'She's outside,' the dwarf interrupted in an excited voice. 'She's wandering through the back and… and she's heading for the hut!'
'We must stop her!' Lena said, jerking upright.
'No, let her see the little surprise in the hut.' Mark Marlowe's eyes filmed over with the image of the lusting perversions which awaited the blonde wife. 'It won't be long before she'll be formally introduced.' He thought that was funny and laughed loudly. 'Until she becomes old and close friends.'
'She's almost there…' Wafto clutched the curtains with excitement.
'Lena get dressed and go downstairs,' Mark instructed.
'To stop her?'
'No, I said that I want her to go in. If she's near the hut and doesn't decide to see what's inside, then get her to. And if she does on her own, then I want you to be ready to comfort her. She'll need comforting after the shock she's going to get, and you're just the one for that.'
'And then?' Lena was breathless with anticipation of what was to come. 'And… and then what?'
'Bring her to the living room.' The evil Lord of Marlowe Manor grinned sardonically, his face lined with the effects of his debauchery. 'No; better yet, bring her to my study. Wafto, prepare more of the Sherry. We want to be ready when the poor young Mrs. Court begins to comprehend what is happening.'
And with that Marlowe once again began to laugh diabolically, and he was joined by the throated purring of Lena Alvaro and the high hysterical tittering of the gnarled dwarf.
Sharon Court looked back once. The high green hedges were like a natural barricade between her and the mansion; she could see the monster house of stone loom over her, but the long porch and most of the first floor were hidden from view. She thought she saw the curtains in a window on the second flood move, as if rustling in the morning breeze. But there wasn't any wind, nothing stirred except perhaps the curtain. From somewhere out on the endless moors came soft, distant calling of sheep, and once there was the bark of a dog, then nothing. She turned around and continued her way through the winding paths, pleasantly pleased by the well tended circular beds of flowers, at the stone benches held up by stone lions and gryfons, at the gazeboes that were in different niches at the corners…
The main path, bordered by thin, almost wispy trees, seemed to lead in a round-about fashion to the left hand corner of the garden. Up ahead she could see the old mortised brick wall that was mostly covered with ivy that bordered the garden, setting it apart from the purple and black table that was the moor… she turned the last corner and spied a tall round building made of stone.
It was one of the oddest small buildings Mrs. Court had ever seen. It looked older than the ancient house, its stone work rough-hewn and crumbling at the corners, as if the prehistoric Druids had fashioned it crudely as some enclosed place of dark worship. Ivy, the broad-leave English variety, and moss grew on it, but unlike the healthy and bright, deep greenness of the plants among the garden wall, the gnarled and twisted branches of the growth on the building were blighted and a sick brown, and the leaves seemed to curl inward and wilt, and the moss was sparse and burnt-looking. Moreover, while the garden wall was covered from top to bottom, the lushness spilling over its top like zealous escapees, the ivy and moss finally gave up after no more than six feet in height along the building's surface, as though there was something in the stone which prevented and stunted what lay upon it.
The small house was circular, like a cistern or guardhouse, or a turret of some medieval castle, with a tall peaked roof made of some undefinable thatch or thin shingle. The only windows were small slits, the type which widened out on the inside on an angle so that archers and other defenders could operate behind cover, and what little area was exposed was barred with thick iron scrollwork. The wrought iron had once been blackened; now it was rusty and pitted, and where it was fastened to the wall by great bolts, the stone was stained with orange- yellow streaks.
The building made Sharon Court falter for a minute, hold her breath, for somehow its very existence ruined the placid morning, caused a great chill to travel her spine and dig at the pit of her stomach. Yet there was a fascination to it; a spell-binding intrigue about why it was there, what it was for, the secrets of its interior. She hesitated, put one dainty foot forward as though testing the path that lead around it, as though the round stone house might have a way of stopping an intruder from interrupting its gloomy loneliness.
Then she smiled. This was no way to be, she chastised herself. After all, there is nothing there to harm me, no hidden mystery that could make trouble if I came closer. Get hold of yourself, silly goose! Your imagination is running rampant, just as it had last night… and you know what that caused!
Her morale boosted by her pep talk, Sharon continued. She came right up to the building and felt the cold, clammy exterior, laughed as indeed, nothing did happen to her, that she wasn't struck down. She walked along the path; it curved around and the grass faded away as the ivy had, and flinty gravel made her feet hurt. She considered whether she should go back.
And then she saw the door. It was set well in an arch of capped stone, shadows making it look heavier and blacker than it actually was. It was of old, hewn oak, sections the size of house beams welded together by bands and studs of thick metal, and hinges monstrous in size cemented to the wall and attached to the door with long, spear-like extensions. There was a large ring for the handle, and below it a key-hole that looked as if it was part of a lock rugged enough to withstand the most ardent assault. Hanging on a peg set in the stone was a key, an old- fashioned one with a long shank and involved looking head.
Should she? Her heart hammered at her breast, and there seemed to be a constriction in her lungs. A quick peek… the curiosity was almost too much for Sharon Court to bear! Who would know if she took down the key, fit it in the antique lock and opened the door.
She turned away. No, that would be prying. Anyway, it was probably no more than a garden shed for the tools and equipment used in tending the garden. That's all there was inside… or was it? She stopped and looked back at the door. It seemed to beckon her, to invite her to investigate the dark depths of its insides. And yet the rest of the building let off the distinct impression of alienness, of rejection. The tall, blonde woman shuddered at the deliciously enervating ambivalence of her feelings. It was all in her mind, of course…
She started back toward the mansion. She'd ask Mark what the stone hut was used for, and perhaps he would take her to it. But she knew that wouldn't be really the way of resolving the romantic involvement she had started with the house; no, she would have to conquer her own curiosity and imagination and go back and see. Nobody was around, nobody would know, and the whole idea of it was like something she had read as a little girl, like The Secret Garden, or The Wizard of Oz. She wasn't so old as to have lost all of her kittenish ways.
She ran to the hut, her mind resolved to do the forbidden. Down came the key! She fit the key into the mortised lock and jiggled it around, waiting for the latch to trip. There was a loud 'Click!' and she leaned against the ring and shoved against the door. The door protested with a loud squeal of hinges.
The interior was dark. It was also dank and smelled oddly of old straw and dry-rot, but the floor was of packed earth and there wasn't any wood to be seen other than the door. She licked her lips nervously and opened the door wider. The morning sun fell across the floor in a wide shaft, highlighting the empty, barren area in front of the door. A spider scurried across the wall, frightened by the sudden light. Sharon stepped inside and peeked; the gloom was thick and cloying like a gray muslin sheet and she could not see farther than the light no matter how hard she squinted. She let the door swing wide then, letting as much light as she could invade the inky dungeon atmosphere.
Then she saw a plain, plank table. On it were a stack of magazines and a large enameled bowl that was curiously filled with fruit. She could see a couple of apples, some oranges, and if her eyes weren't deceiving her, a bunch of bananas behind it. Frowning, her curiosity peaked to its fullest, Sharon stepped to the table. What on earth would a bowl of fruit and magazines be doing in a place like this? She picked up one of the magazines. The magazines were digest sized, with plain brown covers. She held some up to the light. Across the covers was the title: Climax Illustrated, and then different volume numbers. She thumbed through volume seven, at first only mildly interested, and then in sudden revulsion she dropped the little booklet and put her hands across her mouth in disbelief.
The booklet fell open on the table. What she saw was now before her in twice the blazing colors — a two- page spread in full clear tones and exact detail of three men and two women together on an immense double bed. The five persons were naked and what they were doing to one another sent ripples of further revulsion traveling up her back. The man on the extreme left was lying with his huge penis in the foreground at full erection. Straddling it with an expression of pure ecstasy was a large, well-built Negro woman, her vagina and breasts in full display, a
