Death in Hellfire

by Deryn Lake

  “Don’t cry, little girl,” he said gently, “I assure you that I will take care of you.”

  It was as if she fainted, suddenly going limp and allowing him to lift her from the ground and carry her out of the mausoleum to where the horses waited.

  “Whatever ails the child, sir?” Hawkes asked.

  “I must speak to her mother,” John answered slowly as he carefully lifted Georgiana up into the saddle then swiftly mounted behind her.

  “I think you should indeed, sir,” Hawkes answered as he, too, got onto his horse.

  John’s mind raced as he set off in the direction of the house. He must see Coralie and have a private conversation with her, hand the little girl into her care and make sure that she was warned about her husband. Yet what proof had he that Arundel was doing anything wrong? Something seen by Dominique Jean; his own observations? Could they just not have been the expressions of an over-zealous parent’s love?

  The more he thought about the problem he had to face, the more difficult it became to know how to solve it. Every instinct in him longed to protect Coralie’s daughter, of whom, if fate’s cards had been dealt differently, he could have been the father. Very conscious of the seriousness of what lay ahead of him, John and Hawkes approached the house from the back and while the Apothecary lifted Georgiana down, Hawkes went into the servant’s quarters. After a few minutes he returned with a very flustered looking nursery maid.

  “Lady Georgiana…” she started to remonstrate, but John stepped in.

  “Please be silent, I beg you. The child ran away for a prank. The last thing you should do is be angry with her. Now, be good enough to fetch Lady Arundel to the door. At once.”

  She shot him a furious glance but disappeared into the depths of the house. John, alone with Coralie’s daughter, stroked her hair, rather as he would that of a cat. But some instinct together with his professional judgement told him not to hold the child close, as he would have done Rose, but just to let her rest quietly, leaning against him.

  Coralie appeared about five minutes later and John stood looking at her, vividly reminded of how lovely she was and how much he once had loved her. She caught sight of Georgiana and ran to the child, gathering her into her arms. Over the top of her head, she gazed at the Apothecary.

  “John, what’s this? What has happened? Why is Georgiana out here and not in bed?”

  For answer he said, “Cap you trust that nursemaid not to leave her? Not even for a second?”

  “Yes, of course I can. Stokes has been with me for some years.”

  “Well, tell her to stay with the child and refuse to take anyone else’s orders but yours.”

  Coralie turned to the servant. “You heard what Mr O’Hare said, Stokes. You are to stay with Georgiana until I come.”

  “Very good, my Lady. Come, my dear.”

  They watched in silence as the pathetic little creature was led away into the house. As soon as she was out of earshot Coralie turned to John.

  “For God’s sake, what is going on? Where did you find her?”

  “I’ll tell you in a moment, Coralie. Can we go anywhere where we can be private?”

  She shook her head. “Only the stables.”

  “Well, let’s go there then.”

  They entered the dimly lit building and immediately were consumed by the sweet smell of straw. Making their way to the harness room, full of brushes and polishing clothes and scented saddle soap, they sat down side-by-side on a wooden bench.

  “John, what is happening? Why did Georgiana run away?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered honestly, “but I have my strong suspicions.”

  “What do you mean? What are you trying to say?”

  He paused, then said, “That your husband might well be perverted and that your daughter is possibly the object of his longing.”

  She gave a hiss like a snake and turned on him furiously. “That is a terrible thing to say about the man I married. How dare you?”

  John sighed deeply. “I am only telling you for the sake of the child. Believe me, I hate having to do so.”

  She rose to her feet, her skirt rustling as she did so. “Damn you, John Rawlings. I will not listen to another word. For all his faults Arundel is a good father.”

  John stood up. “Coralie, I beg you to watch out. That is all I ask.”

  She did not reply but turned her back on him and walked rapidly away, leaving John standing - as she had so often in the past - wretched and helpless. With a hopeless gesture he walked out to where his horse was waiting, only to see Dominique Jean emerging from one of the outhouses.

  “Dominique, what are you doing here? I thought you had finished long since.”

  “No, my friend, I decided to work on until my eyes gave up on me. They just have.” He pulled a wry grin and rubbed his hands over them.

  “Are you leaving now?”

  “Certainly. Can I give you a lift?”

  “No, but I’ll follow your coach if I may. It’s a dark, lonely road else.”

  “Of course. You look as if you have a great deal to tell me.”

  “I most certainly have,” John answered as he put his foot in the stirrup.

  An hour later, in the warm confines of a private snug, he sat with Dominique and Samuel, relating the stories of the night to them, all three relaxed by alcohol and a feeling of camaraderie. A fire had been lit in the grate but had recently gone out and now the scents of the night air stole in whenever anyone from the taproom went in or out. It was a drowsy sensation, the smell of roses combined with the pungent stink of urine of both horses and men, blending somehow into a soporific odour. The Apothecary leant back in his chair.

  “So that was it. She did not heed my words. She turned her back on me and walked out into the night.”

  “Then “eaven “elp the child,” said Dominique, his French accent growing more pronounced when he was tired.

  “Yes, indeed,” answered Samuel heavily.

  “I simply can’t understand why Coralie married that terrible rake in the first place. What was she after? Was it money or the title? Or both?”

  “Perhaps,” said Samuel, “she genuinely loved him. The human race is hardly responsible for its actions when you regard the people we fall in love with.”

  “You’re right,” John answered quietly, “she probably did love him. God help her.”

  “Why are you using the word “did”?” asked Dominique. “Does it not occur to you that she loves him still and that your words, John, upset her deeply? Perhaps, even now, she is sitting in her bedroom with her whole life in ruins.”

  The Apothecary’s eyes brimmed with tears, he could not help himself. In his anxiety to help the child he had ridden roughshod over the mother’s feelings. He turned his head away to hide the fact that he was weeping.

  Samuel, as ever attuned to his friend’s emotions, said, “It’s late. I think we could all do with a good night’s sleep.”

  John looked at him gratefully. “Yes, I’m very tired. Besides I have a long and interesting day ahead tomorrow.” He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “Will you forgive me?”

  “Of course,” said Dominique. “By the way, I find that I have a day’s work at West Wycombe left. His Lordship has found several other items for me to repair.”

  “Not made by your father-in-law surely?” asked Samuel, surprised.

  “Alas, no,” answered the Frenchman, and pulled a face.

  All night long John was haunted by the haggard and hunted expression on Coralie’s face as the meaning of his words had sunk into her mind. Then he had thought of Dominique’s question: Why are you saying did love him? Perhaps she still does. Eventually he had fallen asleep as dawn began to break and had woken three hours later, feeling less than ready for the day ahead. Despite this he had risen, washed well in hot water, shaved, then dressed himself carefully.

  He came downstairs to find Dominique had already left and Samuel kicking the cobbles.

  �
��Can’t I come with you, John? I feel so utterly useless here. I’ve nothing to do all day but wonder what time you will be returning. I am really finding it a total bore.”

  John, still jaded after his bad night, immediately relented. “Of course you can. Get yourself a horse and come with me. I leave in ten minutes.”

  “Right. I’ll go to the stables immediately.”

  “Good. I could do with your expert eye taking a look round.”

  Poor Samuel hurried off busily and when John went down the yard to collect his mount found him in earnest conversation with an hostler.

  “This’ll be the mount for “ee, gaffer.”

  “It’s rather a fat brute.”

  “Ah well, sir, the bigger the rider the bigger the horse, if you take my meaning.”

  “I take it very well indeed,” Samuel answered huffily, and clinked a coin into the hostler’s outstretched fingers. “Damnable cheek,” he added as soon as they were out of earshot.

  “Never mind, Sam. The man’s just a bucolic,” John said, humouring his old friend who clearly did not like any reference to his ever-spreading waistline.

  “Urn,” came the reply, and after that Samuel relapsed into silence until they had proceeded halfway up the east drive and the sight of the lake, complete with ship, and the stunning facade of the house came into view.

  “Hare and hounds!” he exclaimed. “What a palace.”

  “I take it you are impressed?”

  “I’ll say I am. I hadn’t expected anything quite so grand.” They rode round to the main door where they both dismounted, John allowing Samuel to peal the bell. The usual footman replied.

  “The Honourable Fintan O’Hare by appointment with Sir Francis Dashwood,” Sam said in an Irish accent so broad that one could have stood on it.

  “If Mr O’Hare would like to step inside.” John obliged. “And you may go round to the servants” quarters,” the servant added, and pointed to the back of the house.

  “To the stables first, Samuel, if you please,” the Apothecary said loudly. He added in an undertone, “You’ll find Dominique Jean working in one of the outhouses. Talk to him. But when Sir Francis and his cronies come for their horses I want you to follow at a discreet distance. Can you do that?”

  “Of course I can,” Samuel answered with a note of irritation in his voice.

  John laid his hand on Sam’s arm. “Please don’t be seen. I think it is vitally important that you are not.”

  “I shall be a shadow,” the Goldsmith answered.

  “And when we get to our destination creep around and observe all you can.”

  “Leave it to me,” Sam said solemnly.

  Shown into the saloon, John almost reeled back at the fine company assembled there. For as well as the usual crowd of cronies he saw Lord Sandwich, First Lord of the Admiralty, together with Sir Henry Vansittart, the Governor of Bengal. A third man also stood by the window, a man whose features John could hardly recognise.

  This morning Charles Arundel looked ghastly, his face having been carefully painted as white as a cloud. He - or his servant - had rouged his cheeks, carmined his lips and blackened his brows so that the man appeared like a travesty of his sex. John thought of Coralie’s attitude on the previous evening and felt momentarily sick.

  Sir Francis Dashwood looked up. “Ah, O’Hare, here you are. Allow me to present you to the others. Lord Sandwich…”

  John gave his very best bow.

  “…Sir Henry Vansittart and Paul Whitehead the poet. Gentlemen, this is the Honourable Fintan O’Hare, son of the Earl of Cavan.”

  John was still bowing as the other men murmured a greeting.

  “And now my friends, let us to horse. It is a fine day and I am sure we will all make haste when we think of the pleasures awaiting us.”

  In the stables their mounts stood waiting, Samuel solemnly holding the bridle of Rufus. John was given a leg-up and once in the saddle he gave Sam a wink and mouthed the word “Follow”. His friend nodded his head silently.

  * * *

  It was a pleasant ride through the countryside following the course of the meandering river. John, being new to the group, rode slightly behind and occasionally looked over his shoulder for any sign of Samuel. But there was nothing and he came to the conclusion that Sam had either got lost or had mastered the art of shadowing to a fine degree.

  It was one of the most beautiful days of the year; late July and already destined to be hot. The cornfields glowed in the early warmth and the scent of wild flowers blew on a minute breeze, filling his nostrils with delight as their perfume hung in the barely stirred air. Barley, long-whiskered and gentle, swayed down by the water and over their heads the sky was as bright a blue as a stained glass window. John, not a religious man, found himself thanking the creator for all this glory, all this splendour, and wondered what he was doing heading for such a sordid gathering. And yet he could not deny some hidden excitement, some lustful urge, working its way towards the surface of his mind.

  About five miles from West Wycombe and a narrow bridge appeared before them which they crossed, riding in pairs over its stone surface. The sound of the horses” hooves was magnified by the high sides of the edifice and momentarily John felt trapped. He looked round in a panic and caught the gaze of his companion, Paul Whitehead, whose long face and nose and unsmiling rat-trap mouth did nothing to reassure him. As they left the bridge and hastened through the meadows on the far side John thought he could hear the distant sounds of a horse in pursuit but turning his head again could see nothing.

  A mile further on and Medmenham Abbey came into view, a gracious building built by the river’s edge. A cloister with soaring arches had been constructed next to an ivy-mantled tower which gave the place a slightly mysterious and melancholy air. Above these cloisters stood windows with pointed decorations above, while on the top of the roof there was a large and imposing chimney, Sir Francis dismounted.

  “Well, here we are again.” He rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Allow me to escort our guest first.”

  There was a murmur of approval and John was led toward a front door like that of a church. His eye wandered upward. Over the arch were written the words Fay ce que voudras, which he translated as “do as you wish”.

  “The slogan of the club,” said Sir Francis, and his voice was molten.

  John stepped into the house and looked about him. He stood in a fine hallway with various rooms leading off it. But it was to the fireplace that his eye was drawn, for there, repeated in French, was the club’s motto once again.

  “This is a very fine building, sir,” he said to his host. “It obviously has been designed with care.”

  “It was my idea entirely,” Sir Francis answered. “I bought the place as a ruin and had it totally restored. Come, let me show you around.”

  He led John to a large room situated behind the cloister. Here there were signs of pictures having been recently removed for the marks where they had hung were clearly visible.

  Sir Francis, seeing the direction of John’s eye said, “Security, old chap. You never know who might come snooping.”

  “Indeed not,” the Apothecary answered, and looked urbane. They stepped out into the cloister and Sir Francis gave a laugh. “Allow me to show you the monks” cells. You’ll be sleeping in one of these tonight.”

  “I see.”

  They were very small but all had the necessary wooden cot required for the amorous dalliances which the ladies of London were more than willing to provide.

  Off the chapter or common room led the refectory, large enough to seat a very goodly gathering. At one end stood the statue of an Egyptian god and at the other end a goddess.

  “Who are they?” John asked.

  “Harpocrates, the god of silence, and his female counterpart, Angerona. That the same duty might be enjoined to both sexes,” said Sir Francis, and gave a lewd wink.

  His whole manner had changed since he had entered the Abbey for he seemed barely a
ble to contain his excitement. And when the others caught up with him the Apothecary could not help but notice that they all seemed volatile. As if to underline this fact Sir Francis rang a small bell and when a servant answered ordered some wine.

  “And now, gentlemen, the first ceremony,” he said, and reaching in his pocket removed a bottle of pills. Solemnly he handed one to Lord Sandwich, Sir Henry Vansittart, Lord Arundel, Paul Whitehead and the Apothecary.

  “What are they?” John asked curiously.

  “They help us be fine, upstanding gentlemen,” Whitehead said in a toneless voice.

  John sniffed the aphrodisiac and assessed it as being relatively harmless. He swallowed it.

  “We take a great many of these during the proceedings,” said Sir Francis, and swallowed his down with a great glass of wine and another of his laughs, in the depths of which was a slightly unpleasant tone.

  Chapter Twelve

  The women from London had arrived and the proceedings were in full swing, everyone having been called together at six o’clock. Prior to that there had been a great deal of time spent strolling in the grounds which were, in John’s estimation, amongst the most erotic he had ever seen. In one place he had read the words Ici pama de joie des mortels le plus heureux inscribed over a grassy bank. And had seen one young monk doing his best to obey the sentiments expressed therein, namely, “Here the happiest of mortals died of joy”. Over a couch of flowers had been written Mourut un amant sue le sein de sa dame, which John translated as “A lover dies on the bosom of his lady”. Against a sturdy oak where upright love- making was clearly practised was a stone banner which read Hic Satyrum Naias victorem victa subegit, which meant “Here the vanquished naiad overcame the conquering satyr”. But as far as the Apothecary was concerned the absolute winner was at the entrance to a cave, in which Venus was bent over pulling a thorn from her foot. Over the cheeks of her behind were inscribed some words which translated read, “Here is the place where the way divided into two: this on the right is our route to Heaven; but the left-hand path exacts punishment from the wicked, and sends them to pitiless Hell”.