The Mystery of the Black Widow ~ A Gay Victorian Romance and Erotic Novella Read online

  ~ The Mystery of the Black Widow ~

  A Gay Victorian Romance and Erotic Novella

  by Lady T. L. Jennings

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Cedric Davidson, a young solicitor from London, does not believe in neither ghosts nor ghouls and goblins. However, both his strong conviction and moral principles are to be severely tested when he is sent to Lydford Hall to sort out the legal documents after the owner’s sudden mysterious death.

  Lydford Hall is an estate located in the middle of the most desolate part of Dartmoor and it is said to be haunted by the Black Widow. There he meets Christopher Morgan, the gamekeeper, whom he is instantly and dangerously attracted to.

  And suddenly nothing is what it seems to be…

  The Mystery of the Black Widow

  A Gay Victorian Romance and Erotic Novella

  by Lady T. L. Jennings

  All rights are reserved. This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s peculiar imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be regarded or constructed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons (living, dead, or undead), actual events, locales, organisations, or groups is wholly coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. No part of this book may be used or reused. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Copyright © 2016 Lady T. L. Jennings

  Proofread by Pauline Nolet. Book cover photo credit: Spencer Means.

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  a Gay Victorian Romance and Erotic Novella

  ~ The Mystery of the Black Widow ~

  A Gay Victorian Romance and Erotic Novella

  by Lady T. L. Jennings

  ~ Chapter One ~

  The senior solicitor’s large corner office was elegant and modern with dark walnut bookcases trailing along the Paris-green painted walls. Although the office was located on the fourth floor and had a stunningly impressive view of the Serpentine lake and the bare November trees of Hyde Park, I could still hear the noise from steel-clad hooves and the rattling of horse carriages and the occasional heavier omnibus from the busy streets in the Knightsbridge district in the heart of London.

  “Do you believe in ghosts, Mr Davidson?” Mr Powell asked me without looking up as he continued to sort through a thick pile of document folders behind his wide mahogany Chippendale writing desk.

  What a peculiar question, I thought with a frown.

  The question took me somewhat by surprise, and I hesitated before answering. I did not know why Mr Powell had summoned me to his office or why he wanted to see me; however, I sincerely doubted that it was because he wanted to discuss spiritualism with me.

  I had not been asked to sit down in the visiting chair, so I stood in front of his large desk, with my hands behind my back to prevent myself from fiddling with the buttons of my brown tweed waistcoat or trying to smooth my unruly dark hair, which I sometimes tended to do when I was nervous.

  “No, sir,” I replied honestly after contemplating the question for a moment longer. “I do not believe in ghosts, ghouls, or goblins. This is the nineteen century, the modern time of British industrialisation and enlightenment.”

  The older man looked up from his documents and peered at me over his thin spectacles. Mr Powell stroked his white handlebar moustache slowly before he leaned back in the black leather swivel-chair, which groaned quietly in protest.

  “I concur,” he said after a while. His penetrating blue eyes met mine, and I had to steel myself from breaking eye contact, although it made me feel uncomfortable. “Only gullible men believe in spiritualism, and superstitious fantasies have no place in the modern society of the British Royal Empire.”

  I nodded silently in reply.

  “How long is it that you have worked for our firm, Mr Davidson?” the senior solicitor asked, changing the subject somewhat abruptly while he made a casual hand gesture towards the visiting chair.

  “Six years in October, sir,” I replied as I sat down.

  “I see,” he said and reached for a cream-coloured manila folder from one of the document piles on his desk. “You were educated at Oxford, were you not? At Trinity College, unless I am mistaken?”

  Mr Powell looked at me like he had never been mistaken in his entire life–or at least that he had never admitted to be so.

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “I went to Trinity College for three years.”

  I had no siblings or other relatives, and I had become an orphan at an early age, and my legal guardian had sent me to various middle-class boarding schools. Once I came of age and could inherit my parents, seeking further education seemed like the most sensible plan for my future, since I had no connections or family to rely on. My parents had not been rich, but the money they had left behind covered the university tuition fees and a frugal allowance.

  “For how long have you been a junior solicitor here at Powell and Drakes?” Mr Powell asked and interrupted my thoughts.

  “Four years, sir,” I replied, my heart beating a little bit faster as I began to wonder where this conversation was heading.

  “And do you aspire to reach further, Mr Davidson?” He looked at me directly.

  “If possible, sir,” I said and felt my mouth go dry. I was deeply dedicated to my work and I was more than eager to step up to a more challenging position.

  “Good,” he commented while he opened the folder and began to browse through its contents. “I have talked to your colleagues and Mr Banks downstairs, and they have all spoken quite highly of you.”

  “I am happy to hear that my work is appreciated,” I replied and tried to sound as modest as possible, but secretly I was rather pleased with his comment. Mr Banks, my manager and senior assistant, was harsh and seldom had a positive word for anything or anyone. In fact, we were all a little bit afraid of him and his volatile temperament.

  “I have together with the other senior partners discusse
d your potential promotion,” Mr Powell continued. “You have a solid education, a good reputation, and you work hard. However, some of the senior partners fear that you are–perhaps–a little bit too young and still inexperienced to become a senior assistant. Nevertheless, we are all in agreement that your work seems to be promising and you appear to be very dedicated to the firm.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said humbly, and inwards I was beaming at the praise. I worked harder than any of the other junior solicitors, and I was always the first to arrive at the office in the morning and I often stayed long after the witching hour.

  “Powell and Drakes has been assigned to go through the legal paperwork for an estate in Devonshire called Lydford Hall, located in the middle of Dartmoor,” he continued. “The case is simple; it is a matter of going through the legal will of the property and comparing it with the bookkeeping that the late Lord Lydford left behind. It is standard procedure, really; however, I would like to send you, Mr Davidson, to handle it, if you are interested?”

  “Of course, sir! I would be honoured, sir,” I replied quickly.

  It did not sound overly complicated, but I understood perfectly clearly that this was my chance to prove myself, and if I succeeded, I stood a large chance of becoming promoted. A raise in my pay check would be more than welcome, of course–however, it was the chance of new responsibility and more advanced cases that appealed to me the most!

  “The case might, however, be more problematic than you think,” the senior solicitor warned me. “In fact, two other firms have already been contacted and they have sent down their own assistants, however…”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, let us just say that they have met with various types of unfortunate events and thus failed their mission, which means that the Lydford case is ours,” he said and paused before he continued, “One poor fellow died and the other attorney ended up at Bedlam mental hospital. Permanently, it appears.”

  “I see,” I replied slowly, although I did not entirely understand what he meant.

  I wanted to ask what had happened and I thought it was a little bit odd that he did not give any further explanation of the other assistants’ fates.

  “Regardless, the case has therefore been assigned to us, and I cannot stress how beneficial it would be for Powell and Drakes if we were to solve this case, where two other London firms–which are generally considered to have more influence than our firm–have failed utterly.”

  “I will do my absolute best, sir,” I told him and straightened my back. Before I had time to stop myself, I quickly smoothed my unruly hair, which was a little bit too long and sometimes tended to fall down in my eyes.

  “I hoped that you would say that, Mr Davidson,” he said and handled me the cream-coloured manila folder, which he had in his hand. “You will find all relevant information in this folder. My secretary has already booked your train. You will leave with the 7.42 train to Exeter in the morning from Charing Cross station. From Exeter you will travel by the post coach at noon, which is the fastest way to reach Moretonhampstead, and there a hired driver will meet you and take you the rest of the way.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Good luck, Mr Davidson. We have great expectations of you, and I hope to see you back in London again within a week to discuss the case–and your potential promotion,” the older solicitor said before he rose from his swivel chair. To my surprise he took my hand in his and grasped it firmly. He seemed to hesitate before he added, “Do take care of yourself, Mr Davidson.”

  I found his comment a little bit strange, but I politely shook his hand in return.

  “Of course,” I managed to say. “I will do my best, sir.”

  As I left the office, I briefly wondered why Mr Powell had begun the conversation by asking me if I believed in ghosts, which seemed somewhat irrelevant to the rest of our discussion. However, the dazzling hopes of my chance for a promotion and alluring daydreams of how I would solve the Lydford case with great success and accomplishment soon overshadowed any of my doubts or questions, and I soon forgot about it entirely.

  *

  ~ Chapter Two ~

  The following day I set out early and left my small apartment just before dawn. I hailed down a hackney cab and arrived at Charing Cross station with plenty of time to spare before the department of my train. I had packed lightly and had only brought a small suitcase, which contained my belongings, and a leather satchel briefcase for my documents, personal notebooks, and the copy of the Lydford file, which Mr Powell had given me the previous day.

  Despite the early hour, the train station was busy and filled with people. Since large crowds made me a little bit uneasy, I decided to follow a whim of unusual generosity towards myself and have a cup of hot chocolate before my train departure. I escaped the crowd and settled myself and my belongings at a small teashop, which was conveniently located next to my platform.

  My landlady and housekeeper, Mrs Allen, a grey-haired and extremely thin lady from whom I rented my small two-room apartment, had sent me off with a packed lunch wrapped in waxed paper, which was kind of her, especially since I missed having breakfast. The previous evening, I had arrived home reasonably early and informed her that I would be away for the week so that she did not wonder why my apartment would be unoccupied, and for her to know that she did not need to have any coal sent up to my rooms.

  Mrs Allen was normally a very practical old lady; however, she had seemed surprisingly concerned and nervous when I told her about my upcoming trip to Dartmoor and Lydford Hall the following day.

  “Please be careful,” she had warned me while she anxiously patted my arm, like she wanted to grip my frock jacket with her thin, birdlike hands and try to prevent me from going. “I grew up at Dartmoor, near a small hamlet called Merrivale. While it can be called beautiful, the area is wild and can be unforgivingly treacherous and even dangerous in many places. Lydford Hall always had a dark reputation, and there are many strange histories surrounding that estate. When I was young, it was even said that the place was haunted…”

  In the end I had promised her that I would be most cautious and vigilant, and as I sipped my steaming hot chocolate while I watched the platform, I wondered why she had been so worried.

  On the other hand, I thought to myself, Mrs Allen is quite lonely, and she is not young anymore…

  I knew that she was a widow and that she had lost both of her sons when they were young in the Crimean War, and perhaps she had a natural tendency towards anxiety, which may have increase with age, I reasoned.

  The train was pulled by a massive black locomotive that billowed steam and quite noisily arrived to my platform just as I finished my delicious beverage, and I left the small teashop and went on board the train.

  I was pleased to notice that the train departed exactly on time according to my father’s old steel pocket watch before I closed the lid with a small click. After changing trains a couple of times, I arrived to Exeter, where I ate my packed lunch before I caught the post coach to Moretonhampstead, where I finally arrived at two o’clock in the afternoon.

  “Mr Cedric Davidson?” A short but stout man in his late thirties greeted me as I stepped down from the uneven stairs of the red-and-black-painted post carriage. He had an Irish accent and wore a sturdy, dark wool greatcoat, which was a little bit too long for him. “Are you Mr Davidson from Powell and Drakes attorneys?”

  “Yes, I am,” I acknowledged.

  “I’ve been hired to drive you down to Crown’s Inn,” he said. “Your carriage is waiting for you around the corner.”

  We left the small town and a few farmers’ stone cottages behind in a four-wheeled carriage, which was drawn by two strong dark chestnut-coloured horses. The stone-cobbled town street soon gave way to a rather ill-preserved muddy country road, and although the carriage was far from elegant, I was happy that it was robust and had a sufficient roof. As we left Moretonhampstead, a drizzling rain began to fall, wh
ich made the bleak moor landscape outside my small windows look even more desolated with its washed-out colours of grey, yellow, and pale sage green.

  Mrs Allen was quite right in her observation, I concluded as I watched the moor unfold through my small carriage window and it became wilder and wilder for each mile. Dartmoor really is a rather grim and dreary place.

  After a while the weather took a turn for the worse, and suddenly the country road in front of us seemed to disappear before us, and the landscape around me was draped in ghost veils of mist, which was the same colour as the steel-grey clouds above us. The mist grew heavier and soon turned into a white wall of fog, thicker than any London fog I had ever experienced. How the driver or the horses could find their way, I did not know, and all I could do was pray quietly for our safety. The cold and humid weather made me shiver involuntarily, and I wished that I had brought a thicker coat with me. I was more than a little thankful when we finally arrived at our destination a couple of hours later.

  The sun was set low and long shadows were creeping along the dead grass over the moor when the driver pulled the reins to the horses and brought the carriage to a halt. One of the horses tossed its head and whinnied nervously.

  “Is this the Crown’s Inn?” I asked the driver before I stepped out of the carriage, and he simply nodded quietly in reply.

  The inn was a low two-storey stone building with a thatched roof and seemed too small to be a coach inn. It was built next to an old clapper bridge that crossed a small stream that ran quietly next to the inn. The house was worn with age; however, there were several burning storm lanterns placed in the small bay windows on the ground floor, which spread a warm and welcoming orange light.