Dr Casswell's Plaything by Sarah Fisher Page A

‘Very nice, Miss Weissman, but I want to see that little toy working away inside you. And you, Miss Morgan, do not just stand there, get on top of her. I want to be paid for my part of the deal. You have to earn the right for your master to work on the manuscript.’
    A few rooms away in the relatively tidy crypt Rigel Casswell collected together the remains of the morning’s work, assisted by one of the museum staff.
    For the first time since they arrived he was deeply aware of his surroundings. The shadowy crypt felt oppressive. Although it had once been a magnificent place, the huge vaulted room was lit by a series of fly-blown bulbs, plaster had fallen from the ancient walls, and the paint was flaked and peeling. Every available surface was stacked with labelled boxes and files and piles of papers, some of which evidently had not been touched in decades. The air was dry and dusty and full of the smells of decadence and decay.
    Casswell stretched. He was ready to go back to Weissman’s house to avoid the heat of the day, and although his face did not betray a flicker of emotion, he was concerned about Sarah’s whereabouts. He knew the details of the deal struck by the curator and the Weissman’s, but that did not mean he was happy about it.
    Until arriving in Turkey, Sarah’s sexual awakening, in fact her whole erotic education, had been in his expert hands, and when she hadn’t been under his direct supervision she was in the hands of men he trusted implicitly to take care of her. Men of integrity who understood the roles of submissives and their masters, men who knew the unwritten code of behaviour that governed the dark and pleasurable game.
    Casswell slipped the documents he had been working on into his briefcase and glanced around the room, wondering where Sarah was. He had no real idea what kind of man Mustafa Aziz was, but every instinct told him the man was not to be trusted.
    ‘Do you know where the curator is?’ he asked as casually as he could manage, still packing his briefcase.
    The man, who had just finished locking Beatrice’s diary back in its protective case, looked across at him with a bemused expression. Casswell wondered how good the man’s English was when he turned and grinned, revealing a large gold tooth.
    ‘You want Mr Mustafa?’ he said conspiratorially. ‘He is not far from here, he have his own special place. You like to go and watch him, maybe? I can take you there. Mr Mustafa he not know that we know about his very secret place. I get you a good view, yes? A good seat?’ As he spoke he held out a grubby hand.
    Casswell looked his would-be guide up and down. It seemed that here at the museum everything had its price, even betraying your employer. Casswell took out his wallet and placed a note on the assistant’s palm. The man pulled a face, but Casswell refused to be intimidated. It was this or nothing.
    The man held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Okay, okay, you drive a hard bargain, Englishman. Come, I show you where he and your woman are…’
    The man waved Casswell to follow him through a labyrinth of narrow passages beyond the room where they were working. Finally, just as Casswell suspected he might be being taken on a wild goose chase the man pushed opened a low door into what looked like a tiny storeroom. The interior was bathed in deep shadow, although what hit him before the sight was the smell; the air inside was hot and heavy with the acrid stench of bodies and sweat. One wall of the room was studded with a series of peepholes bored through the crumbling plaster, and in front of each hole was a chair. Other men, all of whom looked as if they might be on the museum staff, already occupied three of the chairs.
    They looked up momentarily, blinking in the light, and then returned to whatever was going on in the room beyond. It seemed as if Casswell had inadvertently stumbled across the port’s contingent of voyeurs.
    His guide indicated a chair and then