Dr Casswell's Student (21 page)

Unbeknown to the sobbing girl, Chang was watching from the cover of some nearby rare and exotic shrubs. Finished with beating and screwing the very accommodating arse of the beautiful and imaginative Lola, he observed Sarah’s writhing submission with a great deal of interest and enjoyment. Every detail of the girl’s caning was committed to memory, and would regurgitated blow by blow, shriek by shriek, for his master’s pleasure later in the day.

Doctor Casswell, he knew, would be delighted by his student’s progress, but also a little disappointed not to have witnessed the events for himself, either in person or on close-circuit TV.

From his vantage point, hidden amongst the undergrowth, Chang could see Sarah on the rock, tied and blindfolded. She shrieked again and again as the cane skilfully found its mark. Every sinew in her body tautened as the pain ricocheted through her prone body.

Chang smiled. The beating went on until the valet, Butt, judged she had taken enough and his arm ached.

There was a pregnant pause while the two men silently savoured her submissive beauty, their eyes consistently drawn to the irregular pattern of red welts that enhanced the loveliness of her creamy buttocks, and then Bradbury carefully rolled her onto her back. She winced as the cold stone came into contact with her beaten flesh, but she made no protest as he pushed her trembling thighs apart and began to nuzzle and lick at the juicy contours of her welcoming sex. The smears of grime emphasised her pallor. She was already excited, and moaned with a mixture of surprise, relief, and hunger as his tongue wormed into her. She would have to be well lubricated to take the monster that sprouted from between the bodyguard’s muscular thighs.

The hairy man tested her with strong fingers, first one and then two, whispering to her, encouraging her, until finally she was ready and he sank his rigid shaft to the hilt in her wet and clutching vagina.

Sarah began to move against him, tentatively at first, but with growing confidence as her body relaxed and opened up to ease his progress.

Chang could see she was on the brink of a mighty orgasm, while with every plunge of his muscular buttocks, Bradbury ploughed deeply and rapidly approached his own climax.

The watching Oriental smiled; Sarah Morgan had done exactly what was asked of her without a second’s hesitation. She was learning fast.

In the main house the conference had already broken for lunch. Rigel Casswell picked up a plate from the buffet table and, after filling it from the opulent spread of food on offer, made his way towards Oliver Turner, who was holding court with Lassiter and Ford. Around the elegant dining room little groups had formed into huddles. He heard snatches of their conversations as he passed; everyone was talking about the diary and expounding their own personal views on its authenticity.

During the second session of the morning’s conference news about the book had been very mixed indeed, and there was a distinct air of dejection amongst some of the delegates.

Yes, Beatrice de Fleur’s diaries had most certainly existed at the turn of the century, that point was not really under debate. But there was very little evidence to support the view that the book in the possession of Turner and Casswell was part of that well-documented collection.

Even the construction of the book itself added another layer of ambiguity to their quest for the truth. One of the speakers, a German professor called Gilim, had argued the book was made of genuine materials from the period. But then, playing devil’s advocate, he explained it was possible, if one knew the right supplier, to buy unused parchment, vellum, in fact whatever was required from the appropriate period to make a masterful fake. Relatively cheaply too. And, in his view, there were certain factors about Beatrice’s diary that indicated that such a scenario seemed possible – even likely.

There had been gasps of surprise and dismay from the assembled audience. Above him, slides of pages from the manuscript had clicked into place and he began to point out some of the anomalies that concerned him most.

There were several clues Gilim said: in the fabric of the making, something about the manner of stitching and the thread used, and in the document, in the body of the text itself, the way in which certain letters had been formed and certain words used. It appeared to Gilim that the scribe had no real concept or understanding of what
he was writing, but was just copying blind, so to speak. If it had been a failing on the part of the original writer, through poor education or some personal foible, then the mistakes would be habitual and occur again and again in the same context – and they did not.

Oliver Turner was trying to put a brave face on it, though he couldn’t quite hide his disappointment. He lifted his arms, miming resignation; there would be other diaries, even other parts to this one, many other erotic treasures for him to hunt down, he said with a confident smile. He’d go off in search of those if the diary Rigel Casswell was busy translating turned out to be a clever fake…

Casswell cringed as his mind formed the word ‘fake’. He tried to force his attention onto his lunch and stabbed at a wafer-thin curl of the finest smoked salmon. It tasted fine enough, but couldn’t quite still his busy thoughts.

Just thinking about the possibility of the book being a fake made him uneasy. Although he’d known from the beginning it was a very real possibility. As he’d worked on the text he’d become entranced by the compelling magic of Beatrice de Fleur’s voice.

The diary had seemed almost too complete, too fresh to be a fake. But then, Casswell thought with a wry smile, those were the very qualities any good forger would employ to make it so convincing.

He took a sip of his wine and glanced out across the rolling lawns towards Oliver’s glasshouse tucked away behind an impressive windbreak of poplars. From this distance the tropical house looked like an enormous circus tent constructed from glass. Mid-morning sunshine reflected off its great roof. Perhaps, he thought, the smile on his face broadening, he would have been better employed out there this morning with Chang, Sarah and others. In his mind’s eye, Beatrice de Fleur and the discovery and education of Sarah Morgan were somehow inexplicably linked.

Oliver Turner beckoned him closer. The delegates were all waiting for Sir Egon Howard to arrive from Florence. He had already rung from the airport to say he would be arriving at the mansion after lunch. Perhaps he could bring something a little more definite and uplifting to the table.

Casswell drained his glass. ‘So, how goes it, Oliver?’

The elderly gentleman, who at his approach had carefully extricated himself from the circle of guests, smiled grimly. ‘Good manners preclude my answering honestly. I suppose I should have prepared myself for this, but it hurts. What say you and I go and get a snifter of brandy?’

Casswell nodded and followed his host out towards the study.

In the tropical house Sarah rolled over onto her back, gasping, feeling the last remnants of orgasm pulsing through her sex like a rogue heartbeat. She wondered how much longer the two men, so dissimilar in build yet so alike in appetite, could go on. Bradbury, the younger and the larger of the two, had made love to her twice now with that pendulous cock of his, performing under the watchful eyes of the older man, Butt.

The old man had also made love to her. They had untied her by the time he took his turn and the blindfold had worked lose, so Sarah lay back on the hard rock while the wizened man took her. He had grunted and struggled his way to orgasm, while Bradbury looked on, holding tight to Sarah’s wrists in case she tried to escape, while at the same time lazily stroking her breasts and caressing her face. In spite of everything it had proved to be a heady combination.

Butt was a skilled lover. What he lacked in stamina he more than made up for with experience and technique. His hips ground into hers, his pubic ridge pressed down into her sex, making her wail and writhe with excitement.

As he had coaxed her towards a wonderful orgasm, she had been aware, through misty eyes, of another hare being brought down by a handsome and feverish hound nearby. It could have been Amelia who was caught, but it was hard to tell.

After a short spell to recover, Bradbury lumbered to his feet and spoke to his companion. ‘One more dip in the bran tub, eh? See what we can pull out?’

Butt nodded, and without so much as a backward glance at the lovely exhausted girl, the two of them headed off down one of the paths back into the verdant undergrowth.

Sarah realised with a jolt that not only were they done with her, but that all around the glasshouse the game was still on, and that being caught once did not excuse her from being caught again. She looked anxiously left and right, praying no one could see her there on the rock.

She felt bedraggled. The soft leather basque was all but ruined now. Her stockings had long since been discarded. Her backside still throbbed from the application of the cane, and between her legs she felt a little tender.

Slipping stealthily from the rocks and into the soothing water she let its soft caress embrace and cool her punished body. She slowly swam out into the bubbling depths and then drifted towards the cover of some overhanging vines.

‘Time to go back to the house,’ called a familiar voice from the edge.

Sarah twisted in the water. Chang was standing there and holding out a white towelling robe. She couldn’t help but smile; the little Oriental looked for all the world like some strange maiden aunt, come to collect her from her mid-morning dip. Without a second thought she swam towards him. However odd it seemed, Sarah knew she really was relieved to see him.

Once they were back in the main house, Chang ran a deep foamy bath and gently washed away the remnants of dirt and passion, his fingers working into her aching frame like some glorious, magical panacea. No more solicitous a body-servant could a girl want. When he was done he brought her up a tray of lunch, after which she went to bed. But before sleep called she caught sight of the diary lying on the desk by the computer, and knew she couldn’t rest until she found out what had happened to Beatrice.

Wrapped in the duvet Sarah curled up to read the final few pages of Doctor Casswell’s translation:

…When I finally awoke my first thoughts were of the dream I had been having. It was a terrible, terrible nightmare about death and rape, and men with swords, and murder. And then, as is sometimes the way upon waking, true life and reality filled me, and I knew with a sickening certainty that it had not been a dream at all. It was all I could do to stop myself from leaping up from the bed in fear and in panic. I struggled to make some sense of my bearings.

I was in Father Orme’s quarters deep within the castle walls. Although it appeared stark and monastic, the unbleached linen on the priest’s narrow bed was spun from the finest flax. And the bed itself, though simple in design, had been carved by a master. Poverty, it appeared, like chastity, was very much in the eye of the beholder.

At the sound of my movements, a young monk appeared from a curtained alcove across the dimly lit chamber. He was dressed in the distinctive habit of Orme’s order, and although he looked no older than I, he had a serious and unmoving face that spoke of a life already dedicated to unwavering devotion and penitence. There was a certain arrogance about his bearing that was at odds with his calling. He looked down at me, unable to disguise his contempt and disgust.

‘You are awake then.’

Unsteadily, I pulled myself up onto my elbows, aware that the boy’s eyes lingered a little too long on the ripe swell of my breasts where they pressed up against the fine linen sheets.

‘Has Father Orme gone to warn his lordship?’ I asked anxiously. ‘Do you know if he has taken my message?’

The boy shrugged. ‘I really have no idea, girl. The Abbe asked me to watch over you, to keep you safe and to see to such things as you might need,’ he paused, reddening furiously. He clearly believed that such duties were far beneath him. ‘He said I am to do as you command me. Strikes me as pure folly. ’Tis a bizarre commission for one of my calling, but then Father Orme trusts me to do as he commands,’ he paused again, his voice tailing off, and I saw his gaze was still fixed on my body.

To one side of the narrow bed a tiny oil-lamp illuminated the chamber and the sheet, and for the first time I realised the young monk must be able to see my body picked out in silhouette through the fine cloth. He flushed scarlet when he guessed I had caught him out, and looked down at the worn flagstone floor.

‘So what would you like?’ he stammered, avoiding my gaze. ‘Food? A little wine? Or perhaps I should rekindle the fire. There is a real nip in the air that chills even my bones.’

I glanced around. The remains of the ragged, stained petticoat and cloak were gone, but even so I could still smell the sweat and seed of Jacob, Saob and his compatriots clinging to my flesh. So I bade the lusty young monk bring me a large jug of hot water, a bowl, and some towels.

He seemed relieved to excuse himself from the room and returned a few minutes later with the things I had requested, together with a long nightshirt, the origins of which I can only guess. And then he withdrew again to let me bathe my weary body in peace.

But, left alone, my mind began to race. The old priest’s bedchamber was windowless, rendering me unable to fathom the hour. Would Orme get to my master in time? What if he was intercepted by his betrayer, Arturo, and that band of hired thugs? What would happen when her ladyship returned to her chamber and discovered I was missing – if she had not already?