Chapter III: The Lauriston Garden Mystery
We took a hansom to Brixton Road. It was a foggy, cloudy morning, and a dun-coloured veil hung over the house-tops, looking like the reflection of the mud-coloured streets beneath. My companion was in the best of spirits, prattling on about Cremona fiddles, and the difference between a Stradivarius and an Amati.
We arrived at Lauriston Gardens Number 3. The whole place was very sloppy from the rain which had fallen through the night. The garden was bounded by a three-foot brick wall with a fringe of wood rails upon the top, and against this wall was leaning a stalwart police constable, surrounded by a small knot of loafers, who craned their necks and strained their eyes in the vain hope of catching some glimpse of the proceedings within.
I had imagined that Sherlock Holmes would at once have hurried into the house and plunged into a study of the mystery. Nothing appeared to be further from his intention. With an air of nonchalance which, under the circumstances, seemed to me to border upon affectation, he lounged up and down the pavement, and gazed vacantly at the ground, the sky, the opposite houses and the line of railings. Having finished his scrutiny, he proceeded down the path, or rather down the finger of grass which flanked the path, keeping his eyes riveted upon the ground. He then looked up to an open window on the second floor, white curtains flying in the breeze.
Twice during his scrutiny, he stopped, and once I saw him smile, and heard him utter and exclamation of satisfaction. There were many marks of footsteps upon the wet clayey soil, but since the police had been coming and going over it, I was unable to see how my companion could hope to learn anything from it. Still, I had such extraordinary evidence of the quickness of his perceptive faculties, that I had no doubt that he could see a great deal which was hidden from me.
At the door, we were met by a tall, white-faced, light-haired man, with a notebook in his hand, who rushed forward and wrung my companion's hand with effusion. A momentary glance between Mr. Holmes and the detective made me suspect that they knew each other both professionally and Biblically, but I could not say for certain. After all, I am not a consulting sexual detective.
"It is indeed kind of you to come," said the man. "I have left everything untouched."
"Except that!" my friend answered, pointing at the pathway. "If a herd of buffaloes had passed along there could not be a greater mess. No doubt, however, you had drawn your own conclusions, Gregson, before you permitted this."
"I had much to do inside in the house," the detective answered evasively. "My colleague, Mr. Lestrade, is here. I had relied upon him to look after this."
Holmes glanced at me and raised his eyebrow sardonically. "With two such men as yourself and Lestrade upon the ground, there will not be much for a third party to find out," he said.
Gregson rubbed his hands in a self-satisfied way. "I think we have done all that can be done," he said. "It's a queer case, though, and I knew your taste for such things."
Gregson led us inside the house, a clean and officious place. A short passage from the entrance opened into a living room. I took note there of a classical bust placed upon a mantelpiece of imitation white marble, a depiction of the priapic Hermes. It was a vulgar item, though its sexual display was easily ignored by upper society men and women, who simply considered it a classical statue. A framed painting of Zeus absconding with Ganymede was another subtlety signaling hidden depths to men of my variety.
Holmes and I were led up a staircase to a bedroom, where the mysterious affair had occurred. In it stood a fretful man, about forty-three or forty-four years of age, middle-sized, broad-shouldered, with crisp curling black hair, running to silver at the sides, and a short stubbly beard. He was dressed in a heavy broadcloth frock coat and waistcoat, with light coloured trousers, and immaculate colour and cuffs. A top hat, well brushed and trim, was placed upon his head. He nodded curtly at Holmes and I as we walked in. Lestrade, lean and ferret-like as ever, stood by the doorway, and greeted my companion and myself.
"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson," said Gregson, "This is Enoch Drebber."
Mr. Drebber eyed my companion and I with suspicion. "What is their business here?"
"We have come about the robbery," said Holmes.
Gregson sputtered. "I haven't told you anything about the case. How in the deuce did you know that we were looking for a robber?"
Holmes puffed his lips. "That there has been a break-in is obvious. Or, at least, that is what it appears to be."
Mr. Drebber appeared confounded, and he glared hard at my companion. "My wife's ruby ring," he said. "It is an extremely valuable item, and it has gone missing following our recent holiday."
Holmes did not seem to be listening to the man, running his nimble fingers wildly over the dresser in the room, as well as here, there, and everywhere. During his examination, my companion wore the same far-away expression which I had remarked upon before. So swiftly did Holmes move that none of the assembled persons had any time to react to the rudeness of the intrusion.
"It certainly has," said Holmes, and then seemed to move on to another subject. "And your secretary--a certain Joseph Strangerson, do you currently know his whereabouts?"
Drebber turned red as an onion at the name of his secretary.
"What would Strangerson have to do with this?" he blubbered. "And how did you know his name?"
Holmes had whipped a tape measure from his pocket and was trotting noiselessly about the room, sometimes stopping, occasionally, kneeling, and once lying flat on his face. So engrossed was he with his occupation that he appeared to have forgotten our presence, for he chattered away to himself under his breath the whole time, keeping up a running fire of exclamations, whistles, groans, and little cries of suggestive encouragement and of hope. As I watched him I was irresistibly reminded of a pure-blooded well-trained fox-hound as it dashes backwards and forwards through the covert, whining in its eagerness, until it comes across the lost scent. For twenty minutes or more he continued his researches, measuring with the most exact care the distance between marks which were entirely invisible to me. In one place he gathered up very carefully a little pile of grey dust from the floor, and packed it away in an envelope.
Finally, he jumped up and produced several items that had apparently been the fruits of his search, listing each one as he handed them around.
"A gold watch, No. 97163, by Barraud, of London. Gold pin--bull-dog's head, with rubies as eyes. Russian leather card case, with the cards of Enoch J. Drebber of Cleveland."
Drebber seemed unimpressed with this performance. "Yes, those are all my things."
I took note of the fact that Mr. Drebber's personal items had been scattered about the room, perhaps in some haste, and that they described a man of flair, a bit flamboyant with his tastes.
Holmes continued. "A pocket edition of Boccaccio's `Decameron,' with name of Joseph Strangerson upon the fly-leaf. And a letter addressed to Strangerson, referring to the sailing of a boat from Liverpool. It is clear that this man was about to return to New York."
Gregson eyed Mr. Drebber about this piece of information. "It that true? Was your secretary here recently?"
But Drebber did not appear to know what my companion was talking about. "I haven't seen Strangerson in some time. He has nothing to do with this case."
It was obvious the man was lying, but Holmes paid the statement no heed. He casually stretched his arms above his head, pulling the bottom of his waistcoat upward. The towering bulge of his crotch was evident, and the coiled outline of the gift the Lord gave him pressed luridly against the fabric. Holmes scratched at his member nonchalantly, but I saw how his eyes watched Drebber, whose gaze was magnetically drawn downward. In fact, no man in the room could fail to be impressed and even Gregson had trouble averting his eyes from Holmes' obscenity.
As if to save himself the embarrassment, Gregson busied himself with Strangerson's letter, flipping the paper over. On the back in a charcoal pen was written the word `Rache.'
"That's strange," he said. "It appears that someone was trying to write the name `Rachel' here on the back, but stopped. Is that your wife's name, Mr. Drebber?"
Drebber's attention snapped away from Holmes' crotch. "My wife's name is Muriel, detective. I have no idea who Rachel might be."
"It might not be a name. Rache' is also the German word for revenge,'" I interjected, trying to helpful.
Holmes studied us all. "And it can refer to a type of Medieval hunting-dog, once commonly found here in Britain. Perhaps one of you has heard of a club with the same name, over by Cleveland Street?"
A flicker of recognition passed over Drebber's face. But he buried the expression. Instead, his eyes fell once again to Holmes' crotch and he swallowed, as if salivating too much.
"What were you and Strangerson doing the last time you saw one another?" Holmes asked. He now brought himself quite close to Drebber, locking eyes with the older man.
"Who knows?" said Drebber, agitated but unable to turn away. "Paperwork most likely. We had recently traveled in the Continent together. Why the devil are you so fixated on him?"
"Mr. Lestrade; Mr. Gregson, would you excuse us for a moment?" Holmes asked, quite politely.
Though guileless Gregson seemed to find this an easy enough request, the look on Lestrade's face indicated that he didn't entirely like where this situation was going. But he acquiesced and left myself, Drebber, and Holmes alone.
"Now, Mr. Drebber," said Holmes. "At what point did you and your secretary first become lovers?"
The skin around Drebber's collar turned crimson as he glowered fiercely at my companion. "What kind of a terrible insinuation is that? As I have previously stated, I am a happily married man."
"I don't recall you using the word `happily' at any point," said Holmes with a casual air.
Ruffled and uncomfortable, Drebber began to puff. "I would ask you to please take your accusations elsewhere. Simply because a man isn't happily married does not mean that he undertakes the gross indecencies to which you refer."
Holmes stood right next to me and, at that moment, leaned over to whisper in my ear, "I hope you won't mind if I borrow this."
No sooner had he said these words than he unbuttoned the fly of my trousers and pulled out my cock and balls. I was too shocked to do anything but stare as my member draped indecorously over my hairy pouch, the rest of my body fully clothed.
"Are you saying, Mr. Drebber, that you gave no interest in something like this?" Holmes said, retaining a comfortable grip around my shaft.
Even soft, I must admit my tool was an appealing prize, dangling down toward the floor as it stiffened. Drebber was scandalized yet entranced by my thickening dick. As if it were a treat presented to a dog, Holmes grasped my sausage and shook it enticingly.
"I... well..." Drebber seemed at a loss for words, hypnotized by the sight before him.
"Go ahead," Holmes said in a deep and commanding voice.
Drebber stumbled forward, fell to his knees, and parted his mouth like he was partaking in a sacrament. The head of my cock came to rest on his tongue, causing an electric thrill to run through my spine. He closed his eyes, as if tasting the sweetest fruit plucked from the most tantalizing tree.
"Yes, that's very good," Holmes said encouragingly. He placed his hand in Drebber's curls and bade him forward on my member. Drebber complied, taking more of my halfway-hard reward into his mouth. He sucked on it gently, inflating me further.
I suppose I should not have submitted so easily and allowed Holmes to use my instrument as a transactional tool in his case. But you must understand that it had been some time since a pair of fine lips had become wrapped around my cockhead. Drebber, with his avuncular handsomeness, was not a terrible way to break this virginal fast.
Holmes watched this action with lust and slid up beside me, placing one arm around my shoulder. With his other hand, he undid his own trousers, releasing the soft form of his monstrous entity. "You rather enjoy sucking large members, don't you, Drebber?" he said.
It seemed that no bigger prize--both figuratively and literally--could have pleased Drebber more. Leaving my growing erection aside, he shifted to face Holmes, pressing his face into that incredible creation. He seemed to drink deeply of Holmes' dick, and immediately become inebriated. Rubbing his bearded cheeks over its unending length, he looked like a creature at play. Eventually, he leaned down to accept the enormous head into his mouth, an ecstatic shiver running through his entire body.
At this point, I looked over at Holmes, the two of us caught in a strange embrace. Such a situation seemed to be a breach in the rulebook he laid down on our first day together. At the same time, I was in no position to complain, enjoying the sight of this man engaged in Holmes' engorging member. Perhaps we could bend the rules ever so slightly for occasions like these.
Soon Drebber was working assiduously on both our stiffened instruments, moving back and forth between each one like a drunk man. He tried to fit as much of our proportions into his throat as he could with each pass, doing a rather commendable job of it. In similar circumstances in the past--a male lover beside me as a second one knelt at my crotch--I would be kissing the nearer companion. And so, I leaned toward Holmes now, parting my lips for an embrace.
Holmes brought a shushing finger to my mouth. "Now, Watson, you recall what we've discussed. The two of us will be doing nothing of that sort."
Momentarily stunned, I tried to make sense of his system. But my body was rather aflame, Drebber's lips now sliding past the midway point of my shaft, and rational thought somewhat beyond me. Holmes took the opportunity to leave me and sidle up behind Drebber, who was on all fours on the floor. Carefully, he undid Drebber's belt and removed his trousers and underpants. Like two rounded hillocks, his naked arse stood out, covered in small black curls. The tuft of his bullocks peeked from between his parted legs, which were thick as tree trunks. Below, I could see his plump cock, dripping pre-ejaculatory fluid at a remarkable rate. Drebber seemed to be in a state of frenzied anticipation, more aroused than I had seen any man in some time.
Holmes placed his wet tool in Drebber's crack and rubbed lasciviously. This seemed to drive Drebber into an even higher realm of ecstasy, and he moaned delightedly. Though with my girth still firmly lodged in his throat, and moving ever deeper, he was unable to produce much more than an excited whimper. The three of us were now positioned like a drawbridge--Holmes and I on either side with our pants around our ankles and Drebber as the span between us.
Holmes met my eyes with a look that said, "Not a bad state of affairs, eh chum?" And I had to admit that if this was life with Sherlock Holmes, I would probably be willing to put up with a few strange rules. Drebber had now encapsulated a greater portion of my dick than most men could manage, his oral skills clearly among his greatest assets. That Holmes had managed to recognize this a priori was impressive to say the least. Relishing the warm wet feeling on my pole, I threw my head back in sublime gratification, slipping my hands beneath my shirt to caress my body and hardened nipples.
From a pocket in his coat, Holmes produced a small flask containing oil. He rubbed some on Drebber's hole, carefully inserting a digit. Drebber's willingness at this point was evident. But Holmes seemed to want to tease the man just a bit more. He knelt down like an lion at a savannah watering-hole and began to play his tongue over Drebber's pucker.
Holmes licked Drebber, reaching down to smear precum on his shaft and stroke it. The stimulation sent Drebber into fits, driving his mouth all the way to the base of my cock. The sensation was celestial and I couldn't help but pump my hips ever so slightly, though I wasn't sure Drebber could handle such an incursion into his gullet. He took it like a champion, pulling himself most of the way off and then plunging back to fully envelop my rod.
At this moment, Holmes spoke up between his tongue lashes. "Mr. Drebber, I know how much you enjoy the feeling of a large cock in your mouth while another man bucks you from behind. Wouldn't you like that right now?"
Drebber, joyous tears streaming down his face, nodded while orally retaining my apparatus.
"But for that to happen, Mr. Drebber, you will need to give me the information I require."
Drebber cried out affirmative sounds, as if to say: "Yes, anything. Simply continue this astonishing pleasure."
"Excellent. Now would you say that that you and your former secretary, Strangerson, were quite recently at the club called `Rache'?"
Annoyed at being interrupted from the plaything at his face, Drebber pulled off me and turned to Holmes. "Yes!" he cried. "That's where he met his damn fool of a lover who has my wife's ring!"
"And do you know this man's name or what he looked like?"
"Of course not! I've never seen hide nor hair of his--OOOOOHH!!"
This final exclamation came in response to Holmes decisively slipping his cockhead into Drebber's awaiting pucker. With his hands firmly grasping Drebber's hips, a look of concentration and determination glued to his face, Holmes began a slow descent downward. Inch after inch of his marvel disappeared, gliding into Drebber with surprising ease. I watched the action, aroused beyond any measure, which seemed to take an inordinate amount of time.
Finally, Holmes reached his hilt--his balls, which were the size and colour of Spanish carombola, coming to rest against Drebber's arse. Though I might have expected some pain from Holmes' gargantuan organ, the expression on Drebber's face indicated the procedure had been delightful, his eyes rolling back and a beaming grin spreading across his lips. He turned once again to the piece in front of him, sliding my member deep into his mouth. For a moment, Holmes and I simultaneously stuffed him; Holmes corking him from the back while my projection stoppered his fore-end.
Sherlock Holmes began a slow and steady stroke, his ridiculously large member shifting like the piston of a departing train. While thrusting into Drebber's opening, he removed the remainder of his clothing. My eyes drank in the sight of his nude, brawny frame and the woolly hair on his chest. He leaned forward and undid Drebber's coat and shirt, which had become sweat-stained from exertion, and then twisted his head beneath Drebber's thick and muscular body to lick his engorged, pink areolae. Drebber responded with an elated cry as Holmes took Drebber's cock in hand once again and began to pump it.
At the same time, I looked at Drebber's face, my considerable instrument in his mouth and hairy satchel resting up against his chin. Our eyes met and he gave the briefest of nods, assenting to the minute movements I began to make with my hips. Warmth spread through my groin, elation fanning out into my body. This was sensational in every sense of the word. The three of us were a well-oiled sexual machine producing pleasure at treble the normal rate. Our actions felt primal, animalistic, and exceedingly masculine; for what better study of a man's body than another man?
We continued in this manner for some time, and I enjoyed being both observer and participant in our revelry--watching Holmes expertly lunge his colossal grandeur into Drebber's enthusiastic slot while my own implement slid between his heavenly lips. Soon, I could feel the tightening of my testes that indicated the impending critical period. The other two men must have begun to feel the same, as their breath quickened and passionate exclamations increased. Holmes grasped Drebber's torso and dove into him with greater force and urgency. Drebber trembled with excitement; the three of us grunting like a troop of baboons.
Drebber finished first; unexpectedly as no one was stimulating his sex at that moment. Driven to orgasm by Holmes' appendage alone, he shot an immense glob of thick white seminal fluid that painted the floor. Seeing this brought about my own flood of bliss, my muscles twitching as I expelled with a cry into Drebber's willing maw. Holmes kept at it for a while longer, his pace quickening until he could no longer avoid release. He clamped his eyes and tossed his head at climax, producing so much cum that it inundated Drebber's compartment and leaked out around the edges of his cock.
For a moment, I must have gone comatose as the next thing I knew, Holmes was standing beside me, offering a washcloth. Drebber had curled up on the floor next to his white puddle, looking up at the two of us in kittenish exultation, his hand idly stroking his flaccid dick. He gibbered, telling us that had been the most unbelievable experience of his life. Holmes merely nodded, thanking him and saying he would be happy to oblige anytime. Without warning, he called in Lestrade and Gregson.
Both men's faces were stained with a deep, embarrassed red as they entered, having no doubt overheard our exertions with Drebber. Neither glanced at the stark-naked man on the floor, who seemed not to care much who saw him unclothed. Holmes buttoned his shirt without haste, though his lower half (and the immensity it contained) remained bare. I had to admit that I experienced no discomfort from the detectives' presence either, and the informality of having the affair out in the open was relaxing. I could certainly get used to such an environment.
Lestrade's dark look suggested that he had experienced similar circumstances in the past with Holmes, and he didn't like them. He was desperately trying his best to suppress the ardor we had roused in him, though his rigid member was visible through his trousers. Gregson, too, had clearly been stirred, though he managed to address us while avoiding meeting our eyes.
"And what have you discovered Mr. Holmes?" he asked.
Holmes smiled as he finished putting on his clothes. "My companion and I found Mr. Drebber quite the charming fellow. They say that genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains. In which case, Drebber might be considered a luminary of our time."
"But what do you think of the case, sir?" said Gregson, annoyed.
"It would be robbing you of the credit of the case if I was to presume to help you," remarked my friend. "You are doing so well now that it would be a pity for anyone to interfere." There was a world of sarcasm in his voice as he spoke. "If you will let me know how your investigations go," he continued, "I shall be happy to give you any help I can."
Lestrade stared hard at Holmes, and I wondered about the conflicting emotions within him; he seemed simultaneously furious at my companion's aloofness and bitter that he had not been invited to our romp.
"Come along, Doctor," he said to me once I had finished dressing; "we shall go to the club called Rache to seek out further information--and perhaps a bit more entertainment." Turning to Lestrade he said: "You and Gregson might wish to patronize the establishment yourselves sometime. It could help you with a difficult problem you both appear to be having."
Brazenly, he touched the bump at Lestrade's crotch, causing the detective to jump back flustered.
"I'll tell you one thing which may help you in the case," he continued. "There was no robbery, simply the aftermath of two men trying hide a secret tryst in a house that doesn't belong to them. I suspect you will encounter Strangerson and his Patent leather shoes soon. The other man is six feet high, in the prime of life, has small feet for his height, a florid face, wears coarse, square-toed boots and smokes a Trichinopoly cigar. He and Strangerson came here while Drebber and his wife were gone. These are only a few indications, but they may assist you."
With which Parthian shot he walked away, leaving the two rivals open-mouthed behind him.
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