Page 33 of Infernal Vices

“Father purchased a book of homosexual photography in Paris,” Charles explained as he moved unsteadily to one of the book cases and slid a volume from the shelf. He returned to the table and pulled one of the chairs out for me to sit, then took the other chair beside me. The Parisian book of erotica was placed on a reading slope and we read the cover together. It was titled ‘Fantaisie Exquise pour Hommes de Conviction Lubrique’ which, if my French is correct translates as‘Exquisite Fantasy for Men of Lustful Conviction’. Charles opened the book. It appeared to be a menu of boys and young men working for a particular brothel. We viewed the first page that listed twenty names but I instantly recognized that something was unusual. “Arakiel, Azrael, Cassiel. These are all names of theological Angels,” I observed.

“Yes, the boys are all angels. It reads like a playbill of performers, don’t you think?” Charles turned the page and we saw the first photograph of the boy given the moniker of Arakiel. It was a monochrome image of svelte young man of no more than sixteen. He lay naked on his stomach on a chaise longue, and another older man with fierce lamb chop side burns and a body so hirsute he could have been a bear was positioned with his meaty prick at the boy’s fundament.

“French men appear to be rather big and brutish, don’t they? I prefer my conquests to be…a little more refined,” Charles commented.

I turned the page, remaining silent as we viewed photographs of young men dressed as girls, close up images of male genitalia, the stretched opening, and penetration by way of fingers, cock, and other objects showing exactly what each ‘Angel’ could offer and the price. I must admit to arousal while viewing these scandalous images, and I knew that from the heavy breathing and jerking wrist of Charles Ashe, he was pleasuring himself through his trousers. But my arousal vanished minutes later as I turned to the final photograph and saw two faces I recognized. Charles recognized them too. His masturbating hand stopped and he hissed, “Damn your eyes!” and then stood pushing his chair back creating an ear splitting sound of wood against marble. The image was of a nude man with familiar, peculiar eyes seated in a huge chair, the kind of throne a Masonic grand master or a king would sit on. Laid across his lap was a willowy younger man, ethereal, beautiful. Mine. Beneath the image was the handwritten script ‘Maitre Nathaniel Everett avec son ange’ which simply translated as ‘Master Nathaniel Everett with his angel.’

“Bloody hell, you know who that is, don’t you?” Charles accused in a fevered sharp whisper. Blood pumped, making my heart throb with fear. If he recognized the young man as Birdie, we were done for!

“I knew it, knew he was a charlatan. It’s not as if jabbering on about bloody spiritualism or half-inching our silver trinkets was enough, oh no! But the blaggard isn’t even using his real name. And so much for being a theosophist, the man’s a bloody Parisian pornographer.”

I was about to jump in and defend Sebastian, but then I heard what Ashe had said. He was talking of Blake only, not of the young man on his lap. Could it be that Ashe did not recognize my lover as a young man?

“What do you mean?”

“Blake,” Ashe pointed accusingly at the photograph. “That man is Lawrence Blake…or as he was previously known, Nathaniel Everett,” he hissed venomously. “I’ve wondered how he was financing his great work. He appears to have no private income. Benjamin is his most devout compatriot. He’s been bank-rolling him most of the time, gave him his West End apartment to reside in too! They dine at the Garrick, Whytes, the Athenaeum…clubs Benjamin is a member of. He has rich appetites, but he has never appeared to have any private means. Several of the brothers complained of missing silver, a pocket watch, a stamp case, a hip flask…small things, easy enough to slip into ones pocket. I’m missing a sliver fish spice box with ruby eyes—”

I near swallowed my tongue when he said that. Could it be that the items Blake bought to me for sale had been stolen from members of the brotherhood to fund Blake’s London lifestyle? I was appalled to have been betrayed and hoodwinked into purchasing stolen goods.

“Blake told me his patrons’ gift him silver,” I gasped. “You know I purchased several pieces. I shall of course return the silver fish spice box to you.”

Charles held his hands up placatingly, “I do not hold you responsible for his actions, Benedict. You are such a pure darling soul; you would never do something so reprehensible. But Blake, oh, he is clearly a mountebank, a sham and a fraud.” Ashe pinched the bridge of his nose and began pacing on unsteady legs. As he turned from me and walked away, seemingly dizzied by this revelation, I eased the telling photograph from the book and slid it into my inner jacket pocket. I then closed the book and returned it to the space in the bookcase from where Charles had removed it.

“My god, he could ruin us all!” Charles whispered in horror. He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a hip flask. Then he took a long swallow. Ashe’s complexion was now grey and waxen. I felt a little sorry for him because he had not only invested his time and money, but belief that Blake was a man worth trusting with his secret preference. Ashe had believed that he and Blake were on the same page and would keep one another’s secrets, but the revelation that Lawrence Blake wasn’t even his true name filled him with doubt and turned the world on its head.

“Come, we need to find a place to discuss what to do. We should retire to my club, yes?” I suggested. Charles nodded and began to stride jerkily towards the door.

While I would have liked to stay longer and peruse the exhibition, the atmosphere had tipped from an air of erotic frivolity to maudlin depression in the blink of an eye. Charles was unsteady on his feet, angry and drunk. I had to get him out of there.

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