by Will Thomas
Fitzhugh dropped his head and shook out his hands before taking a towel. “I suppose I should make a clean breast of it. I also issue certificates of virginity.”
Barker went as cold and immobile as I’ve ever seen him. “And how exactly does that work?”
“Well, sir, a young girl is brought in-”
“How young?” Barker growled.
“I don’t ask. A few have been quite young, indeed, and have been genuine virgins. With most, however, it is merely a ruse. I do not examine them at all. I merely issue the certificate. It should be obvious they are not virgins, but it is what the market demands. I am not proud of what I do, Mr. Barker, but I must eat. The Charity Organization Society cannot afford to keep a physician on staff. I am merely a volunteer.”
“You know what I am going to ask you next, do you not, Dr. Fitzhugh?”
“Yes, sir. Miss DeVere was not brought here to be examined. As far as I know, no girl from the charity has. I don’t know how Miss Forth engages these young women.”
“I see. May I trouble you for your address, doctor?”
The doctor gave me the address of a boardinghouse in Morpeth Street, not far from the C.O.S. I heard girls laughing behind me. I turned and saw a group lined up in the hall. One or two winked at us. Barker frowned and I don’t believe it was due to his Puritan roots.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“What do you mean? I’ve told you all I know.”
“I mean now. Why are all these women here now?”
“It’s Friday, sir,” Fitzhugh said drily. “It is their biggest night.”
“What certificates are you here for, ladies? Disease or virginity?”
“Both, sir,” a bold girl answered.
“Is there a special event occurring this evening?” he asked.
“A party at some estate,” she said nonchalantly.
“Out of town?”
“There ain’t none in town that I know of.”
Barker drew himself up to his full height. “None of your lip, girl.”
I’m sure she faced rough men often. A girl can quickly grow tough and cynical in her profession. But even she would not take on a man like Cyrus Barker.
“No, sir. I dunno where it is exactly. Along the river somewhere.”
“Get Sal.”
The last girl in line scampered off to get her. The rest of us stood in a somewhat embarrassed silence.
We heard Sally Forth before we saw her. She came down the hallway of her establishment emitting curses the way a steam engine lets off puffs of steam, in full throttle by the time she reached Barker.
“You better not be interfering with my business, Push.”
“If you anger me, Sal, I’ll be back with Swanson of the Yard, and we’ll shut this place down. No Friday night business and no fancy parties out of town.”
Miss Forth’s only answer was “All right. What is it you want?”
“The name of your client tonight.”
“Not that,” Sally said, lowering her voice. “I ain’t stayed open for business these ten years by squealing on my gentlemen.”
“One name, Sal,” Barker maintained. “You press me and you’ll find out how hard I can press back. I’m after a multiple murderer. I don’t care about your fancy girls.”
“This ain’t the normal client,” Sal admitted. “This is the best money I’ve made in years. I could retire on it. He’s highborn. Best if you leave it, Push. Not just for my sake. It could make more trouble than even you could handle.” She turned back toward the young women. “Girls! Out. Hop it.”
They seemed relieved to be dismissed and quickly left.
“I wasn’t going to be seen discussing this, and you, ” she said, pointing a long-nailed finger at Dr. Fitzhugh, “had better keep your bloody mouth shut.”
“Yes, madam.”
“I shouldn’t do this,” she continued, “but I know all about your temper.”
“It is wearing thinner by the moment. The name, Sal. Give me the name.”
She looked reluctant, but somehow it slipped out of her mouth. “Dashwood.”
Barker stood for a moment, then pushed his bowler hat up and ran his hand across his forehead and put his other hand on his hip. It was as if even he had not expected such an answer.
“Thank you, Sal,” he finally said. “Doctor, we shall speak again. Come, lad.”
Outside, we walked along Cambridge Road, but Barker wasn’t paying attention. One of his broad shoulders almost knocked a man over.
“Who is Dashwood, sir?” I asked.
“Does the name have any meaning to you?” he asked.
“It is the name of a family in one of Jane Austen’s novels, sir. Beyond that, I’m afraid I do not know.”
“Francis Dashwood, the Earl of le Despencer. He was the leader of a group of upperclass rakes a century ago. They were involved in satanic rituals and mad revels amidst London’s upper classes. It was the most infamous organization in the history of London.”
“My word,” I said. “You’re speaking of the Hellfire Club.”
“Yes, Thomas. It would appear they have returned. It all fits together. Such an organization would be a perfect cloak for Miacca’s activities. Most of the victims were found between Saturday and Monday. They were likely sacrificed on Friday night, ritually outraged and murdered by these most vicious of libertines. Like Miss DeVere, their bodies were painted. When the Hellfire Club was done with them, they tossed them away like empty tins.”
“That is vile.”
“Yes, and, lad, there is the link you were looking for. Richard Dashwood, the latest baron who owns the estate in Buckinghamshire, is a friend of Lord Hesketh’s and was the referee for your second match with Palmister Clay.”
“My word.”
“And do not forget today is Friday. I believe the Hellfire Club is going to sacrifice Ona Bellovich tonight.”
28
“Shall 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, barris
ters, 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.”
29
Our 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.