The Back Passage Read online

  One I was fairly sure would keep for a while: Morgan was certainly going to get no satisfaction from the inert form of his sweetheart, and had sampled enough of what I had to offer to bring him back for more. As for the other—I knew from my extensive reading that the very worst mistake a sleuth can make is to let the trail go cold. Gather evidence while it’s fresh, and you stand a much better chance of finding the one clue that has evaded everyone else—and that will lead to your solution.

  With that in mind, I proceeded down the corridor, hell-bent on eavesdropping—but not before I had insured my later pleasure by marching over to Morgan, pushing him against the paneled wall of the landing, grabbing his still-surging groin, and kissing him full on the mouth. It was an act of bravado I would never have ventured under normal circumstances, but somehow the scent of murder had emboldened me. He neither recoiled nor struck me—he simply stood there, his mouth hanging open, a strand of saliva (his? mine?) hanging from his lower lip, a glazed look in his eye—confused, perhaps, by the taste of his own cock in my mouth.

  Yes, he would keep, all right.

  No sooner had I rounded the corner, still smiling after my successful assault on Boy Morgan, than I was accosted by a sinister presence that materialized, apparently, out of nowhere. I say “sinister” perhaps with the benefit of hindsight. But no, there really was something sinister about Leonard Eagle, Sir James’s brother, the troublesome youngest of this brood of Eagles. He had the ravaged looks of a man twice his age; though only thirty-five, his face was lined with experience, and his eyes gave new meaning to the word knowing. He was exceptionally slender—one would have said skinny, were it not for the fact that he offset his thin frame with an extraordinary poise and elegance that rendered him curiously compelling to both men and women. He wore his hair longer than was the norm in those days, brushed back off his forehead and curling around the nape of his neck. His clothes were elegant—too elegant, some would say, for his tailor had tapered his waistline to emphasize Leonard’s epicene silhouette, and had satisfied his client’s taste for color in a lining of crimson figured silk. Add to that a pair of exquisitely manicured, bejeweled hands, a cloud of intoxicating scent, and you had Leonard Eagle—vampirelike, beautiful, just this side of effeminate. It was whispered that Leonard was an “embarrassment” to his upright older brother, from whom he sponged shamelessly and upon whose influence he relied to keep him out of trouble. His nephew Rex, Boy Morgan, and the rest of the “hearties” dismissed him as an awful aesthete and waster; I was both intrigued and repulsed.

  Leonard Eagle glided noiselessly on soft leather shoes, took me by the elbow with one soft hand, and guided me to the head of the stairs—in the opposite direction from my pursuit of the police.

  “Terrible business, we’re so sorry,” he whispered, his full red mouth a little too close to my ear. “We hope our guests won’t be too upset.” I tried to stop in my tracks, but he was surprisingly strong. “Mama suggested I take you round the gardens, show you the horses, that sort of thing.”

  “Well, if you don’t mind, I...”

  “So distressing for Lady Caroline, all of this.”

  “Yes...”

  What could I do? I could not distress Mother Eagle any further. And so I allowed Leonard to steer me downstairs—but not before I had noticed, along the corridor where the police procession had trooped, an open cupboard door, just like the one behind which I had so recently tasted Boy Morgan’s juice. And from that open cupboard spilled an odd assortment of boots, newspapers, and tennis balls, as if something had been pulled hastily from within, bringing with it a random selection of contents.

  Something—or someone.

  I was still looking over my shoulder, trying to note any further clues, when Leonard Eagle commanded all my attention with a few simple words.

  “You seem to be getting on very nicely with Boy Morgan.”

  I’m not easily fazed, and kept my cool despite the note of insinuation in his voice. Had someone, after all, been watching us?

  “Yes,” I said, with exaggerated heartiness, “Morgan’s a good man. He’s been a great pal at Cambridge.”

  “I’m sure...” His voice was laden with insinuation, but I wasn’t going to rise to the bait. “I had great pals at Cambridge too....” I could play the bluff Yank as well as anyone—and, after all, Leonard had no reason to suspect my true nature, which expressed itself so differently from his. (So indiscreet had Leonard been with his “great pals” that, rumor had it, he’d been expelled.) To the casual observer, I was every inch the College Jock—a pose that got me far more cock than any obvious display of effeminacy. I wondered how it worked for Leonard, who had the feline contentment of a man well fucked.

  He whisked me down the stairs, across the hall, and into the small reception room that led to the garden. I had the distinct impression that I was being got out of the way.

  Then, for a moment, in this elegant little room with its painted panels and Turkish carpets, cool and shady despite the heat of the day, we stopped. “But,” continued Leonard, “do you think Boy Morgan is really quite right for my niece?”

  Not if I have anything to do with it, I thought; by the end of the weekend I intended to get Boy Morgan hopelessly addicted to dick.

  “In what sense, exactly?”

  Leonard looked me up and down—I knew that kind of glance all too well from the back streets of Beacon Hill. He paused, took my elbow again, and led me through the French doors and onto the terrace. “I don’t know,” he said airily, guiding our steps toward the lawn, yet further from the house. “He strikes me as...well, you know.”

  “He strikes me as a thoroughly good chap.” This kind of meaningless Anglicism sounded even more hollow with a Boston twang.

  “Thoroughly good, of course,” drawled Leonard. “Solid, you might say.”

  What had he seen? Nothing, surely...

  “And yet...”

  “Yes?”

  We cleared the patio and strode across the lawn toward the woods; by now Leonard had slipped his arm through mine.

  “Yet I wonder if he’s not just a little...”

  “Mmmm?” I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction, even for a moment, of understanding his hints.

  “I don’t know. Just a little...dull. Belinda’s a lively girl.”

  “They seem very much in love.” Damn it all, they did.

  “Oh, yes, she’s in love with him. Who wouldn’t be? He’s absolutely charming...to look at.” Leonard glanced sideways to see how I responded.

  “Certainly, he’s a fine man.”

  “Ye-e-es...”

  “A good man.”

  “Is he indeed?”

  It was time to put an end to these insinuations. I stopped, disengaged my arm, and turned to face my unwanted companion. He was smiling—a vague, distant smile that he probably thought sphinxlike.

  “I would rather not discuss my friends with...comparative strangers,” I said. “Now, if you don’t mind, I shall go to my room.”

  Leonard laughed. “Come on, old chap, there’s no need to go all puritanical on me,” he said. “The house is in a miserable state, crawling with ghastly policemen, it’s a beautiful day, and I intend to show you the grounds. Now,” he said, taking my arm once again, “you wouldn’t deprive your host of the pleasure of showing a guest round his grounds, would you? Especially such delightful grounds as mine, and such a presentable guest as you.”

  He had me figured out all right—the only mystery was how. I allowed myself to be led; odious he may have been, but there was something hypnotic about Leonard Eagle.

  We walked through the formal gardens toward a rustic retaining wall, beyond which the garden turned into park, then woods, then cliff. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” sighed Leonard, holding tightly to my arm. “I only appreciate it when I see it through the eyes of a visitor. Otherwise I suppose I take it for granted.”

  “I imagine you spend a good deal of your time in town, Mr. Eagle.”

&
nbsp; “I do, Mr. Mitchell, but hang it, I shan’t call you that, nor shall you call me Mr. Eagle. It’s Leonard if you must, or Lennie to the family, and I shan’t tell you what my close friends call me, or at least not until I know you a good deal better. What shall I call you? Edward? Teddy? Edwina?”

  “Mitch will do.” This was what my Cambridge friends called me. (Only my mother was allowed to call me Teddy.)

  “I’m sure you’ve been called many other things....”

  “Meaning?”

  “Oh, terms of endearment by sweethearts, of which you must have swooning legions in Cambridge and—where is it? Baltimore?”

  “Boston, Mr. Eagle.”

  “Boston, of course. And do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Have sweethearts?”

  “I do not.”

  “Or...particular friendships?”

  “I have many friendships.”

  “Of that I am sure.”

  He caught my eye and we held each other’s gaze. There was little doubting his intentions. To my shame, I was flattered and aroused.

  “Now,” he said, switching to a tone of breezy camaraderie, “we can ride, or bathe, or play tennis, as you wish.”

  “It’s far too hot for tennis or riding.”

  “And bathing, Mitch?”

  “I wouldn’t object.”

  “Then follow me!”

  He took off with amazing speed across the park, leaping over hummocks like a prancing deer. He lingered at the entrance to the woods—waiting, not even beckoning. I followed—faster and more powerful than him, but less agile, tripping occasionally on an unexpected root. Just as I caught up with him he disappeared from view.

  I blundered into the woods, blinded by the change from sunshine to shadow, out of breath and horribly hot. The air in there was cool, and I had a terrible urge to shuck off my country-house clothes.

  “Mr. Eagle?” I called. “Leonard? Lennie?”

  No reply but the crack of a twig and the pale outline of a figure darting further into the woods. I followed, acutely conscious of the blood rushing in my ears.

  A circle of ancient rhododendrons, long past their prime, stood thick and funereal in what might otherwise have been a pleasant, airy clearing. How typical, I thought, of English gardeners to “improve” nature with their gruesome imports. And then, the last thing I expected to hear—the trickle of water. Somewhat behind me and to my right, a hesitant stream ran through the woods, straight into the heart of the dark clump of evergreens. I approached, expectant.

  The outer ring of rhododendrons was several feet thick, but, by stooping, I found a perfect tunnel, easily passable—and there, on the other side, surrounded by a mulch of fallen leaves, was a round, gleaming pool of water.

  And in its center was exactly what I expected to see—the naked floating form of Leonard Eagle.

  “Come and join me!” he said, splashing great ropes of diamonds loose through the sunny air. “Nobody else ever comes here. They’ve all forgotten about it apart from me.” I looked cautiously around, and saw his clothes hanging neatly on a branch—including his underwear. “I never bother with bathing togs. Don’t worry. We won’t be interrupted.”

  The heat of the day, the excitement of my interlude in the cupboard—not to mention the proximity of a real-life murder—predisposed me to bathing. But I must confess to a further inducement: Leonard Eagle’s pale, sculpted neck, shoulders, and chest, glistening with fresh, cold water, looked too good to ignore.

  I was out of my jacket, shirt, and tie in seconds. The air felt so good on my skin that all the hair on my chest, stomach, and arms stood on end for a moment. I glanced over to Leonard, whose eyes widened. I guessed that his languid London friends had neither the athletic build nor the dark pelt with which nature had endowed me. I stood for a moment and stretched my arms above my head; I knew, from the remarks of previous admirers and from my own evenings in front of the mirror, that this position showed off my torso to good effect. To my delight, Leonard looked completely discountenanced; muscles such as mine were a rare sight in England in 1925, where “strong men” were confined to circus tents and music halls.

  I fixed his gaze for a moment, lifted an eyebrow, and proceeded to kick off my shoes, peel off my socks, and unbutton my trousers. Leonard had adopted a position floating on his back, in which it was quite easy to discern that he was completely naked, and considerably aroused. It has always been my experience that skinny men of wolfish appearance have huge pricks, and Leonard confirmed my findings.

  I took time with my trousers, folded them carefully, and added them to a little pile on a patch of dry leaves. Now I stood up in my underpants—and they weren’t doing a lot to disguise the fact that I was playing the same game as Leonard. I’m easily turned on, and, despite my reservations about Leonard’s motives in leading me down the garden path, I wasn’t going to turn down a chance to fuck a family member.

  I stepped out of my pants and stood, fully erect, on the edge of the pool. Leonard was as shameless as me; we were well matched in that respect. His cock, as long as mine but not as thick, was breaking the surface by several inches. Ripples broke around it like waves around a lighthouse.

  I waded up to my knees, then dived forward and down, submerging my head, kicking up my heels, and swimming a few strokes underwater. The cool wetness felt great, and for a moment I forgot everything but the sensation. Then I opened my eyes, looked through the greenish murk and saw Leonard Eagle’s legs bending and flexing above me. I swam upward, straight between them, launched myself on top of his body, and grasped him in my arms. He must have thought for a moment that I intended to drown him, as his eyes widened in shock—but I clamped my mouth over his, flipped onto my back, and, kicking my legs frog-fashion, carried us both safely to shallow water. There we lay, kissing like starving men, his smooth, sinuous, white body pressed down onto my dark, hairy, stocky form, our two wet cocks slipping and flipping beside each other in mute combat.

  I knew from the first moment I saw him that Leonard was vicious, but nothing had prepared me for the dexterity with which he conducted our coupling. Within a minute of grappling like this, he had maneuvered himself into a straddling position, and was cranking my cock like the starting handle of a car. The look on his face, as he stared down at me, showed that he knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it. He spat on his hand, transferred the saliva to his backside and worked it well in; I could tell the exact moment when his finger entered his body, as he gasped a little, and his eyes took on a glazed, reptilian quality. When he looked down again, there was strange fire sparkling in his green irises.

  I raised my hips out of the water and braced myself to take his weight. Leonard adjusted his position with the precision of a seasoned fuckee, placed my fat bulbous head against his sphincter, and then engulfed me. I had never been taken like that before. There was no pushing, no resistance, no grunting or struggling as had so often been the case with male lovers. Instead his ass opened like a mouth to draw me inside, capturing me with a tight, warm wetness. And then began the fuck; I could hardly say that I fucked him, as all I could do was tense my muscles and hold myself in position. Leonard’s body hardly moved, but the vacuum inside him was playing merry hell with my cock. It seemed as if a hundred hands, a hundred mouths, were working on me; pressures and textures rippled around my shaft, setting my balls boiling like potatoes in a saucepan. Under the surface of his milky white, tight skin I could see the muscles of his abdomen and thighs working in subtle, sinuous rhythms—and all the while that gold fire in the eyes. The only thing over which he had no control was his own prick, which jerked and throbbed with every inner squeeze. Drops of nectar gathered at the head and ran down like wax on a candle. It was too much to resist; I grabbed his cock, scooped up as much juice as I could, and brought it to my mouth. My second taste of the day, and just as delicious as the first.

  Leonard was grinning down at me with a look that said I told you so. I was too far gone to resen
t it; instead I grabbed him by the upper arm, pulled him toward me and made him kiss me. Perhaps it was the taste of his own juice in my mouth, perhaps it was the changed angle of the fucking as he was pulled forward—for whatever reason, he reached the point of no return. His cock, trapped between his white, ridged stomach and my solid, hairy one, gave one almighty twitch and let fly with a huge jet of spunk. For a moment we were stuck together—while, around us in the water, floated white globs of sperm.

  I was ready to shoot my load inside him, such was the intensity of the ride—but Leonard had other ideas.

  He jumped up, ejecting my cock from his ass like a train from a tunnel—which must have hurt, I remember thinking. And then, barely rinsing my dick in the cold water of the pool, he swallowed it whole. His mouth was looser and less exquisitely rippling than his backside, but it only took one look down at his soaked hair, his pale face and sparkling eyes—not to mention his lips stretched wide around my tool—and I was giving it to him right down the back of his throat.

  We lay together, the water lapping our overheated bodies, the sun broken by the gently moving leaves of the surrounding bushes, and I must have dozed off. Certainly it came as a shock when the body next to mine suddenly tensed and shifted. I opened my eyes, took a moment to realize where I was and with whom, and saw Leonard springing to his feet like a cat stalking a bird. There was the distant sound of a slamming door, of feet crunching on gravel...at least, so I thought. The house was hundreds of yards off. I couldn’t be sure of what I heard.

  Leonard, however, seemed satisfied. He was dressing now, rubbing the moisture from his body with his shirt, climbing into his trousers. With his shoes and socks in one hand, he padded through the bushes toward the house—without a word of farewell, a kiss, even a caress. This struck me as strange from one who, only a moment ago, was riding my dick to glory.

  “Wait,” I said. “I’ll come with you.”

  He looked down at me, the sun behind his head. Was that a sneer I saw on his face? And then, turning on a heel, he disappeared from view.