a-cantabrian-operetta-8

4 Eylül 2022 Kapalı Yazar: analsex

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Babes

Subject: A Cantabrian Operetta Chapter 8 This story is a work of fiction and only contains characters who are entirely fictitious. You’re not in here, and neither is anybody else you know. I wrote it – I should know. The action of this story takes place early in the 21st century. I have not attended any of the august places of learning mentioned in the text, and the details of those places are accurate only geographically. The fact that a crime takes place in one of them is no reflection on the integrity of that institution. I repeat – work of fiction.It is just possible that activities of a sexual nature may take place, and some of that may be cross generational. There is NO pornography. Look elsewhere for that. If you wish to provide feedback I can be contacted at lfa4321jonah@outlook and please bear in mind that you don’t pay to read these stories, but it does cost Nifty money to provide them. Please consider donating to Nifty fty/donate.html A Cantabrian Operetta. by Jonah Chapter 8. Finale, Act 1 The poor chap was stone cold. Dead for a little while then. The raw marks around his neck suggested a wire of some kind, rather than fabric or rope. “What would he be doing in my room?” I wanted to know. “He was dead, so he didn’t get a choice,” returned the Professor. “His killer probably wanted to make it look as if he was killed in his own room, but didn’t know which room was his.” “We’d better call the police,” I said. “Yes, then they could have you in so-called protective custody. I think there’s something we need to do first.” “What’s that?” “Return him to his own room. It’s where the killer wanted him to be.” “You’re talking about interfering with a crime scene.” “What again? He wasn’t killed here anyway, but moving the body might help us.” “OK, go get next-door open then. We’d best be quick.” If you’ve never tried moving a dead body, I wouldn’t recommend it. People don’t usually lift other people, except for small children, so you tend not to realise how heavy you are. In addition to that, although I’m sure it’s not true, dead people seem to gain weight. It took about five minutes to deposit him on the floor of his own room. “What now?” “Go see if your auditions are through,” he replied. “See them through to the end, then we’ll put in an anonymous call to the boys in blue.” Auditions were going swimmingly. Dr. Harvey was careful not to audition in blocks. In particular he was ensuring that ladies parts were mingled with gentlemen’s parts, so that none of the ladies could complain that he had left them till last. Sally had left, having been auditioned first, so I sang in Fairfax’s part in “Strange Adventure”, so that we could audition for Kate (it’s the only song she’s got). Burdeep Singh had indeed got Shadbolt, which I was pleased about. Only Pheobe and Sergeant Merryl were left. Virginia York did a pretty fair attempt at “Were I thy bride” and so did Beattie Holmes. I told the good doctor that, with Birdie playing Shadbolt, Virginia would be the better suited to the part; so she got it. Don Ericson was the only applicant for Merryl, but the Doctor made him sing “Rapture,rapture,” anyway (which meant that Sue Chatterton got to sing some more of her part). It was gone ten, o’clock when we staggered back to our rooms. The Professor was waiting for me when I got back. “Peace descends,at last, on Cambridge,” He said, “It’s a pity to spoil that.” “What are you suggesting,” I asked. “I’m not suggesting anything” he replied. “We’re going to have to make that phone call. Flashing lights, sirens, the patter of tiny feet.” “We?” “Alright, I’ll make the call,” he said taking out his phone. He tapped in three digits and then wrapped his phone in a handkerchief. He waited a couple of seconds then said. “Police.” A couple of seconds later he said in a phoney Irish accent. “Are you still looking for Terry Wright? Yes, well he went back to his room at the college, but he hasn’t been seen since.” He switched off his phone. “bedtime I think Jonah,” he said, and disappeared into his room. Taking my cue, I disrobed and wrapped myself in a blanket on the sofa. It was about an hour later when the sirens broke the silence of the college. I stayed where I was. It seemed the only thing to do. Eventually I must have dozed off. It was light when I awoke, and the professor had just placed a cup of tea next to the sofa. I sat up and took a sip. “What time is it?” “Half past eight, do you have a lecture this morning.?” “No, I’m going to do some research, but that’s all.” “What are you looking at?” “I’m a bit intrigued by this riccardian thing. If Shakespeare was as wrong as we all think he is, what set him on the wrong track?” “OK, a word of caution then. You’ll eventually come across Josephine Tey’s “The daughter of Time”. Read it, by all means, but don’t cite escort bayan it as a reference work. It isn’t – it’s a popular novel. Read the reference works she mentions in it, but beware – two of them are also fictitious. Don’t read those two” There was a gentle knocking on the door. The Professor disappeared. He reappeared in the company of Inspector Tremble and Sergeant Grant. “Come in and have a seat gentlemen,” he told them. I moved up to make some space on the sofa. The sergeant sat next to me while the inspector appropriated a dining chair. The Professor made himself comfortable in the other dining chair. The sergeant looked sideways at me. “Mr. Cummings,” he said, ” have you been back to your own rooms?” “I thought the police cordon on the North Court had been lifted.” “You didn’t answer Sergeant Grant’s question,” the inspector observed. “I beg his pardon,” I replied. “You ask it inspector. You’re less abrupt than he is.” “I’m only doing………” began the sergeant, when he was silenced by a look from his inspector. “Mr. Cummings,” said the inspector, “Terry Wright was killed yesterday. We found his body last night, in his room. We don’t think he was actually killed there. Somebody moved him to his room. We wondered if you might have seen anything that could help us to pin-point the time.” “In that case I might be able to help you a little bit,” I said. ” I didn’t go to my room, but we did go to Mr. Dovedale’s room.” “Why would you do that sir?” said the sergeant quietly, but contriving to sound ominous. “When you had it under cordon you were in and out of there all the time,” I replied. “Why did you go there?” “I gather your encounter with the stage lighting hasn’t put you off amateur detective work,” said the inspector. “Quite the reverse,” I said. “If somebody is out to kill me, I’d like him to be caught before he succeeds.” “Well the North Court, or at least the East Block, is under cordon again this morning,” said the inspector. “Did you find anything in Mr. Dovedale’s room?” “Your chaps were pretty thorough,” said the Professor, “But they missed checking under the carpet near the window. Just a second.” He disappeared into his room only to come back bearing the envelope. “Terry told us that Dovedale blackmailed him and forced him to perform lewd acts. Apparently he also forced him to pose naked for pornographic photographs.” He handed the envelope to the inspector. “Professor, what time did you find this,” The inspector asked. “About twenty to eight last night,” replied the Professor. “At that time somebody walked the length of the first floor corridor and left by the stairs.” “Who was that?” asked the sergeant. “Your guess is as good as mine. We weren’t about to announce our presence while there’s a murderer on the loose. We just kept still and listened.” “Fair enough,” said the inspector. ” Thanks for this, but if you need to get into the East block for more sleuthing, give me a shout. I’ll arrange to have you let in.” I couldn’t argue with that, so I settled for making myself some breakfast as the Professor showed his guests out. “What did you make of that?”, he said on his return. “It looks like we got away with it,” I commented. “I doubt it,” he said. “Grant is less clever with his questions than Tremble. He’s trying to conceal his hand all the time, which isn’t something he ought to do from a poker player. The fact that he tries to conceal it, reveals more than he would if he didn’t try.” “Like what?” “Well the inspector keeps trying to convince us that they’re OK with us doing our own detecting. Of course, they’re not. No policeman would be. They regard detection as their job, and they’re horrified that somebody else might get there first.” “OK,” I said, “and they happily took your word for what was in the envelope. Didn’t even try to look at them while they were here, in spite of the fact that they knew that you’d already seen them.” “And Tremble would probably like us to take him up on his offer to allow us access,” he said, “because he already knows it will do us no good.” “He does?” “Well, obviously. What would he be allowing us access to. To Dovedale’s room? We’ve aready done that and so has he. To Terry’s room? We know he wasn’t killed there anyway, and forensic will be careful not to miss things this time. To your room? He wasn’t killed there either, and he doesn’t know that the body was ever there.” “Somebody does.” “Yes, somebody who doesn’t know that the body was moved. He knows where he left the body, but he doesn’t know where the police found it. They know where they found it, but they don’t know where he left it. He got the wrong room, but we corrected his mistake, so neither the police, nor he, will ever know that he made one.” “Assuming that it was a mistake. Suppose the killer was actually trying to kocaeli escort bayan frame me?” “He’d have needed to do more than leave a body in the room that you weren’t occupying.” “If I had killed him, I might have left the body in the only room I had a key to,” I pointed out. “You aren’t the only one with a key to it,” he replied. “The porter, the Master, and some of the tutors have pass keys.” I changed tack. “You only gave Tremble the envelope with the photos,” I said. “Well done Watson, you noticed that,” he responded. “So what else did you get from that room?” He fished in his dressing gown pocket. On the coffee table he spread a newspaper clipping, a photograph and a handwritten note. I looked at the little collection. The photograph was very like the photo of Dovedale that had caused all the trouble in the first place. The background was the same, but the naked young man was not Dovedale. In fact I didn’t know who it was, though I’d have liked to. The newspaper clipping had an advertisement for a cafe’ on one side. On the reverse was a court notice: MAN SENTENCED FOR INDECENT ASSAULT. At Cambridge Quarter Sessions, today, Charles Anthony Tompkins (26) was sentenced for grooming and sexually assaulting two young persons. The boys, who cannot be named for legal reasons, had been contacted by Tompkins, who gained their confidence, and persuaded them to allow him to perform indecent acts. Both boys, who had no knowledge of each other, are now undergoing counselling. Detective Inspector Paul Tremble, of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary, said, “We are relieved to have this man off the streets. Young people will be safer now.” The other bit of paper was half of an A4 sheet that had been torn. On it was scribbled in ball-point pen, “You can’t win, it’s still two to one. Your not out of the wood yet. Meat at the clock at twelve. B.” The Professor was impatient to do other things. “Well, you might want to fritter away your morning in research, but I’ve got a faculty meeting to attend so, if you’ll excuse me.” “How much do we know about what Dovey did outside the college?” He paused halfway through his doorway. “I wondered when you’d come up with that,” he said. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. I should have more on that by tomorrow afternoon.” With which he vanished into his room. In the library I located the book that he had carefully not recommended, and spent a pleasant morning reading it through. There were still police cars over by the North Court, and police officers roaming the grounds. Something stirred in my memory. Something I ought to have questioned when I learned of it. No, it remained stubbornly at the back of my mind – just out of reach. I felt I understood King Richard III a little better, and thought about the Professor’s caution. He had been careful to point out that it was not a reference book so it had no authority. It had not been written by a respected historian, but historians had been letting down the King for centuries. While its sources were suspect, its arguments were logical enough. I made a few notes of reference sources, then made my way to the dining hall. “The Proff not with you Jonah?” said Don Ericson, as he stood in the queue behind me. “Faculty meeting,” I said over my shoulder. “Congrats. on the part by the way.” “Cheers! I’d have liked Cholmondeley, but I knew Sammy would get that.” “Merryll’s a good part,” I observed. “Yes, but Cholmondeley’s unique. He’s the only real person in any of the operas. There never was a Colonel Fairfax imprisoned in the Tower, but Sir Richard Cholmondeley really was Lieutenant of it for Henry VIII.” Another light bulb flickered in my brain. “Thomas More was Henry VIII.” I had just read that. The hero in my book had been at pains to point out that he didn’t mean that More and Bluff King Hal were the same person, but that Saint Thomas was usually pigeon-holed in his reign. He was the wrong person to be writing first-hand about Richard III. Now why was that significant? My brain was too full of facts. Maybe the Professor could marshall them and make sense, but I felt like I was swimming in treacle. Out loud I said, “I didn’t know that. Have you done some research on Sir Richard?” “A little,” Don replied. “I bet Sammy won’t.” “No but Sammy can sing it,” he observed. ” The tail end of ‘How say you maiden’ is really difficult. He’s welcome to that.” “You’re reading Theology aren’t you Don?” I said. “Yup!” “So how come you’re doing it at Jesus, and not next-door at the methodist college?” He shrugged. “I’m not a methodist and I want a degree,” he said. “Besides, they let us share their library anyway.” Having arrived at the front of the queue, I filled my tray and went and found an empty table. I had barely started my meal when Sammy Garton joined me. “You must be brave kocaeli escort Jonah,” he drawled, as soon as he had sat himself down. “Oh, I am,” I replied. “But perhaps you hadn’t finished. Maybe you intended to make your remark intelligible.” “Very funny, but don’t think being a smart-arse will save you if somebody’s started bumping off all the queers about the college.” “Is that what you think this is about then Sammy?” “Stands to reason old chap.” “Your reason seems to be a bit lacking. For a start I’d be on the hit list whether I was queer or not. Yes Terry was gay, but I doubt if Dovedale was. ” “Bent as a nine-bob note.” “Unless you’ve got secret knowledge that the rest of us haven’t, Dovedale was just a nasty little blackmailer who got too greedy. Of course, I could be wrong. You didn’t have carnal knowledge of him by any chance?” “What?” he screeched. “Now you just watch it Cummings. I don’t have to….” “No you don’t Sammy,” I told him. “You can always piss off and eat somewhere else.” He started to gather up his meal onto his tray, muttering the whole time. “Don’t worry, I’m going. No stuck up little fag is going…..” “Sammy,” I interrupted. ” This isn’t a game. People are getting killed, and if you say the wrong thing to the wrong person, you could be next. Anybody in this college could be the killer – including me – so watch what you’re saying.” I don’t know whether he heard the last bit. He didn’t seem to be paying attention as he stalked off, tray in hand, but at least I’d tried. I was allowed to eat the rest of my meal in peace. When I got back to the Professor’s lodgings the great man was entertaining. He was entertaining Detective Inspector Tremble. “Ah, Mr. Cummings! Welcome!” said the inspector as I entered. “Mr. Cummings is lodging with me at the moment, Inspector,” said the Professor, ” as you well know, but it was nice of you to welcome him to my humble abode.” The inspector ignored him. “Mr Cummings,” he said. “did the Professor show you these photographs?” “Every good teacher shows dirty pictures to his students,” said the Professor. The inspector looked at him in silence for a moment, then turned back to me. “Mr. Cummings,” he said, “I’d like you to look at these pictures.” I glanced at the Professor, who held up his hand. “I refrain from comment,” he said. I took the photographs from the inspector. They appeared to come from the same studio as Dovey’s picture. Mostly they showed a naked Terry Wright, but in some of them there was a second person. It was the handsome young mystery boy from the picture that the Professor had found in Dovedale’s room. “We know Terry Wright,” said the inspector. “Have you any idea who the second person might be?” ” I wish I had,” I said honestly. “Well, it was worth a try,” he said. “Sorry to have bothered you gentlemen.” “Not at all inspector,” I said. “Anytime you want to show me more dirty pictures……” “Good afternoon Gentlemen,” said the inspector as he departed. “Friday!” said the Professor. “You know there are some people who finish early on Friday.” “There are indeed,” I said. “This side of the Atlantic we call that POETS.” “So I understand, but university Professors aren’t among the people who do that, so neither are their students. I believe we missed out on a discussion on the demise of the Plantagenet dynasty.” “So you’re planning to do that now?” I said, in some surprise. “No,” he replied. “On Monday I have a lecture on the importance of reliable historical sources. You can help me write that. ” “Anything to oblige,” I said. “So, how do we judge whether a source is reliable?” I thought for a few moments. “You’d consider whether the historian concerned has a reputation for accuracy, whether he was in a position to know first hand, or to have been able to find out, and whether he had a reason to be innaccurate. If he has a reputation for innaccuracy, you’d suspect his material. If he couldn’t have known first hand you’d want to know his sources, then examine them. If he had an axe to grind, you’d probably reject him out of hand.” “Good,” he said, “but we all know history is written by the victors. The story according to the losers isn’t recorded, so how do we get it, and having got both sides, how do we know which is correct?” That was the start of a three hour discussion. It started in the Professor’s lodgings and finished in the dining hall. The Professor had deliberately and effectively put an end to all discussion of the murders until Saturday. It wasn’t until Saturday morning that I found out why. TO BE CONTINUED If you’ve enjoyed this story you’d probably enjoy other stories by the same author, also on Adult/Youth. “Immigrant”, “Marooned”, “Letter from America”, ” Stranger on a train” and “The Boston Tea Party” are all by this author, as is, “The Pen-Pals” (on Young Friends). You would also probably like “A Neglected Boy” by Jacob Lion. Pictures of some of the characters in this story can be found on Jacob’s bly/jonah-stories.html My thanks go to Jacob for his generosity and hard work in making this available.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32