The Hellfire Conspiracy (22 page)

“S
HALL WE GO TO DASHWOOD’S ESTATE NOW, SIR?”

Barker thought a moment. I’m sure he was itching to reconnoiter the area himself, but ultimately he shook his head. “Best not. There’s no need to be tipping our hand. Come, I fancy a pint.”

We took an omnibus into the City. I knew Barker could not mean what he said about fancying a pint. From the little he had told me about his time in the East I knew he had been a terrible drinker and brawler when the mood was on him, but since then he carefully watched his own intake, never more than a glass of wine or ale per day, and often a week without either. The only stimulant he preferred was his gunpowder green tea, the little pellets of rolled leaves he had imported for him. Fancying a pint was one thing, allowing himself to indulge in one was another.
So, what,
I wondered,
was he really up to?

At Aldgate Station we got out and stretched our limbs. We both liked the City, from St. Paul’s in the west to the Jewish quarter in the east. North was Newgate, where Mac’s parents lived and where he was briefly imprisoned, and south was the river and the Tower. The Guv led me deep into the center of the district and for a moment shocked me when he stopped in front of St. Michael’s Alley, where the Barbados stood. Then he moved into the next street which was Lombard, and led me into a chophouse called the George and Vulture.

As we stepped inside, I couldn’t help think that I knew the name from somewhere. When I saw a gentleman stretched in front of the fire with a handkerchief over his face, sound asleep, I recognized the pub’s name.

“Pickwick!” I cried, which only served to attract the attention of everyone in the room.

“I beg your pardon?” Barker asked.

“This is the setting for Dickens’ novel
The Pickwick Papers,
sir. Sam Weller stayed here.”

“Is that relevant to the case?” my employer asked patiently.

“I don’t know. Is it?”

Barker didn’t favor my question with a reply but ordered two half and halfs at the bar, and then we squeezed ourselves into a corner; for the place was filled with solicitors, barristers, and bankers just let out for the day.

“So why are we here, sir?” I asked after a sip of the stout and porter.

“This is where the Hellfire Club began, lad, and here is where the George and Vulture nearly ended. It was on this spot in 1749 that the original chophouse burnt down and was rebuilt. Some say it was consumed with brimstone, but I think we can safely separate truth from legend now.”

“So tell me more about the Hellfire Club, sir,” I said.

Barker dug out his pipe and filled it. With the pint glass in his left hand and the charged pipe in his right, he began.

“The Hellfire Club was the name of a short-lived group in the 1720s that began in this very building. Then in 1746, another group was formed here with the same name, led by Francis Dashwood, the fifteenth Baron le Despencer. It was a group of fast-living politicians and City men—including the Earl of Sandwich and the artist William Hogarth—a notorious club of debauchery, drunkenness, and satanic ritual. The acolytes were known as monks and nuns and the motto was
‘Fay ce que voudras.’
”

“‘Do what thou wilt,’” I translated.

“Precisely. But the club wasn’t merely for licentiousness. The members were also building ties and making alliances, not only in England but also around the world. The American diplomat Benjamin Franklin was one of hundreds of members. Dashwood was brilliant but a confirmed student of witchcraft. It has been said he founded an order called the Dilettenti, based upon rituals borrowed from the Freemasons.”

“There are the Masons again.”

“Indeed. If one believes they are a benevolent organization, then Dashwood’s club was its evil brother, out for plunder and power.”

“So what happened to them?”

“There was a time they wielded great power. Dashwood excavated elaborate catacombs within his grounds at West Wycombe and built a temple, but soon factions grew and political rivalries compromised the club. Even evil sometimes falls prey to petty jealousies. By 1765, the Hellfire Club had disbanded.”

“Now it is back again.”

“Aye. The new Baron le Despencer is apparently compounding the earlier baron’s traits of lust, drunkenness, and satanism; and it appears he already has a constituency upon which to rely, including Lord Hesketh and possibly the Marquis of Queensberry. He’s gaining influence among the aristocracy, and yet, so far, he has not attracted notoriety like his ancestor.”

“Did the original Hellfire Club sacrifice virgins?” I asked.

“They did, but it was both voluntary and symbolic. There was no abducting and butchering of children. In that way, this fellow is worse, and yet I still have questions. The bruise, for instance.”

“What bruise?”

“There was a bruise on Gwendolyn DeVere’s rib cage. It was in the very place where the fatal blade would have entered to cut out her heart. I believe it was symbolic, a wooden knife, or a false one loaded on a spring. If it was symbolic, then why kill her afterward? If not, why not really sacrifice her, in which case, there was no need to strangle her? It is perplexing.”

“What exactly do you plan for us to do tonight?”

“I wish to break up their meeting. Surely they are not all ardent satanists. If I prove that their secret activities are known, then it is possible that those who are merely there for sport shall panic and run away, never to return.”

“What if they are all ‘ardent satanists’?”

“Then we’ll be in for it, I suppose.”

“Why not call the Yard?”

“The club has not broken the law conclusively, and the baron wields a great deal of power in Buckinghamshire. Hmmm.” Barker began scratching absently under his chin as another thought occurred to him.

“What is it?”

“I just recalled something else about the original Dashwood. He was a Freemason.”

“I see.”

“There may be no connection. The Hellfire Club might have nothing to do with the Freemasons and Pollock Forbes. They may be little more than a group of libertines drinking and consorting with fallen women and indulging in a bit of theater. But they could be much more than that, and you and I must ascertain which it is.”

“Is there no way to assemble a group of us?” I asked. “Mac would wish to come and Handy Andy’s folks are always good for a scrap.”

“No,” Barker said, giving a sigh. “I shall not endanger them or their good names.”

“I suppose,” I said, looking at the bustling pub of professional men, “that there is something
apropos
about planning to bring down a satanic society in the very public house where they first began it.”

“That’s the spirit, lad.”

I thought about the fact that everyone here in the pub would be going home soon, to their homes and families, while Barker and I were about to challenge a satanic cult. It gives one pause.

“What made you decide to become a detective?”

The Guv looked at me appraisingly before answering. “I’d done similar work in China from time to time before I owned the
Osprey
—bodyguard work, finding things, small investigations.”

“That’s not a complete answer, if I may say it. There is the London Metropolitan Police, the Criminal Investigation Department, and even the Special Branch for such work. Why set up as an enquiry agent?”

“Scotland Yard is a branch of the government, whose purpose is to defend society as a whole, to lower the number of crimes, and deter criminals. It’s not set up to help private individuals like Major DeVere.”

I sat back in my chair and tried not to smile.

“You’re looking awfully smug, Thomas. Out with it, then.”

“You’re a socialist, sir.”

“What do you mean, you rascal?”

“The Salvation Army and the Charity Organization Society are set up to meet the needs of individuals who have fallen through the cracks. Wouldn’t you say you do the same? You are the last hope of inquiry. That’s why DeVere came to you.”

There was a rumbling in Barker’s chest. He was chuckling.

“Very good, lad. You are using your reason. I could argue with you, but let us cut through all that and say you are right, with one caveat. I am not a socialist, but I do something similar to what they do.”

“I still have one question, sir, that I would ask if we are to go charging in blindly tonight after an entire cabal of satanists.”

“Ask it.”

“Well, sir, from what you have said and what I’ve gleaned from the sermons we’ve heard at the Baptist Tabernacle, you believe that society is wearing down and getting worse and worse, moving toward chaos and that it must be so because that is what has been predicted.”

“I don’t know if I would have worded it quite that way, but I’ll accept the analysis. So what is the question?”

“The question is why? Why do you do what you do? The government probably doesn’t appreciate your interference, and Scotland Yard is often against you. The Home Office has used you a time or two but thinks you questionable. Why care what happens here? I’m not saying it’s not needful, but why us?”

“Did you see the night soil men on your watch, Thomas, shoveling the horse dung from the streets?”

“Yes,” I said doubtfully. “I could not miss it.”

“Do you know why they do what they do? Because the work must be done. Because there is a little money in it, and most especially because no one else is willing to undertake the work.”

He picked up his untouched half and half, took one large draft of it and put it away from him, then wiped the foam from his mustache with a finger. “Have I given you a satisfactory answer?”

“Well, it wasn’t the answer I expected, sir,” I admitted, “but it was an answer.”

O
UR DESTINATION WAS WEST OF LONDON, AN
area I had not visited since coming to town. Many of Barker’s cases had taken us to the East End or the City but not to the west. Still, we were traveling by river which is the same from Hampton Court to Woolwich. After dinner we were soon to meet a boatman at a dock in Brentford.

“Per’aps I should go with you,” Jenkins suggested, from the security of his booth. He was the Rising Sun’s premier patron, in residence from five thirty to nine every night that the pub was open. To deviate from his chosen schedule was unthinkable. Profits would tumble, the crown slip from Victoria’s brow, and the earth veer from its axis.

“That will not be necessary, Jenkins,” Barker murmured. “Thomas and I shall get along well enough.”

“Right,” Jenkins said, having made the offer. I think he was relieved to be dismissed, but then, he’s no tiger like Mac. He’s more for creature comforts like good ale and conversation.

“Do you punt?” Barker asked me as we left Whitehall.

“Punt? Good heavens, no. Punting was never part of my curriculum at Magdalen College. I could not afford the time or the money. I assumed you hired a steam launch or something.”

“No, no, merely a punt. It is vital that we don’t attract attention to ourselves by arriving with a loud, steaming boiler. Besides, the exercise will do us good.”

Every time Barker says something will be good for me, I know I shall live to regret it and that night was no exception. We arrived at the docks around eight o’clock, and Barker spoke to a sailor who led us to our vessel for the evening. I paid the old salt more than double the price he deserved and surveyed our transportation dubiously.

Cyrus Barker was not as rich as Croesus, but I suspected he had a pile of money from his days as a captain in the China Seas. He is a generous man, but he is also a Scot, and these two opposites in one man sometimes cause war within. At times, he could be especially generous, always seeing that my tailor was well paid, but at other times he was appallingly cheap, as with the dusty warehouse and the mattress. He himself is naturally stoical. All this I contemplated as I looked down at the vessel that Barker would punt all the way to the Dashwood estate.

“It’s not the newest boat in the fleet,” I noted, studying the bare, gray wood of the punt. It had begun its days several decades before on the more prestigious Oxford portion of the Thames, but after it lost its looks, had been sent over to this working end of the waterway. The most I could say in its behalf was that it looked sound, by which I mean it did not have six inches of water in the bottom of it.

“Here, put one of these on,” Barker said, handing me an oilskin coat in dark gray. The coats must have been included in the price. The old sailor seemed to take grim delight in our donning these villainous garments, rank with sweat and fish scales.

“And just why am I wearing this?” I dared ask.

“We do not want to attract attention.”

“Two gentlemen punting in the dark when anyone else on the river would be camping for the night? Couldn’t we have gone by train or something?”

“This was the way the original denizens of the Hellfire Club came, and I have no doubt this is how they shall arrive tonight.”

“How do you know Miacca really exists? Couldn’t he be an invention of the Hellfire Club to cover their illicit activities?”

“No, lad. My professional experience tells me that those letters are genuine. Only a very warped individual would think like that.”

The moon had risen, a pale yellow crescent with the features of a man curious about our endeavors. Clouds moved slowly across the sky, concealing and revealing the moon, like a bull’s-eye lantern. Barker stood in the stern, pulling the pole out of the sediment behind and setting it down in front of him. It is not a fast means of transportation, but he got into such a steady rhythm, I was conscious of the passage of land on either side.

I soon saw why he had chosen this mode of transport. Once out of the town proper, we reached a series of locks. In some cases, the lockkeepers were vigilant, and in others, they had to be hailed. Money changed hands in two instances. On others, we punted to the side, and bodily dragged the old boat around the lock.

“Come here, lad,” Barker ordered. “I’ll teach you how to punt.”

He showed me how to stand with my feet braced and to pull and push on the long length of spruce. Like all things new, it was awkward at first, until I got accustomed to it. As long as I was not interrupted by another lock, my pole sunk into sandy silt and all was fine.

The moonlight, when it wasn’t playing peekaboo with the clouds, painted everything in argent hues. It was cool and there was a light breeze, but my exertions made me want to take off my oilskin and jacket and roll up my sleeves. The town had given way to open countryside where all sensible people had gone to bed. There wasn’t a light to be seen anywhere.

“Lad, pull over to the bank quickly.”

The Guv hadn’t shown me how to stop, so it was awkward, but I still managed to guide the boat over to the side, though I lost my footing, falling into the stern.

“What is it?”

“Shhh!”

A boat was coming along behind us. We huddled down and tried to look inconspicuous, as though we were anglers fishing by moonlight. I heard the steady putt of a steam launch, and over it, the sound of men singing. I could hear the words distinctly across the water, though the singers tended to slur their words, a song about a maiden aunt whom a family would not acknowledge after she had run off to Paris. The song was bawdy, and the singers, young rakes of university age or older, sang it with fervor. There was nothing out here to interest them, save the very meeting we were going to disrupt. I wondered how many people would actually be there.

The launch passed with a wake that set us bobbing and soon Barker was punting again. A half hour later, we floated under a bridge, and on the other side, my employer ran the boat aground. We dragged it up on shore against the side of the bridge and began walking.

“We are in Buckinghamshire,” he said. “The baron’s estate is less than a mile away. I thought he might have men at the dock, and we do not wish to be seen.”

The two of us crept along a wagon path. I saw the estate in the distance, well lit against the dark night, and my mind imagined something sinister about it. Barker lit a dark lantern of his own and shone the circle of light upon a large scale ordinance map. A breeze came up, and I felt a chill despite the oilskin.

My employer led me into a valley, and we approached a structure standing tall in the night, a church or abbey. It had a circular courtyard and a pair of open gates lit by torches that bathed everything in a shimmering light.

“That is the entrance to the caves,” the Guv explained.

“It looks deserted,” I said.

“They may be within the labyrinth. It was heavily quarried, according to Dashwood’s design, with some sort of temple at the far end, deep within the earth.”

“How do you know so much about it, sir?” I asked as we came up to the entrance.

“I thought the subject worthy of study. I have a book upon it in my garret back in Newington.”

“I don’t hear anything,” I whispered. “Should we go in?”

“We have come this far,” came the reply.

“Dare I hope you brought a pistol?” I asked.

“It wasn’t wise,” he answered. “This is private property and we are trespassers.”

We headed into the cave. The tunnel was narrow and faced with brick, an endless corridor of gothic arches.

We followed the corridor to the left and had only gone a few yards when I heard a chilling sound, the squeal of gates behind us. They crashed together, setting off echoes throughout the cave.

“Caught like a rat in a trap, Barker!” a rough voice echoed down the corridor. “We have been expecting you. I hope you enjoy your tour of my caves. You will have until the morning to enjoy my hospitality.”

We heard the sound of a heavy chain being wrapped around the gates and a lock clicking shut, then the harsh, raucous laughter of some of Dashwood’s guests, male and female, drifted to us from the entrance of the cave.

“Sir?” I asked in a low voice.

Barker raised a finger to his lips. I told myself it was too early to panic. Trapped we were, but our lives were not in immediate danger. All the same, any chance to lay hands on Miacca tonight had vanished. If we were jailed here all night, who would stop Ona Bellovich from being murdered? What kind of saviors were we?

Barker turned and led me back down the tunnel to the entrance. The gates were closed and padlocked, and a guard had been set outside to watch us, armed with a hunting rifle.

The Guv ignored the guard, flipping up the large padlock that held us in.

“Drop that!” the guard ordered at once.

“Stop me if you wish. Lad, hold this lantern for me.”

I took the lamp as Barker rummaged about in his pockets. Finally, he pulled out a ring of skeleton keys and inserted one into the lock.

“Stop that or I will shoot!” the guard warned, looking a trifle desperate. No one had thought that Barker might have his own keys.

“I doubt the baron has given you permission to shoot me,” my employer stated, taking out the key and inserting another. “You are merely to see that I don’t escape.”

The mechanism clicked as the lock sprung open. The guard raised his rifle, and then the Guv flung out his arm. The distance between them was suddenly full of pennies glittering in the torchlight, the sharpened ones he called his “calling cards.” They caught the man in the wrist, the chest, and the cheek. The guard fell back with a cry, not even able to fire off his gun in warning. Meanwhile, Barker removed the lock and pulled apart the chains before pushing open the massive gate. He charged out, bent double, covering the ground between them quickly. I heard a loud impact, and the guard fell at Barker’s feet. He wouldn’t be getting up any time soon.

“Should I take the rifle?” I asked, glad for something to hold onto.

“No,” he replied. “No guns.” He seized it and swung it against the wall of the entrance, shattering the stock. “This has slowed us down. Come.”

There was a marble, hexagonal building nearby and we headed toward it. As we approached, I saw that it was a large, open mausoleum for the Dashwood ancestors. This, too, was deserted, but after we passed it, we saw a well-lit building a few hundred yards away, and my ear caught the sound of music and raucous laughter. This was where the satyrs were having their party.

“They are having their unholy revels in a church!” Barker growled. He tossed his lantern to the ground and began to run, with me in pursuit.

Two men stood in the entrance of the old church, and when the Guv entered, he thrust their heads hard against the old wood. As they slid to the floor, I jumped over their sprawling limbs.

Inside, it was a scene from Hogarth. Most of the men were clad in garments from the previous century, breeches, long coats, and tricorns, their faces covered by half masks of black silk. As for the women, they too had their faces covered, but precious little else. They looked like Georgian strumpets, with elaborate wigs and tight bodices and pantaloons. Bottles of whiskey and goblets of wine littered the tables; and the pews had been replaced with banqueting tables, long couches, and chairs. In one corner, a small orchestra sat, wearing powdered wigs and blindfolds, churning out a merry air. But that was not the worst of it.

In the center of the room, a man was just laying a young girl down upon a marble altar. She wore a heavy cape, but it was half open, exposing her bare flesh. I recognized Ona Bellovich. The man wore a similar cape down to his feet, but his face was hidden by an elaborate goat mask, with large horns and a pentagram painted on the forehead.

“This is a raid!” Barker bellowed. “Everyone, stay where you are!”

In fact, they did just the opposite. His demand caused pandemonium. Old roués parted from the women with whom they caroused and grabbed for their breeches. Women screamed and the music trailed off. Some of the men ran for the door, while others turned to stop us. I kicked one in his paunch, and he went down easily. Barker lashed out, catching one in the jaw and stomach who, for all we knew, might be a cabinet minister or judge. From a nearby table, he lifted a cat-o’-nine-tails, whose reason for being there I didn’t want to consider, and began to flail at the legs of the men and women running by.

“Out!” he cried. “Get out!”

In the tumult, I lost sight of Ona Bellovich.

Barker continued to thrash at the escaping crowd, while I pushed my way forward. The man in the goat mask had disappeared, nor could I see his captive. I saw the crowd for what they were: portly bankers and merchants and politicians consorting with low women from Sal’s bawdy house hired for the evening’s frivolity. But what of the sacrifice? Was the girl really meant to be killed on the altar, raped, and strangled in front of all these people?

The room rapidly cleared. The orchestra members tried to carry their precious instruments through the fleeing crowd. I was suddenly seized from behind, and I did not hesitate, giving the fellow a sharp blow to the stomach with my elbow, then stamping on his instep with my heel. I wrapped my arm around the fellow’s neck and was about to smash my fist into his nose when I recognized him. Swanson of the Criminal Investigation Department had materialized in the midst of this raucous crowd.