Chapter 2

Retired Captain Cridgeham sat in his familiar military ram-rod fashion somewhat stiffly in the Reverend Rixton’s sitting room. He cleared his throat and spoke as sharply as he had done when he was serving in Wellington’s army—-a time when he lost an ear to the bayonet of a French soldier at Waterloo. Even though he now wore a hat cocked down over the missing ear, the slightly awkward look merely emphasised the absence of his ear more.

“Damned if I know why you wanted so much rope, vicar,” the man said. “I presume it’s for tying up, hey, what?”

The Reverend Rixton looked uncomfortable. He had specifically told Martha when she went to Mr Mickley’s shop to buy more rope to tie up her daughter for his photographs, the woman was not to say what it was for. He presumed however that like most of the lower orders in life she could not keep her mouth shut. Now the whole parish would know the good Reverend tied a young female up and photographed her, even if they probably wouldn’t know what photography was.

“Um ... Nothing to tie up, Captain,” said Rixton, trying not to wring his bony hands as he spoke. “I was thinking of getting a dog and thought I would need to tether the beast—-”

“Nonsense,” snapped Cridgeham. He leaned forward a little. “Dogs don’t need damned tethering. Just good discipline and toss ‘em a bone, if you ask me!”

Rixton felt alarmed. He was not used to receiving visitors at the vicarage and tried to discourage it. His role in life was enough he should have to talk to the congregation from the pulpit on Sunday and other than that would try to avoid dealing with the locals. Yet the Captain had turned up unexpectedly and demanded an audience, saying he needed to ask some questions and immediately began talking about the fact that Mickley’s shop had no rope for sale when he wanted some.

“Needed it for my niece, Charlotte,” continued the Captain. “Fetching lass, she is. Couldn’t do that when the shop hasn’t any rope left. Rum business, hey, what?”

“Captain ... this is a delicate matter. It’s, um, a church matter,” Rixton began. That usually stopped any conversation he didn’t want to endure.

“Church doesn’t need any rope,” Cridgeham said. A smile seemed to dance under his full, white moustache and his grey eyes sparkled. “But maybe for something else,” he added, eyebrow raised.

Rixton stared at the man. “How did you know?” he blurted out. “Did Martha tell the shopkeeper why I wanted it?”

Cridgeham laughed. “No idea what you are talking about, old chap. Didn’t ask Mr Mickley. I had need for some rope, Mickley told me you’d bought it all up. Came here, presented myself, want to know what for, hey, what?”

‘Hey, what indeed,’ thought Rixton. He chewed his lip. The photographs of the bound young Alice were for the Bishop’s attention, and hopefully a chance even in his advanced years there would be promotion for the Reverend and a chance to get out of this God-forsaken parish. Decent church with a good vicarage in the city, hopefully. Well, the better half of the city. Not near the glue factory and the docks.

“What you need, old chap,” grunted Cridgeham in his best military manner, “is my sister Elizabeth.”

“What? I mean, I beg your pardon.”

“No need for niceties, vicar. No time when Boney’s Old Guard is coming at you with fixed bayonets, hey? Truth is my sister Elizabeth—-Liza, she prefers—-knows about these things. Rum deal, hey, when woman knows more about tying up someone than a man, wouldn’t you say?”

Rixton wouldn’t say; he was too stunned and bewildered by this sudden turn of events. Nonetheless he tried for one last defence of his position as conduit to God and respected member of the county. “I’m sorry, Captain, I do not understand what you’re getting at. Now if you’ll forgive me, I have to prepare next Sunday’s sermon—”

“Nonsense, vicar! You take ‘em as everyone does from a book on sermons. Our padre told me that, back in Brussels before we sent Napoleon running. No need for any preparation. Not like you’re busy digging trenches and a redoubt, hey? No,” at this Cridgeham leant forward, “truth is, sir, you like tying up women. We men do. Normal stuff, right? Passages in the bible tell it if you look hard enough, wouldn’t you say? So that’s where Eliza can help. My sister knows all about that.” The man paused. “Heard on the old grapevine that you were into this new fangled photography business. Seems logical to me that a chap like you who likes tying up wants to make images of the lady tied up.”

“I don’t...” began Rixton but he stopped. The truth was obvious so he shrugged. “Yes,” he admitted.

“Pretty thing is she?” asked the Captain. “Or some low-life? Prossy perhaps...”

“I do not consort with prostitutes, sir!” Rixton was offended, but his visitor waved his protests down.

“Keep calm, old chap. Every man has to get his end away, and many a woman is willing to open her legs to let men get their end away. Way of the world, truth be known. The whores of Belgium made a pretty penny from our troops before the big battle, I can tell you. Even had one old bag suck my cock for a few pence.”

“She’s not ... Martha isn’t a low life. A girl from the village,” said Rixton.

“Splendid! A chap has to make arrangements as best he can. Use the locals, what? Like I say however, I can help. Let me send Liza over. She’ll be able to help you. Not tie her up, of course: damned girl is too much of a wild filly to do that. But she showed me how to tie her daughter Charlotte up. Pretty thing, she is, that young girl. Maybe if Liza likes you she will bring Charlotte over. In the meantime ... can you let me have some of your rope, old chap? Need to get my niece bound and gagged, what?”

‘What indeed,’ thought Rixton as he stared at the Captain. He snapped out of his whirling thoughts. “Very well, five yards of good rope in return for your Liza coming here, and helping me,” he said.

“Done,” gurgled Cridgeham and clapped his hands. “Well done!”

As it turned out, Liza Cridgeham wasn’t Liza Cridgeham. She had been married to a Major Sloanley who had died from dysentry after their daughter Charlotte had been born but the lady now had enough of an income to live comfortably with her child without the need to find a man to support her.

She also wasn’t anything like her brother. Liza Sloanley was, for a start, a great deal younger the man with only one ear. Twenty years younger, which Rixton imagined put her daughter at something around 16. Seeing a woman who was barely out of her thirties who was dressed elegantly with an interest in bondage made the old man’s cock stiffen just as much as taking photographs of Alice bound. He could, despite his natural reserve when meeting strangers, imagine Mrs Sloanley bound the way he tied Alice up. He prayed his stiff cock didn’t show too much at the front of his trousers.