The Quality of Mercy

The Quality of Mercy, First Story

By Alex Barton

Prologue

London, England, 1889

I like to think readers who have invested time and money in purchasing this privately printed memoir will indulge me for a moment to introduce what I have called 'The Affair of the Saxon Cross'.

Despite what Mr. Sherlock Holmes might think of the London Constabulary, as chronicled in the 'Strand Magazine' by his friend and colleague Dr. John Watson, my associates and I are not amiable buffoons. We might not be able to tell the difference between one hundred types of tobacco ash or deduce that a chap has just returned from Blackpool, has a mistress in Paris and spent five years prospecting for diamonds in South Africa from the appearance of lint on his breast pocket, but we have our methods. Mine are native cunning, a network of reliable informants, many as criminal as those they inform on, and a revolver which I carry in a purpose-made shoulder holster under my jacket. To subdue particularly stubborn miscreants I use a small but highly effective bludgeon, and the Marquess of Queensberry himself taught me how to lay out a bigger and stronger opponent.

My reminiscences differ from those of Dr. Watson in that they deal with obvious facts, not deductive reasoning. I have the greatest respect for Mr. Holmes but his interest lies in thwarting the schemes of jewel thieves, devious blackmailers and traitors to the British Empire. What happens to them once he has handed them over to Scotland Yard is not his concern. I, on the other hand, have been charged by the Metropolitan Police Commissioner with the apprehension of thieves, rapists and murderers and then ensuring justice is served by watching the trapdoor open beneath their feet at Newgate Prison. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson are not expected to see their investigations through to the bitter end: I have no choice. This has made me aware that, in certain circumstances, I have the power to display Shakespeare's 'quality of mercy', as I shall explain later in this account.

The focus in Dr. Watson's accounts of the exploits of Mr. Holmes and himself is on the application of intellect and deductive reasoning to the pursuit of crime; my memoirs are more concerned with the criminal body, particularly the female body...

And lastly I should add that Dr. Watson understood that it would hardly be appropriate to use my real name in his stories, not only because it would make my job considerably more difficult but also, when the good doctor intimates how readily Holmes outwitted the police, it would have engendered a degree of ridicule from my colleagues and the general public. He therefore chose the French-sounding name of 'Lestrade' for the policeman in his stories. I, on the other hand, would prefer to use my real name in this account, which is Detective Inspector Frank Tench (Retired), of the Criminal Investigation Department, Scotland Yard.

*

The Affair of the Saxon Cross

Chapter One

It was a fine Spring morning in the metropolis and I sat at my kitchen table reading The Daily Telegraph with a pot of tea, fresh-baked bread, butter and Fortnum & Mason's thick cut orange marmalade at my elbow. I have always enjoyed breakfast because it is an interval before the demands of the day have to be met and this morning I had shaved and bathed as quietly as I could, hoping not to wake my 18-year-old granddaughter Henrietta, known to everyone as Hetty, who has lived with me since her parents died in the summer of '75 from enteric fever contracted from a contaminated water supply. Hetty survived because she was staying with me at the time: had she been home in the bosom of her family she, like them, would have ended up occupying the family vault in Highgate Cemetery. That I lost my beloved daughter and her husband was bad enough; that I might also have lost Hetty was unthinkable.

I took my fob watch from the pocket of my bathrobe, clicked it open and checked the time. 7.30am, so another hour before my housekeeper, Mrs. Ansell, was due. Excellent, I thought, plenty of time for what I had in mind. A widowed lady who worked for my Aunt Matilda for many years, when my dear aunt passed away I inherited Mrs. Ansell along with a fashionable mews house in Chelsea and a substantial annual income. I should add, for those of a logical frame of mind, that my inheritance was the reason I was able to retire at the age of 55. God bless dear Aunt Matilda.

Despite greatly looking forward to my darling granddaughter's entrance in search of toast and tea before Mrs. Ansell escorted her to the Brompton Academy for Young Ladies, I noticed an item on the front page of the newspaper which caught my attention.

'ROBBERIES CONTINUE AT KING'S CROSS STATION' the headline read and I scanned quickly through the account. In every theft the value of the items stolen was considerable, the thefts took place on the concourse of the station, and the criminals seemingly vanished from under the noses of the railway police and members of the local constabulary. According to the reporter the authorities were baffled and I decided it would be worth my while to take an investigative interest, a license which the Police Commissioner granted retired senior detectives provided they did not impede inquiries being carried out by serving officers. I believed, given the recent incidence of crime in the city, that despite the King's Cross thefts attracting the attention of the popular press, my former colleagues would be focused on cases which involved actual bodily harm, which this case did not.

I heard the delightful sound of singing coming from the bathroom and smiled. My dear miss had obviously decided she wanted her breakfast tea in the bath as she sometimes did and she knew I would be only too willing to oblige. Five minutes later, carrying a pot of tea arranged on a tray with a freshly picked rose from my small but lovingly-tended garden which is my pride and joy as an oasis of color and calm away from the dirt and grime of the mighty metropolis, I climbed the stairs, pausing only to open the door and seat myself on the wooden chair Hetty had already placed by the tub, knowing her grandfather so very well.

"Good morning, darling," I said, leaning down to kiss my granddaughter gently on the lips.

Her blue eyes met mine and she paused from where she was playing her fingers between her open legs, her clitoris standing proud of its hood, the creamy slopes of her pert breasts half-submerged in the lavender-scented bubbles. Hetty's nipples were too tempting to resist and I bent my head, unconcerned that my beard went into the suds, and sucked one between my lips, loving the sound of her delighted laughter followed by a soft intake of breath as she sighed with pleasure.

"Good morning, Grandpapa," she said softly, her voice thick with the intensity of her desire.

I pulled the sleeve of my robe up to the elbow and stroked my hand down across the smoothness of her belly so my fingers joined hers in the soft black curls covering her mons, my eyes meeting Hetty's. I loved the way her beautiful breasts rose and fell as I joined my fingers with hers so she could concentrate on working her slender digits in and out of her cunt at the same time as I stroked, caressed and gently flicked the tiny organ of her greatest pleasure.

Alternating licking and biting first one nipple and then the other while Hetty guided my head to where she wanted my suckling mouth next, I masturbated her in time with her own movements, loving the heat of her breath against my ear, her lips seeking mine in incestuous desire. I kissed her passionately, delighted by the enthusiasm with which she returned my ardor, making me realize anew that I loved her more than life itself.

"I need to fuck your ass, Hetty," I whispered, my eyes meeting hers.

"Yes, Grandpapa, you do," she said and gently disengaged my fingers from within her body so she could stand up in the tub and lean forward to brace herself on the edge, presenting her curvaceous bottom to my excited eyes as she did so. Water mixed with her abundant cunt cream dripped down the inside of her thighs as she turned and looked at me expectantly.

I reached for the bottle of aromatic oil kept on the wooden dresser which Mrs. Ansell believes to be for medicinal purposes but Hetty and I know to be placed there for quite a different reason. I stripped off my robe and stood with my cock projecting above my pendant balls, the tip fiery red with the fierceness of my desire to fuck the divine orifice so prettily presented to my rapt gaze. A quick application of the bottle's contents and my cock was glistening with oil in slippery readiness as was Hetty's asshole, my fingers having lubricated her anus and as far inside her rectum as they could reach.

My prick, so familiar with the tight passage into her body that was about to encase its length, Hetty's virginity remaining intact for the pleasure of her husband and to avoid the risk of pregnancy because both she and I delighted in the copious amount of hot, gooey sperm I spurted when I climaxed, slid slowly past the deliciously tight constriction of Hetty's anal sphincter and entered her rectum. She met my gentle forward movements with her own backward pressure, her asshole slowly enveloping my cock as I reached under her body to fill my hands with her pert breasts, my fingers pinching her nipples to heighten her pleasure.

Only someone who has known the exquisite pleasure of fucking the ass of his daughter or granddaughter will understand the intensity of emotion that results from having his cock buried deep within the bowels of a young woman he adores; it is the finest expression of incestuous love known to man and I encourage every father sexually attracted to their offspring to experience a similar ecstasy.

Aware it would heighten my arousal to look down and see the thickness of my prick entering her body, stretching her anus to the full, my granddaughter reached back to pull open the cheeks of her bottom, trusting me to hold her steady as she could no longer brace herself on the bathtub's edge. My hands fondling her breasts, my lips met Hetty's in a torrid kiss, my balls slapping against her cuntlips dripping with the bathwater and her cream which poured out from the opening of her cunt as evidence of her intense arousal.

Lost in a delirium of intense pleasure, I fucked my granddaughter's beautiful bottom deep and hard with every stroke. Time and again my groin met her curvy buttocks, our bodies slapping together in the fierceness of our coupling as I worked my prick back and forth along the length of her back passage, luxuriating in the tightness of her anus gripping my glans then grinding the head deep within her bowels.

My breath quickened as my orgasm approached and Hetty broke the kiss to gasp, "Yes, Grandpapa, YESSS! Come in my asshole, pump your spunk into my bum...!" and I, a dutiful and loving grandfather, did exactly as I was bid and emptied my balls into the darkest depths of her welcoming asshole. Hetty responded by trembling in my hands, her whole body shuddering as a fierce orgasm shook her frame and I felt a warm gush of liquid spurt out over my balls to splash into the now-cool bathwater.

Slowly I descended from the heights of sexual pleasure and gently withdrew my prick from Hetty's rectum. As I did so, Hetty first voided her bladder into the bathwater then reached her hand back and wriggled her bottom so a mass of my sperm was expelled from her rectum into her waiting palm. She giggled and winked at me as she slurped the creamy mass into her mouth and swallowed it with evident enjoyment.

"Goodness," I said, surprised by my granddaughter's lascivious behavior. "I'm sure I never taught you that, Hetty," wondering whether she was following her natural inclination or demonstrating something delightfully wanton one of her female friends at the Brompton Academy had suggested she do. Girls talk about sex with as much delight in sharing their experiences as do men, especially when one horny young lady is encouraging another to be as sexually adventurous with a beloved relative as she is. Hetty had told me she was not the only girl in her class whose openings were dripping with a beloved male relative's sperm while they did their best to concentrate on learning to be refined young ladies...

Winking at my niece, I stepped back and said as I reached for my robe, "Come along now, darling, time for you to get dressed."

"I love you, Grandpapa," Hetty said as she smiled at me, the radiance of a thoroughly well-fucked girl suffusing her features.

"And I love you too, my darling granddaughter," I said. "More than I can ever tell you."

*

Shortly after Hetty left in the company of Mrs. Ansell, I dressed in my morning suit with a diamond stickpin through my cravat, a birthday gift from my dear departed Aunt Matilda, and stepped out, closing and locking the door behind me. A hansom cab was just drawing up outside a neighbor's house and I hailed the driver, telling him I wished to go to Long Acre, close by the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden. The driver, assuming from my appearance that I wanted to visit Grand Lodge, the headquarters of the Freemasons in England, tipped his hat and said, "Of course, sir."

It is not far from where I live to Covent Garden and I knocked with my cane on the roof of the cab, calling out, "Here, please," when we drew up level with the steps of Grand Lodge. I paid the driver and waited until he drove off before crossing the road and entering retail premises that sold, in addition to the regalia for every level of Freemasonry, ecclesiastical garments and accessories.

The assistant behind the counter was astute enough to notice two things immediately, as I intended he should. The first was the diamond stick pin, which implied wealth, and the second was the ring I was wearing on the little finger of my right hand, similar to rings on display in the case on which the assistant's hands were resting.

Freemasons do not advertise their membership of The Brotherhood but they will, on occasion, wear items of jewelry that have on them the Masonic insignia of the square and compasses. One such is my signet ring which, to all intents and purposes, is of plain gold with my initials engraved on the face. However, should I so wish, I can remove the ring and swivel the bezel to display the Masonic insignia and this I had taken a moment to do outside the shop before entering. (I long ago accepted that membership of the Freemasons was essential to a successful career at Scotland Yard.)

"Good morning, sir," the assistant greeted me.

"And a good morning to you," I said.

"How may I assist you?"

"My good friend the Honorable Frederick Ngomo has been appointed Bishop of a diocese in southern Africa and I would like to purchase a gift to celebrate his success."

"Certainly, sir," the assistant said. "If you would care to follow me?" and he led the way to a display case containing all manner of religious objects made of various precious metals.

"We have the crosses traditionally worn by bishops as a mark of their rank in platinum, gold and silver, sir, with chains of various thicknesses if the item is to be worn round the neck," the assistant said, indicating with a sweep of his hand across the case. I made a show of bending closer to inspect them but I had already made up my mind: a plain silver cross would be best, worn on a thin silver chain.

"That one will be ideal," I said.

"Certainly, sir. That design is modelled on an ancient Saxon cross found at a burial site in the east of England. I feel sure your friend the bishop will appreciate its unique design. Please allow me to place it in a sturdy case suitable for postage. Unless you wish us to send it to the bishop for you, sir?"

"No, that will not be necessary, thank you," I said. "I shall be sailing to South Africa shortly to attend the bishop's investiture."

"Of course, sir," and the clerk removed the cross from the case, reached underneath to a drawer, withdrew a blue velvet case and arranged the cross with its chain inside, accepting in return the banknotes I handed him.

"Excellent service," I said, and slipped the box containing the cross into my pocket.

"Thank you, sir," the assistant said. "May I wish you a very good day," and bowed politely as I left the shop.

I hailed a passing cab and asked the driver to take me to a theatrical costumier of my acquaintance. In the course of my cases it has sometimes been necessary to adopt a disguise and this contact has been particularly useful. I then returned home with my mission accomplished, secure in the knowledge I had done nothing that would cause the assistant in the ecclesiastical goods shop to retain my appearance or manner in his mind. However, should his curiosity be piqued and he decided to check, he would find the announcement of the appointment of the Very Reverend Frederick Ngomo as Bishop of Cape Town in that morning's edition of The Daily Telegraph.

*

Sherlock Holmes and I have something in common: we both use deductive reasoning to solve our cases. Admittedly he uses visible evidence while I use cause and effect and sometimes fall back on best guess, but the end results are the same. Despite the sensational nature of the King's Cross Station robberies in terms of the value of the goods acquired, I was sure they were essentially crimes of opportunity, albeit carefully planned and executed.

The thefts all took place on the concourse of the station, not in adjoining alleyways or the cab rank at the front. They all took place around midday and in broad daylight. No known criminal was held to be responsible. It therefore stood to reason that the thief or thieves blended with the general populace and were not remarkable in terms of features or appearance as so many common criminals are as a result of having to defend their ill-gotten gains from anyone who becomes aware they have them. Scars, broken noses and badly knitted broken jaws are all common trademarks of the professional thief as is a tendency to dress without regard to the opinions of others. That no member of the railway police had reported seeing someone of this appearance suggested an obvious degree of respectability and, if my suspicions were correct, the probable use of a departing train as a convenient means of escape.

I checked Bradshaw's Guide and saw the Great Northern line served stations to the north and east, notably to Cambridge and then on to King's Lynn in Norfolk. Trains ran every ninety minutes and the first stop was Finsbury Park, only three miles away. It struck me as perfectly plausible that a person or persons unknown might carry out a theft, catch the up train, alight at Finsbury Park and then catch the down train back to King's Cross in order to carry out further thefts. At the end of a productive day the thief simply remained on the train and alighted in Cambridge, considerably richer until the next spell of larceny became necessary.

I wrote a note for Mrs. Ansell requesting she chaperone Hetty until my return, which might be late. I knew this would inconvenience her so I also left a pound note which I was sure would be more than sufficient compensation. I then went upstairs to change into the results of my visit to the costumiers, emerging from the house a half hour later to hail a hansom.

In common with any busy London station there was considerable hustle and bustle going on when I alighted at King's Cross. Hawkers hollered, prostitutes wheedled and mocked, ragamuffins yelled, traders laughed and argued, street performers sang and juggled and danced, gentlemen brandished their canes and doffed their hats, ladies bobbed their parasols and looked flustered by the melee, hansom cabs rattled and waited for passengers, wheels crunched over cobbles and dogs barked. It was like Bedlam, typical of London. But, through it all, a figure glided serene, accorded respect by all he encountered. That figure was me because I was wearing the garb of a bishop of the Church of England, the Saxon cross conspicuous around my neck.