The Selby Bigge Mysteries series - A Queer Case (eBook)
302 Seiten
TITAN BOOKS (Verlag)
9781835413180 (ISBN)
Robert Holtom is an award-winning playwright, based in London. Their play 'Dumbledore Is So Gay' won a VAULT Festival Origins Award for new work and an Offies Commendation in 2020. It played on The Pleasance main stage in 2021, received five stars from the Daily Express, Broadway World and Theatre Weekly, and a new production had a successful run at the Southwark Playhouse in 2023. Twitter/X: @Robert_Holtom
CHAPTER 1
Truly fortuni,” I whispered.
Grey-blue eyes, a fine Roman nose and a generous portion of blond hair oiled back under his trilby. Plump kissable lips I had kissed before and was soon to kiss again. It was the last Sunday of September 1929 as we walked the straight and narrow paths of Hampstead Heath, making our way for the woods. A time of decaying splendour as the oaks turned yellow, the ashes orange and the beeches, my favourite, that vivid, burning amber. For the everyday stroller, the Heath’s imminent loss of abundant leaf cover was simply a moment of aesthetically pleasing autumnal display. But for Arthur and I it was the last chance to bare behind the bushes before the bushes themselves were bare.
“Truly fortuni,” he echoed.
We’d first met at the Men’s Bathing Pond back in the summer. He’d been sunning himself in the changing area in nothing but a piece of string and barely half a handkerchief’s worth of cloth that permitted a generous glimpse of what lay underneath. He caught me looking and I’d blushed, but one thing led to another and now here we were, seeking alternative pleasures at a chillier temperature. Up ahead a man appeared, the severe-looking sort in a coal-black suit and bowler. He stomped his way down the path with an ugly little terrier pulling at a leash. Arthur and I wore dark Sunday suits, nothing conspicuous. I had opted for a homburg, grey wool felt and black satin-lined. It was superb quality and kept the chill off my crown, which was getting a fraction chillier these days. With straight backs and broadened shoulders we tried to pass ourselves off as normals. He stomped past us with a harrumph. His dog panted and strained, having caught a whiff of something exciting on the air.
A few minutes later and the woods were looming. Lured by their siren’s call we entered. The colours were changing but the leaves were still onside for now. Neither of us had appropriate footwear for the muddy paths but that didn’t deter us, led by our urges and keen to satisfy them. Suddenly there was a shout. We stopped dead in our tracks, Arthur almost skidding on the mud.
“That can’t be the bloody police, can it?” he muttered. “We’re just going for a stroll.”
“Old chums who bumped into each other,” I replied, trying to sound more confident than I felt. We held our breaths until quiet returned. A few pigeons flapped overhead, their wing beats surprisingly loud, and somewhere another call was issued. “Probably that fellow shouting at his dog.”
We resumed our mission. Up ahead lay a fallen oak, as if a Titan’s arm had been chopped off mid-battle and now all that remained was the bone. Next to the giant’s dismembered limb was a large holly bush with a good covering of berry. It also afforded better cover than any of the nearby trees. We hurried around the oak towards the prickles of the holly. But those sorts of pricks didn’t matter as my cold hands went quick to Arthur’s warm neck.
We kissed hurriedly and nervously. He tasted of cigarette and mustard and I assumed I tasted of cigarette and bread sauce. I enjoyed the feel of his plump lips as he enjoyed mine. We opened our mouths and our tongues were quick to find one another. My hands slipped from his neck to the back of his head where I could feel the end of his lustrous hair. How I wanted to run my fingers through it but, ever the Englishmen, we kept our hats on. Not one to waste a second, I put my hand to his crotch and gave a squeeze. His person was already starting to stiffen, as was mine. He pulled back from our kiss and we looked a moment at one another. His hands came around my back and patted my buttocks.
“Those will be for dessert,” he said with a fruity chuckle.
Something snapped. We froze. The sound had come from further within the woods. We waited, the silence of the air anticipating another sound as a vacuum awaits its filling. We held fast, groins pressed together, our members unsure as whether to continue hardening or to wither. Another snap, then leaves rustling and somewhere much too close a dog yapped. We pulled apart as the ghastly terrier belted into view.
“Bugger,” I cursed.
The siren’s call proved true. I saw panic on Arthur’s face, which he saw mirrored on mine, we had no choice but to run. A subtle departure proved difficult as the leaves beneath our quick retreating feet mocked us with the volume of their crunching and even the branches pointed at us accusingly. The dog’s infernal barking was answered with another shout, louder now and much too close for comfort. Our quick step became a run as we escaped that blasted creature and its approaching owner. God only knew what he would do if he caught us. He’d looked the National Vigilance Association sort. We ran and ran, our faces reddening, skirting the oaks and ashes, not stopping to admire the beeches, and then suddenly the trees vanished as we stumbled onto a sturdier path.
We tried to return to a regular pace but were fearful the dog would reappear. My armpits were perspiring and I cursed the stink it would make under my jacket. Arthur was a few paces ahead, his face pink, and I saw his shoes were covered in mud, flecks of which had splashed up onto the hem of his trousers. I looked down at mine and saw the same. Double bugger. We reached a fork in the path and he turned to me, worry in his nice grey-blue eyes.
“Bloody creature,” he said.
“Less Hound of the Baskervilles,” I replied. “More Terrier of the Heath.”
We tried to laugh but our attempts at bravado quite failed.
“Perhaps we could try the South End Green toilets,” I suggested.
“I… I’m not sure. I hear the police have been sniffing around there of late.”
That familiar look of desire passed between us but the thrill of the moment had died.
“Another Sunday,” he said, “we should try the Heath extension.”
“We should.”
A serious young man appeared from the left fork, strolling purposefully ahead of his companion, a short young woman with a grumpy look about her. He too looked rather bad-tempered and I assumed a lovers’ tiff. He was marching in our direction and the last thing I wanted was for his ire to turn on these two uncanny men still trying to regain their breath. I turned on my heel and took the right fork, leaving Arthur to face the couple. We did not say goodbye.
So it was I retreated back across the Heath, heading for Parliament Hill. The sun was lower and the chill intensifying. I pulled my coat tighter around me, regretting my lack of a scarf. My feet were sweating and I could feel them rubbing up against the tight leather of the shoes with only a thin layer of sock in between. The heel of my right foot was beginning to chafe, I’d have a blister sooner or later. Battle scars without victory, just my luck.
Despite these protestations I worked my way to the top of the hill and found my usual bench empty. Its wooden slats provided respite for my unsatisfied buttocks and my fast-beating heart. I admired the view through the trees to that higgledy-piggledy horizon of spires, chimneys and smoke. With a single finger held aloft I vanished whole swathes of the city. St Paul’s and Waterloo Station obliterated by the tip of my index finger, St Pancras squashed under a thumb. From here I liked to put London into perspective.
Occasionally I turned my head to observe the Sunday strollers. A handsome young couple with clean skin and rosy cheeks walked arm in arm. They had the look of new love to them, all excitement and adventures to be had. Then came a family of stern father, prim mother and a pair of smaller facsimiles in tow. All wore sensible coats and walked with the lethargy of those mid-digestion, I assumed of a hearty roast lunch. A governess was on hand, the dour and dependable sort, disinclined to marriage. Soon an elderly couple tottered their way across the brow of the hill, unperturbed by their sagging necks and greying hair, the kind to immortalise their long marriage (and approaching mortality) with a plaque on a bench. Like the riddle of the Sphinx, so I witnessed the three stages of normality: from first love to senility by way of family. For those everyday folk, love was something attainable, for the likes of me it was criminal.
“Excuse me, have you got the time?”
I turned to the stranger and almost gasped. Straight nose, slim lips and quiet chin, suddenly I was back amongst those sandstone spires, dressed in black tie and gown, talking animatedly with other men about the pastimes of the Greeks and the latest college scandal. I had only met him a handful of times but even then he’d made an impression. Like a lesser-known Greek god, he had been beautiful, and I saw now that his looks hadn’t changed a jot.
“I say, it’s Patrick, isn’t it? Patrick Duker?”
Shock crossed his handsome face but he was quick to smother it.
“Yes, it is,” he replied reluctantly as his eyes narrowed and forehead furrowed. I could almost see the levers and pulleys of his brain clunking away as some distant memory was searched for.
“Oxford,” I said. “We were mutually acquainted with Cyril Hughes.”
“I’m terribly sorry, I… I don’t recall…” But as the words left his lips so his eyes opened wide. “Stuart? It’s Stuart.”
“Selby. Selby Bigge. Do take a seat.”
“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“It would be no intrusion at all.”
He sat himself down as I raised my left arm and pulled back the sleeve of my coat to reveal a slender, pale wrist dotted with short, light...
| Erscheint lt. Verlag | 3.6.2025 |
|---|---|
| Verlagsort | London |
| Sprache | englisch |
| Themenwelt | Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror ► Krimi / Thriller |
| Schlagworte | 1920s • 1920s Crime • Butler • clue • Cluedo • Colonel • Crime • crime writer • crime writing • Cross-Dresser • Cross-dressing • domestic servants • Domestic Service • domestic staff • Gay Crime • Gay underworld • Golden Age Crime • Hampstead • Hampstead Heath • historical crime • Historical crime book • historical crime books • historical crime novel • historical crime novels • historical crime stories • Historical crime story • Homosexual Crime • Homosexual underworld • Lady • Lesbian crime • LGBT Crime • LGBTQ+ Crime • London • London’s gay underworld • London’s homosexual underworld • Lord • Maid • Maids • Murder • Polari • ritz hotel • the ritz • Twenties • Twenties Crime |
| ISBN-13 | 9781835413180 / 9781835413180 |
| Informationen gemäß Produktsicherheitsverordnung (GPSR) | |
| Haben Sie eine Frage zum Produkt? |
EPUB (Wasserzeichen)DRM: Digitales Wasserzeichen
Dieses eBook enthält ein digitales Wasserzeichen und ist damit für Sie personalisiert. Bei einer missbräuchlichen Weitergabe des eBooks an Dritte ist eine Rückverfolgung an die Quelle möglich.
Dateiformat: EPUB (Electronic Publication)
EPUB ist ein offener Standard für eBooks und eignet sich besonders zur Darstellung von Belletristik und Sachbüchern. Der Fließtext wird dynamisch an die Display- und Schriftgröße angepasst. Auch für mobile Lesegeräte ist EPUB daher gut geeignet.
Systemvoraussetzungen:
PC/Mac: Mit einem PC oder Mac können Sie dieses eBook lesen. Sie benötigen dafür die kostenlose Software Adobe Digital Editions.
eReader: Dieses eBook kann mit (fast) allen eBook-Readern gelesen werden. Mit dem amazon-Kindle ist es aber nicht kompatibel.
Smartphone/Tablet: Egal ob Apple oder Android, dieses eBook können Sie lesen. Sie benötigen dafür eine kostenlose App.
Geräteliste und zusätzliche Hinweise
Buying eBooks from abroad
For tax law reasons we can sell eBooks just within Germany and Switzerland. Regrettably we cannot fulfill eBook-orders from other countries.
aus dem Bereich
