, the one after. So there’s no risk of the mumps. That date feels both too close and too far away.”
“I know.” Orlando also knew what the best cure for his lover’s mood would be. “I . . .”
But Orlando’s tender ministrations were cut off by Mrs. Ward’s knocking at the door before entering, which made them leap apart. She bore the message that dinner was imminent and as it involved a soufflé it couldn’t be deferred, so romance, rather than dinner, had to wait.
***
Jonty stood looking out at the garden before drawing his bedroom curtains. “Come here, Orlando, and breathe in deeply. Do you like autumn as much as I do?”
“Yes. Although you seem to love every season.”
“Everyone should. We’re fortunate to live in a temperate place. Imagine if the weather was the same the whole year round, how boring would that be? But autumn and spring are the best. Such wonderful colours.”
“You can’t see any colours at this time of the evening,” Orlando snorted, but he slipped his arm affectionately around his lover’s waist.
“But you can still enjoy the smells. Shame we need to pull this too.” A smoky tang drifted through the open window. “It’ll be cold tonight. First hint of a proper frost, maybe.”
“It’ll do the garden the world of good. Time the winter plants got some encouragement.”
“Do you mean time you went collecting conkers? When I see Georgie, I should invite him for the weekend and we can teach him all the tricks for winning.” Jonty leaned into Orlando’s embrace. “I’m sure he can’t know everything about hardening your conkers yet. What are you sniggering at?”
“I was just thinking about other things which you know all about hardening.”
“I never would have expected that professors would be quite so lascivious. I thought all their thoughts were cerebral and that they eschewed the carnal.” Jonty wiggled closer, in a way which illustrated that experts in Tudor literature knew how to lodge their thoughts in their codpieces. And why not? It would be a comfort to them both.
“If eschewing the carnal is what you require of me, I’m happy to oblige.” Orlando eased himself out of contact, well aware of what Jonty’s reaction would be.
“Daft beggar. I like you just the way you are, libidinous tendencies and all. That’s another reason why I enjoy the autumn and spring. They both seem to have the ability to make a man’s sap rise. Not that yours needs a lot of encouragement.”
“I’d be inclined to tell you to grow up, but I don’t really want you to change. Even your vexatious tendencies are quite endearing.” Orlando bent his head to plant a kiss on the back of Jonty’s ear, which would have to do for the moment, given that his neck was encased in a collar and Orlando didn’t fancy his lip getting entwined with a collar stud. Why did men’s clothes have to be so awkward, and so intricately fastened? They were a pleasure to admire when adorning a body—and Jonty looked extremely attractive in a well-cut jacket and waistcoat—but the matter of getting them off without incident wasn’t an easy one to tackle.
“What’s the problem? Not only can I hear you huffing and pudding at something, I’m sure the whirr of your brain cells is in there too.”
“It’s your collar stud. It’s getting in the way of kissing you.”
“Well, that’s soon cured.” Jonty slipped off his jacket, then dealt with his collar, while Orlando did the same, slipping off his cuff links while he was at it. “Better now?”
Jonty manoeuvred himself back into position, letting Orlando kiss and caress the nape of his neck, his ears and along his jaw line.
“Much better, thank you.” Orlando worked down the row of shirt buttons, grateful that Jonty wasn’t wearing a waistcoat to add to his clothing-related frustrations. Instead, a thin silk vest met his fingers. “Is this new?”
“Only to your touch. Do you like it?”
“I do. But I’d rather it were off.”
Jonty didn’t waste any time in fulfilling that wish. His skin, always pleasant to the touch, quivered under Orlando’s fingers.
“Age couldn’t wither nor custom stale my appreciation of your body,” Orlando murmured.
“You daft old thing.” Jonty drew Orlando’s hand to his face, cradling it against his cheek. “Have you been mugging up on my favourite lines to use on these occasions? If so, it’s much appreciated.”
“Who can blame me? They don’t have anything quite so romantic in the textbooks I read.” Still, Orlando could outline beautifully geometric patterns on Jonty’s stomach.
“Not even on those rare occasions when you let me read them to you?”
“And put improper emphasis on phrases like ‘angle of elevation’ and ‘explicit function’? Smut isn’t romance.” What he and Jonty shared was more than just a carnal inclination; at times it was the nearest he got to matters spiritual.
“No smut tonight, then. Just romance.” The action of Jonty’s hands belied his words, as they were about some pretty saucy things.
“You do know I love you, don’t you?” Orlando, despite the fact he professed that affection almost every day, and lived his life to demonstrate it, needed to use the words there and then.
“Certainly I do. And you know that I love you, I hope. Despite your recurrent threats to murder me.”
“That’s just in fun.” Orlando pulled back from their tight embrace, searching Jonty’s face. “You know that too, don’t you?”
“I shan’t grace that with a reply, you big lemon.”
Orlando sighed happily. No greater affection had a man for his lover than this, that he address him as “lemon” or “idiot” or one of the other many terms of endearment Jonty was apt to use.
“And you know what has to be done to lemons, don’t you?”
Orlando, who’d have put ten pounds on knowing what the answer was, played along. “No. What?”
“They need a jolly good squeezing. To get the juices flowing.” Jonty’s voice, unusually hoarse and deep, murmured in Orlando’s ear while his hands carried out what his words had promised.
“If you carry on doing that, the juices will flow before they’re due to. And then where will we be?”
“In a right mess.” Jonty sniggered. “Come on then, old man. To the bed.”
He took Orlando’s hand and led him over, pushing him onto the counterpane, then getting to work on any remaining items of clothing, his or Orlando’s, which were restricting full access. It was the epitome of pleasure, to lie and let oneself be stripped by eager and skilful fingers, by a lover who would give and take pleasure equally. Orlando gave in to the hedonistic delights, as he’d given in to pleasure all those years ago when Jonty had initiated him in the ways of the flesh. There were no more-trustworthy hands to put oneself in.
Each new testing of the mattress springs brought fresh experiences; this evening was no exception and their climaxes, in unison, were as dazzling as they had ever been, leaving them physically and mentally spent, ready to drift into a well-earned sleep.
Sex was rewarding enough in itself, but often it came with the bonus of oiling the mental wheels, with either or both of them waking a significant step closer to solving the case. This didn’t prove to be one of those occasions—morning dawned bright with no revelatory thoughts, nor even some clue in dream form. There was always the chance the encounter would bear fruit later, though; lying dormant while they fulfilled their proper work.
Or maybe there would be no effect, and the only lingering benefit would be the warm glow Orlando was bound to feel all day. Please God he wouldn’t produce an inane, memory-laden grin when he was supposed to be talking about complex numbers.