The Queens Road Christmas party was a grand affair; or so it seemed from the vantage of my study. Imogen and Simon spared no expense and initiated their preparations well before the frenzied onset of Michaelmas. By the time the first clouds of autumn rolled in, commencing the barometric malaise that shrouds the city until Spring, Simon had once again imperiled his diminutive frame installing cords of glittering lights along the eaves and windows. Fortunately, he does not kindle them until Martinmas, et sic infit.

I haven’t always followed the comings and goings of the Clark’s, an outwardly unremarkable couple from Sheffield who moved in across the street six years ago. I have more important things to be doing, after all. I’m writing the first complete English translation of the works of Albertus Magnus, the medieval German polymath. At forty-one volumes in Latin, Albert’s writing will keep me occupied for the foreseeable future. And yet, in the course of parsing archaic participles, that torpor mentis, the sluggishness of mind known by the scholastics as Acedia, tends to amble in and induce the eye to wander.

I must confess I am drawn not only by the irascible appetite, pulling back from monotony, but by the enticements of the concupiscible. You see, during the Advent season, Imogen makes a regular practice of sitting topless in front of the fire, sipping port and reading a book. Firelight flickers across her soft breasts, illuminating pale skin and stiff red nipples. From what I can tell, my office is the only vantage on the street that affords a view of this cozy tradition. Each week I pour sherry, light a candle, and look on.

       *

As my attention drifted late one December evening, I set aside a pair of russet folios to look out the window and noticed something peculiar. In the house across the road, the annual party was in full swing. Black-clad waiters patrolled the sitting room with loaded trays. Simon held a bottle in each hand, seeing to it that no flute ran dry while Imogen, wearing a shapely green dress of splendor sine occasu, glided through the crowd, greeting guests with a warm smile. At first glance, nothing was amiss, though the whole thing was rather extravagant for my taste. But then the tinsel gave it away. From where I sat, I could just see into the hallway adjacent to the sitting room, where a line of tinsel framing the wainscoting began swaying side to side. I assumed it was air moving in the wake of a passing waiter until suddenly one of the panels swung open, and a tall man in an olive suit scrambled out, fixing his tie as the covert egress sealed abruptly behind him.

       *

 I am up early arguing with my notebook about what I have seen. Here is my list, verbatim et literatim:

·      Cult
·      Underground casino
·      Drug smuggler’s tunnel
·      Swingers
·      Mafia
·      Spies
·      Counterfeiters
·      Time Travelers

I cross out the last one and chew on my pencil, peering through the frosted window. Over the course of the evening, seven more people materialized from the clandestine paneling in the hallway, always at the perfect moment to avoid observation. A quick search of realty websites confirms that the house, like every other on the street, has no basement, and that the space behind that wall should be a pantry that opens into the kitchen.

At nine o’clock, the Clarks pull out of their driveway, and I find myself pulling on my hat and gloves. Among my observations has been the location of their spare key: sapiens qui prospicit. Minutes later I slip in the side door. After some trial and error, the panel opens with a soft click, revealing a carpeted staircase illuminated by a soft glow from below.

This was certainly not on my list. The stairs lead down to an . . . art gallery? A series of dimly lit rooms are full of what look like photographs. I flip a switch on the wall and the rooms fulgurate. What I see leaves me speechless. In each photo, Imogen is pictured in a different state of public undress. In the first, she stands in front of the Radcliffe Cam in a cardigan sweater. Her breasts are exposed to the camera, hard nipples braced against the cold. The breath from her laugh forms a cloud as she winks at two blushing undergraduates.

In another, she sits on the Tube reading a book in a short skirt. Her legs are spread wide, pink vulva glistening between milky thighs. Specto cunnum pulchrum.

A third photograph is split in half by the cross-section of a table. The top half shows her smiling and chatting with a friend, while under the table her white panties are pulled to the side, and the thick handle of a fork is penetrating deep into her creamy cunt.

Across the room is a black and white shot of her in the window display of a John Lewis, breasts pressed against the glass. In the reflection, a wide-eyed crowd looks on.

Here she is on the ninth hole of the Old Course at St Andrews, lying nude in the bunker with a bright white golf ball protruding from her labia. The soft curve of her hips presses into the sand, her creamy white breasts and stomach glowing in the morning sunlight.

And here, the camera peers through the window of a bakery where she stands bottomless in front of the pastry display. Speckles of dust catch in the beam of sunlight that illuminates the delicate arch of her back, her swelling hips and athletic bum.

Despite myself, I now have a firm and aching erection pressing against my wool trousers. I wander the gallery, in awe of her exquisite physique, and the playfulness of her exhibitionism. Rounding a corner, I am startled to see Imogen standing there with a devilish grin on her face.

“Nigel. . . It’s about time.”