JACK OF DIAMONDS

Artie looked at Agatha's reflection laying on the bed, her body half covered by the bedsheet, the rest of it dressed in shadows. He could feel the warmth of the late afternoon light breaking in through the windows as if a thief. He was standing at one of the two windows, looking out at the small village below, his naked reflection mirrored in the window glass where he could see her watching him. He turned to look at her, smiling.

“I trust you had an enjoyable afternoon, milady?” he asked, his smile genuine. “I know I have.”

“If by that, you mean having been thoroughly fucked to exhaustion by a handsome young stranger, then yes, I did,” she smiled, stretching her arms over her head as if she were a cat stretching after a long nap. He watched her, looking at her tight beaded nipples, admiring the shape of them—imagining his hands on them once again—imagining himself sucking on them. He imagined feeling her stirring underneath him, pushing up to meet his thrusts.

He could feel himself coming to life at the thought of his desire.

“Hardly the language one expects to hear from a lady,” he smiled, walking toward the head of the bed where she eagerly reached out, grasping his cock firmly in her small hands. Squeezing it, she milked him back to life. She sat up on her knees and he watched her dribble a line of saliva on his cock, her hands strokinging the length of his cock before she taking it into her mouth, but only briefly--only enough to tease him. He could feel his passion mounting as he watched her. He wanted to push himself into her mouth, but she pulled back and he arched his back, willing it into her.

“I’ve never been much of a lady,” she said, looking at him as she began stroking his shaft again. “Besides, how many ladies do you know that take a lover in the afternoon, just for themselves?” she asked, slipping him into her mouth once again.

“You’d be surprised.”

“Why does it not surprise me that you'd know that sort of woman?” she smiled up at him.

“The world needs more women who think like that.”

“Oh? And why's that?” She milked the length of his shaft, alternately taking him unto her mouth as she did.

“Do you think all women are willing to do what you’re doing right now?”

“Do you mean this?” she asked, sliding his cock into her mouth again, briefly, teasing him. “Does this make me a whore in your eyes?”

“Not in the least,” he said, and she stopped, looking up at him.

“Is it really that pleasurable?”

“You have no idea,” he laughed, pulling away from her.

It was her turn to laugh, and sitting back up against the headboard she adjusted the pillow behind her. She pulled the bedsheet taut, sliding it down so that it covered the bottom half of her body. She was sitting crosslegged under the sheet—he could see her knees—and slowly putting a finger in her mouth; sucking it.

He thought about Jenny briefly, wondering if she’d be as liberal a lover.

“Is that what I am for you? An interlude? An afternoon with a faun? A quick fuck with the Footman? A drilling by the driver?” he laughed.

“Do you think I do this often? Is that what you think?” she asked, sliding her hand under the sheet.

“You don't? Is that because you won’t let it?”

“A little of both, I should think.”

“So that’s it then?”

“I’m afraid so,” she replied, and he watched her face as she pleasured herself under the cover of the sheet.

Liberal, but not quite as free as she'd like.

“What if I say different?” he laughed, turning to face her with his erection, watching her.

“Again?” she asked.

He crawled onto the bed, pulling the sheet back. He grabbed her hand and began sucking on her wet fingers. He bent down and kissed her, letting her taste her own saltiness as she reached down and grabbed his hard cock. His pulse quickening as she stroked it, she tried pulling him into her moist centre. He reached over to the end table where she’d lain her stockings, and grabbing her hips, pulled her down the length of the bed. She let out a scream of surprise and then laughed as he grabbed her wrists, wrapping the stockings around them. He pulled the stockings tight, knotting them; lifting her hands over her head, he slipped them over the bedpost and then slid down her body. His hands wrapped around her hips and he half picked her up, rubbing his erection against her wet desire. He drove himself into her and she cried out. He didn’t know if she called out her husband’s name, his name, or God's for that matter, and he didn’t care. He dropped her body back down to the bed, pulling her down and sucking on her beaded nipples; he let himself slide down her body, burying his face in her desire. Her hips immediately leaped up to meet him and she called out again. His hands closed around her breasts, pinching her nipples as she squirmed underneath him.

He stopped, looking over the swell of her breasts.

“What would you like me to do?”

“I want you to fuck me!”

“Again?”

“Yes!”

And he complied.

Three times.

“And what makes you think I’ve got anything to say to the likes of you two? I know who you are. The whole town knows you,” he added, looking at Sonia.

He was about to close the door when Nigel put his foot in the opening, pushing against the door with his shoulder. He looked up at the man who was staring down at Nigel’s foot.

“If you know anything about me, you should know not to talk to me.”

“I said we want a word,” Nigel said slowly.

“And I said I don’t now then, didn’t I?”

“Look, we found a body up at Chumley Gr—”

“And you immediately thought about me? I’m flattered,” he said, attempting to shut the door again.

“One of the men there identified the body as your friend—what was the name?” he asked Sonia.

“Antonov. Alexandr Antonov.”

“Alex is dead? Oh that’s just great, isn’t it?”

“So you knew him?”

Lawrence opened the door and made to step outside, looking over his shoulder and shaking his head as though motioning to someone. Picking up his boots and slipping them on as he stepped outside, he continued watching the two Constables. Boots on, he stepped down off the narrow porch, looking up at the trees for a moment—a man obviously trying to get things right in his mind as far as the story in his head went, Nigel told himself. He wondered if the man was going to start off with a lie, or if he’d come straight and tell them everything he knew.

“I know him. Sorry. I guess that’s knew him now then, isn’t it? Are you sure it’s him?” he asked, turning to look at them.

Nigel stepped down off the porch, followed by Sonia who was taking her notebook out of her pocket and taking notes. Lawrence began by walking away from the house, toward the outhouse, and Nigel felt the man was leading them away from the house on purpose. He looked back over his shoulder and thought he saw a face behind the faded curtains.

“We don’t have a positive ID,” Nigel explained, “but one of the stableman at Bedloe said it was him. He said the man was trying to find recruits?”

“Yeah. He come down from London last month,” Lawrence said, and opened the outhouse door. “Mind if I take a piss?”

“Do you have an address?” Sonia asked.

“Why would I have his fuckin’ address? He come here and said the Party sent him down to recruit fuckin’ members, and that’s all I know about him,” he added, letting the door close behind him.

“How’s that working out?” Nigel asked through the door.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Can’t you let a man piss in peace?”

“Do you know who would’ve wanted to kill him?” Nigel asked as soon as Lawrence stepped out of the outhouse.

“Well, my first guess would be those Russians out here, wouldn’t it?”

“What Russians?” Sonia asked. “There’s no Russians living here—”

“He means in Chumley Grove. Don’t you? You mean Chumley Grove, right?” Nigel asked, looking at Lawrence.

“You from Chumley Grove?”

Nigel nodded.

“Then you know who I mean.”

“We can’t go and see him on that,” Nigel laughed. “Not if you mean who I think you mean.”

“They call him Prince Igor, but he’s no prince. He’s a fuckin’ banker. But he’s a blue blood.”

“You think he's a White Russian?”

“To the bone. He tried to organize an attempt to save the Tsar and his family.”

“What happened?” Sonia asked.

“Well, he didn’t do it, did he?”

“I mean, why did he fail?”

“That, I couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t there. But he came home and started making all kinds of noise. He was trying to rescue his friends and family, smuggling out treasures—art work, jewelry, that sort of thing—while the country’s going through a fuckin’ revolution. And then a Civil War? In the meantime, all he can do is to think about how he can go about saving the Tsar, and failing that, maybe a painting or two.”

“Did he?”

“Did he what?”

“Failing to rescue the Tsar, save his friends and family?” Sonia asked.

“He did. But that drew the attention of the new Politburo. They want him dead, and so they tried to kill him.”

“And they sent Andropov—”

“Antonov,” Sonia corrected him, and Nigel half-smiled, nodding.

“Antonov. By what you’re saying, you mean to tell us that he came here with the intent to kill Prince Igor?”

“If by Prince Igor you mean Chernetsov, then yes, I believe that was his intent.”

“You don’t know for certain? The man stayed here for several weeks—”

“It was twelve days. There’s always someone coming down from London for one reason or another. They don’t talk to me. I’m not privy to what their plans are, and I like it like that. I get them the things they need. If they need an automobilist, I find someone to drive them wherever they want to go.”

“Is there someone down from London now?”

“Yes.”

“Can we talk to him?” Sonia asked.

“For one thing, it’s not a him. It’s a her. And no, you can’t.”

“Why’s that?” Nigel asked, looking at the window where he could still see the blurred figure of someone behind the curtain.

“She’s not here.”

“She’s not?” Nigel asked, turning directly away from the house and looking Lawrence in the eye.

“You wouldn’t want to talk to her, anyway. She’s a real cunt, if you know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t know what you mean,” Sonia smiled.

“Beggin’ your pardon an’ pardon my French, mum, but she has her own agenda.”

“And what would that be?”

“Now that I do know. She came here looking for Antonov. I believe they were a thing, you know?”

“I can believe that more than I’m willing to believe the woman’s a cunt. You most likely feel that way because she refuses to fuck you,” Sonia smiled. “I’m going to have to agree with her on that point, because you see, most women don’t have a natural affinity for fucking farmers—especially pig farmers. They stink.”

“Honestly, Sonia. Now?” Nigel asked, turning to look at her.

"I'm sorry, did I shock you?"

“Let her say what she wants. I don’t care. Do you want me to call you a cunt, too? Because I’ll gladly call you a cunt, you cunt. All women are cunts in my eyes.”

“Prefer taking it yourself, do you?”

“Please, Mr Lawrence, can you tell us anything else about him we should know?”

“You’re a hard one, aren’t you? Or is it you’re in need of a hard one?” he laughed.

“Look, I’m sorry things didn’t work out for you as far as this strange woman’s concerned. And it doesn’t sound as though Special Constable Nazar here is going to accommodate you, either, so can we just get back to the question?”

“I told you, they don’t tell me their plans. I don’t ask. It’s better that way. If you know too much, things might happen.”

“You mean they’ll kill you?” Nigel said.

“Look, did you serve?” Lawrence asked slowly. He leaned back against the fence and looked at Nigel, who nodded.

“Messenger service.”

“I was a nurse. Two years at the Front,” Sonia added.

“A nurse? That was hard.”

“I’m not going to argue the point.”

“Well, toward the end of it all, we’d heard about the Revolution. In Russia? You couldn’t keep something like that a secret forever. Believe me, they tried. Word about something like that always gets out. There’s always someone who steps up and says that maybe we should have our own revolution. People were sick, and dying with the flu—the Spanish Flu they call it now. Back then, it was just the flu. If you got it, you died the same day. And we were all dying. Someone said we should kill all the officers and desert. Mutiny. You know what that means, don’t you?”

Sonia nodded.

“Someone always steps up,” he said. “Always.”

“And just as quickly, gets shot,” Sonia added.

“Yeah well, the British Army doesn’t take mutiny lightly, does it? Every blighter knows that. The ringleaders were rounded up, court-martialled, and then shot, almost on the same day. But Tommies like me? We don’t say much. We sit back, we listen, and when we get back home and see how nothing’s changed, we listen to the recruiters. We become card carrying members of the Party, the same’s we do with our Unions. But the Party? They never trust us. You have to earn their trust.”

“And you haven’t?” Nigel smiled.

“I give them a place to stay when they need it. I get them an automobile, or a horse and fuckin’ buggy if that’s all there is. I feed them, and then I send them on their way home when the time comes. A man has to have a line he won’t cross. I have mine, and they know it.”

“And what’s that?” Sonia asked.

“If I tell you that, Miss, you’ll know what it is as well.”

“How are you feeling?”

“How am I? I’m still hungry. I told you I was hungry hours ago.”

“Maybe later. We still have to make a decision about tonight,” Sonia said, brushing a strand of hair out of her face as she slipped her notebook back into her pocket. They were walking along George Street, approaching Fore and The White Hart, the local hotel and eatery. The sun was starting to set. Nigel supposed it would be another hour at the most. The east side of the street was Lawrence’s pig farm, where they’d just come from; the west side of the street was thin, spindly birch and aspen trees which had lost most of their leaves. The sun came through the trees at an angle, dappling the paving stones ahead of them with light and shadows. The breeze had a bite to it, but Nigel wasn’t about to tell her he was cold.

She’ll probably tell me I don’t know what being cold is.

“What kind of a decision?” he asked, looking at his watch.

“What time is it?”

“Four. Tea time,” he smiled, hoping she might take the hint. “I’m sure we can get a bite to eat at the Hart. It’s not too late.”

“Not too late? It’s only four o’clock.”

“That’s what time we serve tea here in Devon. How long have you lived here?”

“Well, depending on how you feel, we can either put you to bed and wait for what’s about to happen, happen; or we can drive out to Chumley Grove.”

“Chumley Grove? But what about Tea Time?”

“Chernetsov's hosting this year’s Ball, and I plan on being there. I’m sure there’ll be enough food for you to eat when we get there. You can even have my share.”

“In case you forgot, Chernetsov’s Ball is a costume Ball. We don’t have costumes. That might be a problem.”

“There’s a shop in Chumley Grove. I’ve seen it.”

“Yes, Iverson’s. What exactly do you hope to accomplish going to Chernetsov's?”

She stopped and looked at him for a moment.

“What do I hope to accomplish? Well, for one thing, we have a suspected thief who may show himself simply because it's a costume party, and what better way for someone to slip in undetected? And then there’s Chernetsov. Remember him? He may have something to do with this dead Russian. We don’t know. We already know they’ve tried to kill him once or twice—”

“We don’t know that, either. You’re assuming it based on the word of that pig farmer.”

“Isn’t everything we do based on assumption?”

“If you base everything you do on assumptions, you’re not going to get very far. It should be based on facts, and facts alone.”

“I look at it as something more akin to filling in the blanks,” she smiled, and started walking again.

“Filling in the blanks?” he said to himself, and looking up, saw that she was at least ten feet ahead of him. He ran to catch up.

“Sure; you can only know so much. The rest is all guesswork,” she said, when she saw he was beside her again.

“Guesswork? No. It isn’t. Good detection is exactly what it means. You come to your conclusions based on facts, because facts point to one thing, and one thing only: the truth. You come to that conclusion because there can’t be another conclusion. If it looks like a duck, sounds like a duck, and walks like a duck, it probably is a duck.”

“Ever hear of a parrot?”

“Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?”

They walked in silence for a time, the streets slipping into that pre-darkness chill while the light faded. The wind picked up, with the trees slowly disappearing from view behind the buildings. The sun was setting behind the buildings as well, casting long shadows where George Street melted into Fore Street. Sidewalks lined both sides of the street and she could see the Town Council directly in front of them; St James Church came into view as they turned right, the Baptist Church was across the way.

“All right, you win. I’ll go with you to Chumley Grove. If worst comes to worst, we can spend the night at my place. It’s small, but at least it’s a place to stay for the night, if we have to. You don’t really want to be driving out here in the dark, do you?”