CHAPTER 90: The Virgin’s Summer, Part 30
“… It is not the kind of material that is normally left casually lying around.”
Jansen doesn’t speak, clearly now realising that I, and my Master, are not the ones on trial.
Haswell continues. “The material, whilst undoubtedly of... unusual.… content, can certainly be argued to be of concern only to the parties involved. There is no injured party or victim involved here. It is a private matter, between them. However...” Haswell, leans back, flipping open a file, “... however, I would like to query you about one Jasmine Hardacre, who also, um... attended, this auction. Approximately ten days after the date of the auction, she was admitted to hospital with multiple contusions, lash marks covering most of her body, three broken ribs, a fractured clavicle, and... cigarette burns... According to the auction house, her ‘purchaser’ was one ‘Edward Jansen’.”
I stare at Haswell, my stomach churning. He stares back at me, impassively, then looks away, speaking to Jansen again. I don’t hear his words.
Oh, God. He bid for me…
The realisation of what might have happened, had it not been my Master who won the bidding, hits me. Seated next to me, he watches me out of the corner of his eyes but, with Jansen there, is not going to speak. Under the table, his foot presses on mine, and he lowers his eyelids at me, in the smallest of comfort signals.
My mind tunes back to what is being said. Haswell is speaking.
“So, Mr Jansen, you will find that the police are taking a great interest in you and…”
“She’s a whore. She sold herself. Agreed to anything. She signed a contract. Just like this one here…”
“Be that as it may, contracts come under civil law. Assault and grievous bodily harm come under criminal law…” His phone rings. “… Excuse me. I need to take this call... Yes?” He listens carefully. “Yes, he’s here. Yes? Thank you.”
He continues. “As I was saying Mr Jansen, you will find that the police are, in fact, very interested in you. As we speak, they are searching your premises and...” The door opens. A police officer enters. “... Ah yes. This is Mr Jansen. I believe you would like to interview him.”
The spluttering, protesting Jansen is led out in handcuffs. My Master is watching me carefully. Haswell is watching us both.
“Excuse me.” I stand, heading for the door. I don’t make it. My stomach heaves and, managing to grab a waste bin at the last moment, I throw up into it, choking and coughing.
Eyes streaming, I stand, trying to apologise. But Haswell offers me water, which I gulp down; washing away the foul taste in my mouth. My Master holds me tight, rocking me back and forth in his arms until I calm down.
“I’m okay. I’m okay. Really.” I try to break free, conscious that Haswell is watching all this. My Master looks doubtful but releases me. Haswell sits at his desk, quite calmly, waiting.
After a moment, he says, “I did think your reaction might be something like that Charlotte, when you learned what happened to the girl. Jansen bid on you, yes?”
I nod.
“You might bear that in mind if you ever consider any similar... enterprises…”
“Um, that’s more or less why I’m here. To avoid similar enterprises.”
He snorts in laughter. “Nonetheless, your interests aside, Mr Jansen is now in the hands of the police. While we were speaking, his premises have been searched and all computers, hard drives, and other storage media have been removed as evidence. I believe his phone will also be confiscated. Hopefully, that should avoid the risk of further copies of the documents and video coming to light.”
He pulls the envelope from a desk drawer, fishes the data drive from his pocket and places it on top of the envelope, then pushes both towards me.
“In my discussions with the Commissioner of Police, your name did not arise. I suggest you destroy these.”
“But the police?”
“They are interested in Jasmine Hardacre, who, I might mention, seems to have disappeared.”
It could have been me...
Then I realise I have spoken the words aloud.
“Yes, it could, Charlotte. I suggest you think very carefully about your future conduct.”
I have nothing to say to this, and so, nodding, remain silent.
Haswell smiles. “I would like to ask you one more question Charlotte. And this is not in a spirit of salacious interest. I simply do not wish to commit any faux pas when your name comes up in conversation. James is your Master, but Michael is…?
“... my fiancé.”
He pauses, visibly collecting his thoughts, then nods.
“Anyhow,” continues Haswell, “I think that a fitting conclusion to this is that we all get to know each other a little better. I would like to invite you to dinner at my home. I think it is about time that my fellow director met my wife, and I think, Charlotte, that you and Elizabeth would get along rather well.”
My Master looks stunned, but only briefly. Quickly he gathers himself. “Thank you, Richard, I’d like that.”
“And, when I say you...” continues Haswell, “I mean the three of you, since you appear to be a stable… unit… I think that, at least for the purposes of getting to know each other, you should all attend.”
As we leave, my Master mutters under his breath to me. “This should be interesting.”
We pull up the long, curved drive of a small mansion.
“Wow!” I say. “What a gorgeous place.”
The tree-lined, gravelled carriageway, set in manicured lawns, leads to an elegant portico: tiled steps leading up to a door, stone lions to either side.
My Master, wearing his best suit, rings the doorbell. Michael, also ‘suited and booted’ holds my hand. Unsure what to wear, I have chosen the safe option, and am wearing a classic ‘little black dress’; demure but sexy.
The door is answered by a man I do not recognise. “James Alexanders...” says my Master, “…with my friends.”
“Good evening Mr Alexanders. Do come in. Mr and Mrs Haswell are expecting you.”
Inside, the house is elegant, warm and obviously old. A mix of architectures suggests that it has been built and worked on over several centuries, but the style is mainly Georgian, all plaster coving, chandeliers, and tall windows.
The man leads us into a drawing-room where Haswell and a woman are waiting for us. He has an air of expectant waiting about him.
“Good evening James, Charlotte, and you must be Michael?” He reaches to shake hands. “And this is my wife, Elizabeth.”
She is tall, willowy, red-headed and pale-skinned, a few years older than me I think, but otherwise, I could be looking into a mirror. We stare at each other.