Holmes And The Old Army Friend Ch 01

It was one of those unbearably hot London days where the heat brings no pleasure but merely becomes a stifling blanket that lies over the great city, making people restless and short-tempered. My friend Sherlock Holmes would have been pacing the room eagerly awaiting news of criminal activity as he always referred to it as a 'murderous heat', making tempers flare and passions run hot. But Holmes was not in Baker Street that day, and had not been for over a week as he was on the continent, retained by one of the great houses of Europe over the matter of some missing gems. News of his voyage had leaked to the newspapers and caused some ripple of excitement but his destination and employer had remained a secret and even I was not sure, although I suspected it was one of the Baltic states.

For my own part I was sat in the sitting room of 221b staring at the wall in a bad mood. I had finished reading the day's newspapers to no great entertainment and after the passing of my beloved wife some years earlier, and with my friend overseas, I was alone and left to my own devices, which were failing me greatly. Even Mrs Hudson was absent, her sister having fallen ill in the country and requiring nursing. So there I sat, in the room, cursing the heat and my lack of diversions. Even my patients seemed to be in a conspiracy of good health to remove any danger of active employment.

My mood was not helped by the fact that I was unable to open the large windows to allow a little air to circulate as the empty house across the street was, at last, being renovated, albeit slowly, but while there was but a single workman, he seemed able to generate enough dust and cheerful whistling for a whole gang of men so I remained trapped behind glass prison walls.

It was because the windows were sealed thus that I did not hear the approach of my visitor before the loud rapping of his cane on the front door and the less than hurried footsteps of my temporary bell boy as he ambled to answer the door. I was astonished when, after the lackadaisical bell boy had led the visitor up the stairs, a face from my short and ill-fated Army career appeared at the door.

'John Watson? It is you isn't it?' said the man with his hand outstretched.

'David Drummond, as I live and breathe,' I replied, enthusiastically shaking his hand, 'the last I heard you were still in India!'

'You are somewhat behind the times old friend, I have been out of the service for a good four years now and I've been working my way back to London. I've seen your name in the newspapers attached to this Sherlock Holmes character and thought I'd look up my old barracks friend.'

'I'm glad you did old man, I'm rattling around the rooms today with nothing to do. What do you say to lunch at my club, on my account, and you can tell me what you've been up to since I was ticketed home.'

'Capital idea old chap,' he replied and I offered him a seat and a cigarette while I changed for lunch then we left the boiler-house that was Baker Street for the Turkish Bath like surroundings of the luncheon room at my club.

During a pleasant, if warm, afternoon I learned that David had left the Army in India and decided to see some of the world on his way back to London. He kept me entertained with many a tale of his adventures, getting into scrapes on at least three continents while gathering the money together for the next leg of his journey. I suggested that we move on to a concert that evening but he told me that he was moving his lodgings as he had acquired rooms in a house after staying at an hotel on first arriving in London and that he had some papers to sign that afternoon but that he would call on me at Baker Street the next day if I was still at a loose end. I agreed and we parted company with another enthusiastic handshake.

The next day the heat seemed yet more stifling and this, infuriatingly, seemed to make the accursed workman across Baker Street even chirpier so I was very glad when my friend Drummond arrived and offered to repay my generosity of the previous day by taking me to his club for lunch. I remarked that he had lost little time in acquiring a club membership on arrival in London but he explained with a curious wink that, while little known and very exclusive, his club had connections in many of the great cities of the world and that it was during a very entertaining few weeks in Berlin that he acquired the friends that introduced him to his membership. He promised that the full story would make an excellent commentary to our lunch although, with a conspiratorial glance I did not yet appreciate, he commented that I may not wish to hear it.

As I hailed a passing cab I replied that I couldn't think why I wouldn't wish to hear a story so enticingly advertised but Drummond would be no further drawn on the subject and conversation soon passed to some of my exploits with Holmes. If Drummond was to astonish me later with his adventures I was determined that I should score some points first. I did notice, on getting into the cab, that Drummond had given the cabbie an address rather than the name of the club, which leant credence to his claims of exclusivity for the establishment so I was intrigued when the cab pulled up outside a plain townhouse in a part of the city away from all the main clubs. There was no brass plaque or doorman on the steps and the other townhouses in the street seemed to be domestic dwellings.

'Is this the right place Drummond?' I asked, alighting.

'Oh yes old chap, like I said, its an exclusive place and it doesn't like to advertise its presence, might attract the wrong crowd,' he said, leading me up the steps to the front door, 'but, let me welcome you to the Anthemusa Club.'

With this he opened the front door and showed me into a large and plushly decorated hall. There was a single table in the middle of the room, on which sat a small handbell, and three closed doors led further into the building.

'Now, John, the Anthemusa is a somewhat idiosyncratic place and there are a couple of club rules that you will have to follow . . . '

'I'm no stranger to idiosycrasies,' I replied with an intrigued laugh, 'and as for odd clubs, I have dined with Sherlock's brother Mycroft at the Diogenes!'

'Oh, I think you'll find us far more entertaining than those silent statues,' laughed Drummond, 'and the lunches here are more than worth the odd strange directive.'

With that he rang the small bell and placed it back on the table. Within two minutes a liveried footman appeared through the nearest door.

'Hello Sir, good to see you again. Here for your luncheon reservation? Excellent. The door to the cloakroom is open sir, will you instruct your friend or would you like me to run through things?'

'We'll be fine Jackson, thank you, my friend is an applicant so I will show him the ropes, as it were.'

'Very well Sir.' And with that, Jackson bowed slightly and left through the door he arrived from.

'An applicant?' I asked, confused.

'Oh, I took the liberty of putting your name in the register last evening,' Drummond said, motioning me towards one of the other doors, 'I gained a little standing in the Berlin club and so I have a some weight around here and, as I am sure you will wish to apply once you've experienced lunch, I've called in a couple of favours.'

Drummond held the door so I entered first and found myself in an ornately appointed cloakroom, with a table in the middle of the room for our coats, hats and canes. Once we were divested of our outside wear Drummond retrieved two felt bags from a side table.

'Here's the thing old chap, the members of the Anthemusa are very protective of our anonymity so everyone wears two things, a mask and a number, oh don't look so oddly at me Watson, here's the mask, see it's only like that which you would wear to a masked ball or the like.'

He pulled a mask from one of the sacks. It was a simple eye-mask, oval in shape with two eye-holes and a slight moulding where it sat over the bridge of the nose. It was covered in dark blue velvet and hemmed with matching ribbon. He also retrieved a lapel badge, rather like an enclosure pass at a racecourse but expensively made and bearing the number 14 in a plain style. He put on the mask and hung the badge from his buttonhole then handed me the other bag. As I pulled out an identical mask and a badge bearing the number 112 Drummond continued.

'The rules are that we address each other only by our numbers or some non-specific title such as Sir, even if you know who you are addressing, so I will not call you Watson once we enter the club proper and you should not call me Drummond. The numbers are the only identification allowed in the club and they are mainly for allowing the staff to make sure the correct accounts are charged. I understand that it seems a little odd, even for someone who has lunched at the Diogenes, but it works for our club and its well worth the effort. That's right, the masks are quite comfortable aren't they, you'll forget you've got it on soon enough. Now, get the badge on and we'll go in, it's nearly time for lunch and you'll want to be there from the start.'

Drummond's eyes blazed with anticipation as he finished his entreaty so I fed the silk loop of the badge through my buttonhole and then followed him through the door which led to a second entrance hall containing several doors ('other cloakrooms' Drummond explained) and a curving staircase to the first floor. Our footsteps making no sound on the thick crimson carpet, we ascended.

The carpet continued on the landing at the top of the stairs. A set of double doors stood closed before us. Alcoves either side of the doors contained marble statues of nudes which bordered slightly on the lascivious but I did not have time to study them in any detail as Drummond placed a hand on each door handle and then, pausing slightly to look back at me with a grin, he opened both doors and we entered the club proper. It was a large room, set out as a dining room with tables set with a mixture of two and four places. Some of the tables already had members sat at them, all masked and wearing the numbered badges, and the heady smell of various tobaccos hung in the air. I noticed that the room was windowless, or at least, any windows were hidden behind the heavy red drapery that hung on the walls. The room was lit with gas lamps, giving the impression of it being evening even though we had just recently stepped in from the brightness of midday outside. It was warm and stuffy and the lighting, the smoke and the heavy surroundings made one feel light headed.

A liveried footman, also masked, was waiting inside the door. He noted the number on Drummond's lapel and led us to a table across the room, a table that I noticed, for the first time, was set up near a curtained stage. As we sat I shot Drummond an enquiring glance but he merely smiled back enigmatically and handed me the menu card.

'Its beef today old chap, our chef was trained in Paris and has no equal in London so I will get us a bottle of red from the cellar. I've had a case down there that I brought back from Berlin waiting for the right occasion; I shall instruct the Sommelier to break it open for us.'

He signalled to someone over my shoulder as I cast a glance at the menu card. There would be a fish starter then the beef. Despite the heat I was starting to feel hungry. I felt someone at my shoulder and turned my head expecting to see the Sommelier. I was astounded to find, not six inches from my elbow, a young lady, completely naked but for a face mask. As she faced Drummond, awaiting his order, her dark pubic hair, neatly trimmed, almost brushed my hand as it rested near the edge of the table.

'Your wine instructions Monsieur?' she asked Drummond, in an attractively French accented voice.

'Break open my case marked Berlin 14 and bring us the best red in there for the beef, I'll trust your choice.'

'Very good Monsieur.' She bobbed a short curtsey and turned sharply, her shapely buttocks actually brushing the table cloth gently by my hand, which I had not moved, and left to retrieve our wine.

'Drummonnd, I . . . ' I gasped both for air and words.

'Numbers dear boy, numbers remember, but I suppose I should have warned you,' he admonished me gently with a beaming smile. 'Told you the rules were worth it though didn't I? Marie is an astonishing Sommelier, the equal of any in London outside the very best hotels perhaps, but she's also damned beautiful eh?'

'I . . . I . . .' I remained dumbfounded.

As my mind tried to make sense of the situation a bell sounded somewhere outside the room and the general hubbub of conversation in the room suddenly fell to almost silence. A few members hustled into the room from outside and sat quickly at their tables. The sound of a harp filled the room and the curtains started to pull back from in front of the stage. There was a painted backdrop of a Mediterranean scene, with mountains and a lake, and in the middle of the stage was a brass bath. An easel at the side of the stage held a theatrical card bearing the legend 'The Bathing of Aphrodite' in a curly script.

'Oh, you'll like this one old boy, it's a classic.' Drummond laughed at his own joke, oblivious to the admonishing glances that were shot his way, while I continued to stare with my mouth open at the stage.

As I sat, transfixed, a young woman wearing a toga walked slowly onto the stage. A murmur of excitement rippled through the audience. She walked up to the brass bath and passed her hand through non-existent water, miming testing the temperature then reached behind her neck, unfastened her toga and let it fall to floor so that she stood naked on the stage. She was staggeringly beautiful; her nipples stood erect on large firm breasts and her pubic hair had been completely shaved. Three more girls entered the stage. There were all naked and carrying small jars with cloths covering them. 'Aphrodite' stepped into the bath and the three handmaidens approached and started to pour oil over her from the jars. Using the cloths they started to spread the oil over Aphrodite's naked form. They soon dispensed with the cloths however and started to rub the oil in with their hands. Two of them concentrated on her large breasts, massaging them firmly, her large nipples jutting out and glistening under the oil. The third girl was working her way up her legs, massaging the oil into her calves, then her thighs, the girl's thumbs working deep into Aphrodite's inner thigh muscles. For her part Aphrodite started to writhe under the attention of the hand-maidens, her chest heaving and her head flung back, her sensuous mouth wantonly open as she panted with an almost animal lust. As the third hand-maiden finally moved between her legs and started to massage her outer vaginal lips Aphrodite gripped the side of the bath and her knuckles went white.

One of the other hand-maidens stood up, leaving one hand kneading her breast, and bent her head to Aphrodite's face. They kissed deeply, occasionally parting slightly so that we could see their tongues darting back and forth exploring each other. Aphrodite's convulsions became more rapid and her heavy breathing became moans of pleasure, muffled by her maiden's mouth. As she neared her climax the rapt and silent room watched as the lower hand-maiden bent between her thighs and buried her face into her now engorged vagina, her head moving wantonly, betraying the work of her tongue on the glistening and writhing woman and eliciting a guttural cry of release as a visible shudder wracked Aphrodite before she slumped, spent, into the bath. As the curtains closed over the scene there were a few seconds of awed silence in the room then enthusiastic applause, led in no small part by my companion Drummond.

My shock at witnessing such a display at such close quarters was profound but I found myself caught up by the applause and joining in although when I looked across at my friend he laughed at my shocked expression.

'Fantastic eh, old chap? That's what I call a floor show! And so civilised for here's Marie with our wine.'

Indeed, I turned to find the naked sommelier at my elbow again, this time with a fine bottle of German red wine which she proceeded to expertly pour into our glasses. At the commencement of the stage show, and unaware of what was to occur, I had pushed my chair back to afford myself a better view. I noticed that Marie's eyes kept returning now to my lap and I suddenly realised that the effect that the performance had had on me was now evident for the Sommelier to see. I quickly grabbed my napkin and spread it on my lap. This only made the tenting of my trousers even more apparent and Marie stifled a small, and incredibly alluring, laugh before I huddled myself under the table with some difficulty and she left. Drummond did not bother to conceal his amusement.

'Don't worry old chap, it's nothing they are not used to. Have a drink, settle your nerves.'

I took a large gulp of the wine, which was excellent and full-bodied. It was a welcome relief in the face of the over-bearing heat of the room, due in no small part to the astounding stage show that we had been witness to. Drummond passed me a cigar, then held out a match from which I lit it and I settled back into the chair, cigar in one hand and the large glass of excellent wine in the other. Drummond made small talk about more of his adventures on his way back from India. After a few minutes the bell sounded again and the curtains drew back once more. The backdrop had changed to an African scene; wide savannah and a large red sun setting behind distant mountains. A Negress walked out on to the stage, naked but for a theatrical headdress and carrying a native drum. She sat down, cross legged, her knees wantonly wide then pulled the drum in close to her lap. She started a slow rhythm on the drum using her hands and with no little amount of skill, making various sounds with the one instrument depending on how and where she struck the skin.

Drummond reached over and topped up my wine glass with a conspiratorial smile, he was evidently looking forward to this display. Another Negress entered, also carrying a drum, and sat at the other side of the stage and took up the rhythm with equal skill. The rhythm evolved, slowly increasing in tempo with more deep thumping sounds. A line of four dancers entered, all naked and with richly dark brown skin, adorned with headdresses and coloured ribbons tied at their elbows and knees. They danced in a native style into a circle in the centre of the stage and proceeded to rotate, moving in time to the intoxicating rhythm.

The tempo increased and the drum beats became louder and the dancer's movements became more frantic. Their headdresses and ribbons whipped about them, their breasts bounced provocatively and their buttocks shook swiftly from side to side as they moved their hips wildly. They ducked down by bending at the knee, forcing their thighs apart and revealed snatched glimpses of their shaved vaginas. And still the tempo increased, the heavy drumming vibrating the air, the movements of the dancers shaking the floor and the heavy eroticism of their movements seeming to increase the already oppressive atmosphere in the room. As I watched the swirling dancers and listened to the pounding drums I felt a sudden rush of heat through my body. My mind was filled with images of heaving breasts, pulsating buttocks and exotic vaginas, my senses overcome with the mingled aromas of female perspiration and arousal, heady wine and cigar smoke. My hand moved to my neck to loosen my tie and my collar. I became aware of my vision blurring at its periphery and still the dancers gyrated and the drums increased their tempo, pounding into my head. I was vaguely aware of Drummond's voice but it sounded distant and muffled by the blanket of heat that I felt enfolded in. I heard the smashing of glass and realised that I was no longer holding my wine. My head suddenly felt too heavy for my neck and my chin sagged towards my chest. I jerked it back upright, as once more my world consisted of lascivious visions of breasts and buttocks and flesh then another wave of heat rose in me, my mouth suddenly dried, my head swam and my vision went completely black. As I passed from consciousness the last thing I heard was the thud of my head on the table and the resultant tinkle of the cutlery then all was dark and still.