by Morgana Best
“One of the books on the bookcase was by Rabelais, which is to be expected. These days you’ll read that the motto Fay ce que voudras was written over the archway to the entrance to Medmenham Abbey, but what most books don’t tell you is that the motto was written over all the fireplaces as well. A statue of Harpocrates, the Egyptian god of silence, stood at the end of the room. Remember I told you that Aleister Crowley said a being called Aiwass contacted him and dictated The Book of the Law?”
“Yes.” I turned back to Douglas and checked the photos I’d taken.
“Aiwass was said to be a minister of Harpocrates.”
Finally, something interesting. “Ah, so yet another connection to Crowley.”
“Yes, and at the other end was a statue of Angerona, the Roman goddess of silence. This was to impress on both male and female members that they were bound by the oath of secrecy.”
We were still standing on the bank of the Thames facing Medmenham Abbey. Without warning, Douglas closed the ground and seized my shoulders. As his mouth loomed closer to mine, I pushed him away, hard.
“What’s wrong?”
Did he want a list? I snorted in disgust and headed back to the car.
The drive back to Aunt Beth’s was tense and silent.
Chapter 13
The doorbell sounded the following morning before I’d had a chance to have my first coffee. I hoped it wasn’t Douglas. I was in luck. Jamie was standing at the door. “I would’ve called, but I don’t have your phone number. Do you have plans for the day?”
As a matter of fact, I didn’t, and said so. Douglas and I had parted uncomfortably and he certainly hadn’t offered to play tourist guide again. I was still embarrassed to be around Jamie after the incident in the caves, but I needed a car and I had to solve Aunt Beth’s murder.
Jamie was still speaking. “Have you visited all the sites you needed to go to for your articles?”
I thought it over, and wondered why Jamie was here. Was he in fact in the secret society that Douglas had said he was in, and was he hoping to keep an eye on me? Well, if he was, I could still use him for transport and interrogate him at the same time. I needed to find out who killed Aunt Beth, and I wasn’t making much progress. Having made that resolve, I said, “The main two places I still have to see are the Dashwood church and the Mausoleum.”
“St. Lawrence’s Church? That’s easy. It’s right next to the Mausoleum. When would suit you? That’s if you’d like to come with me, of course.”
I tried to sound not too eager. I found Jamie attractive, but I had not known him long and under less than auspicious circumstances. What’s more, I had only recently realized I wasn’t attracted to Douglas after all. I didn’t want to behave like a smitten heroine from one those novels Melissa was always reading. Besides, I didn’t have superpowers. “Yes, thank you. I’m ready now. Would you mind if we stopped for take out coffee on the way?”
I was glad for a moment that the nightmares, and Diva objecting to me rolling over, had woken me up early. I was already showered and dressed so didn’t look like one of the scary monsters that sometimes appeared in my magazine. Usually, my primary endeavor in the morning is to have my first cup of coffee.
“I’ll run in and get you one at West Wycombe on the way. My treat.”
The rest was a blur until my caffeine levels were up to the minimum daily requirement, and that was fulfilled while driving the half mile up the hill past the caves to the Church. Jamie parked the car and we walked through the cemetery looking at the tombstones. Some were ancient, some were modern.
I took out my iPhone and took a few photos. “Jamie, do you know much about the church? I know it’s directly over the Hellfire Caves.”
Jamie nodded. “There used to be an old Norman tower here, and that in turn was built just inside the West Wycombe Camp, which was an Iron Age fortification.”
I pointed to the tower on top of the church. “I read about that golden ball. Did Dashwood put that there when he built the church?”
Jamie nodded again. “Dashwood actually rebuilt the church and remodeled it. He fashioned the tower on the customs house in Venice, then had that golden ball put on top. Several people can fit inside it. It’s bigger than it looks from down here.”
I thought it looked pretty big. “Who is St. Lawrence?”
Jamie chuckled. “One of the false stories spread around is that St. Lawrence is the patron saint of prostitutes.”
I laughed. “Well, it’d make sense. I was surprised that Sir Francis would have built an actual genuine church.”
“Another story is that a lot of churches built on known pagan sites were given that name.”
We walked up to the front door and tried it. It was locked. A sign noted the service times, so I decided to come back for an actual service and look inside. “Oh, Jamie, do you know anything about ghosts in the Hellfire Caves?”
He shrugged. “Sure, there are supposed to be two. There’ve been quite a few reported sightings of a young woman in a white dress at both the Hellfire Caves and at the George and Dragon pub, and the general opinion is that she’s the ghost of a barmaid by the name of Sukie.”
“Hang on a moment.” I got out my notepad and pen to make notes. I waved at Jamie to continue.
“The story goes that Sukie fell in love with a rich gentleman. The local lads decided to play a practical joke on her, so wrote her a note pretending to be from the gentleman and asking her to meet him in the secret tunnel that runs from the pub to the caves. The note asked her to dress in a wedding dress. Sukie turned up dressed in a white dress and discovered that it was all a joke at her expense. She threw a rock at the lads, but one threw a rock back, hitting her in the head. The lads were upset and took her back to the George and Dragon pub, but she died that night. Actually, there is no evidence for this legend, so the ghost dressed in white could be anyone.”
I finished scrawling and looked up. I hoped I would be able to understand my own handwriting. “Who was the other ghost?”
“Your old friend Paul Whitehead.”
A chill ran right through my body. I shuddered. It seemed as if the temperature had dropped by at least ten degrees. At that moment I knew without a doubt that Paul Whitehead was my ghost, the one who had been appearing to me in my dreams, and breathing in my ear. Don’t ask me how. I just knew. I shivered again.
Jamie hadn’t noticed and was walking behind the church. “Come on, Misty! Let’s check out the Mausoleum.”
Now that I turned my full attention to the Mausoleum, I wasn’t prepared for its massive size. Hexagonal, and made of flint like the church, the Mausoleum was large enough to encompass several substantial houses. It towered above me. Sadly, the iron gates were locked, but I had a wonderful view of the inside though the bars. “Jamie, it’s so tall!”
“It’s actually based on the Arch of Constantine in Rome.” He paused and looked at me. “Ready for lunch?”
I hoped he hadn’t said that just because my stomach had growled loudly.
We had made inconsequential small talk on the way to the restaurant, which was in Bray, not far from Marlowe. I was jittery. I had no idea of Jamie’s motives. He was treating me as if I were a friend, a colleague.
I had spent the meal so far looking around at the posh restaurant’s other patrons, and wondering if any had been sent by the Black Lodge. I figured my scrutiny did not appear overt, as my back was to one wall and the patrons were in front of me, in my direct view of the uber-stylish and sleek, wall-mounted aquarium. I dragged my gaze away from a man dining alone—who dines alone at a place like this?—and across the elegant table settings. My mind made an unexpected digression to wonder whether the fish were freshwater or saltwater.
I had never been to such a restaurant before, not on my salary. I imagined that at night it was an intimate dining room with sumptuous surroundings and flickering candles, the height of classic style and yet with a tranquil atmosphere. Today, at midday, it was a place where business people had gathered to eat lun
ch. The combination of diffused lighting and soft music should have been relaxing, but for some reason it set my nerves on edge. I was someone who liked to put things in boxes, all neat and sorted. Why was I here? Why was Jamie acting as tour guide?
I had eaten two desserts instead of a main and a dessert. I had quickly polished off the Yoghurt Sphere capped with Apple Brunoise on Mint Sorbet, and was now scoffing down the Pear and Strawberry Cannoli with Ginger Jelly on a bed of Macadamia Milk Ice Cream.
Jamie, on the other hand, had taken the traditional route, with an entree of sage crusted vegetarian cutlets on a bed of green lentils, the head chef’s favorite according to Jamie. This information had sparked even more curiosity from me. How did Jamie know the head chef? For the main he chose the Butternut Squash and Rosemary Ravioli with Poblano Sauce.
As we neared the end of our meal, I thought I had better broach the subject. I took another gulp which brought my glass of the horribly expensive wine to an end. I was no wine connoisseur, that was for sure, but I did enjoy a nice glass of red, or white, for that matter.
“Jamie, are we under surveillance?” Oh dear, not what I meant to say. Why was I so tongue-tied?
“Not as far as I know.” His eyebrows met in the middle. “Why do you ask?”
I was awfully embarrassed. I took a deep breath and then asked, “Why did you show me around the Mausoleum today and then take me to lunch?”
Jamie hesitated for a moment, his spoon hovering near his coffee cup, which had just arrived. “I’m just being neighborly,” he said. “Your aunt and I were friends.” His tone was less than convincing.
I narrowed my eyes and waited for him to continue.
He did not.
Obviously, there was far more to it, and Jamie wasn’t about to tell me.
Chapter 14
That afternoon I emailed Melissa and told her to call me when she could.
Five minutes later she did.
“Misty, you emailed my work email, not my home email!”
I slapped myself on my forehead. “Oh, sorry! I forgot.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll delete it. I overhead Skinny Troll telling Keith that you needed to rework your West Wycombe Park article, but he said he liked it.”
I groaned loudly. “Why can’t he see through her?”
Melissa snorted. “He’s too nice and trusting. She’s probably after his job.”
An unwelcome image of Daisy sitting at Keith’s desk presented itself to my mind. I dismissed it. “She should leave us alone, then.”
“True. Anyway, Misty, spill. What’s happening on the guy front?”
I laughed. “Melissa, do you realize you have just failed the Bethel Test again?”
“Bechdel Test. Good attempt to divert. Spill!”
“He tried to kiss me,” I sighed.
“Good for you! Don’t fall into another unsatisfactory relationship, though. Do you like really like him?”
I sighed again. “No, of course not. I mean, Douglas is good looking but he clearly has issues and there are too many red flags that he’s verbally abusive. I can’t figure why I was ever interested in him in the first place. I suppose it was Desert Island Syndrome. You know, not dating for ages is like being stranded on a desert island. You want to get on the first boat that comes along. Even a boat with holes looks good.”
“So the other man, Jamie, is the luxury yacht?”
I laughed at the image. “Well, I wouldn’t go that far, but he does seem like a good, sturdy boat. Melissa, seriously, Jamie isn’t interested in me like that.”
Melissa chuckled. “Well, be careful. I’ll call you later if I can. I’ve got a deadline and I’ve had writer’s block all day.”
“What article are you stuck on?” I asked her.
“No, two things. I’ve got a deadline for the magazine and I’m stuck on the novel. I don’t know what power my heroine can have. Perhaps I could base her on you.”
I laughed. “What, on me? I don’t have any powers!”
“You’re a researcher, and a good one too.”
“That’s kind of you, Melissa, but I wish being a good researcher was a power.”
Melissa laughed. “Well, you know that Mary Queen of Scots said she feared the words of John Knox more than all the assembled armies of Europe. The pen is mightier than the sword and all that.”
“Melissa, she said she feared his prayers, not his words.”
“See, I told you that you are a good researcher! Gotta go, catch you later.”
I wasn’t so disappointed that the conversation was short, as I was keen to get to the computer. I wanted to look up Bible references to the ancient Greek word thelema, meaning purpose, to see if there was any connection with the Hellfire Club or even Aleister Crowley, and also wanted to look up the date of Paul Whitehead’s death. It seemed pretty obvious that he had burned the evidence and then killed himself, perhaps so that no one could torture the information out of him. He was the steward of the club and held all the secrets. There was certainly at least one secret he was party to, and he made sure no one else was able to get it. Perhaps the date would give me a clue.
I was sure Aunt Beth would have a concordance, but I couldn’t find one on the shelves. There was a big black King James Version Bible, several volumes of David Eddings—who knew Aunt Beth was into epic fantasy!—five editions of Pride and Prejudice, just about everything ever written by Shakespeare and Aristotle, and a stack of occult books with authors such as John Dee, Samael Aun Weor, Aleister Crowley, and of course, Arthur Edward Waite.
It looked like I’d have to use an online concordance. I made a cup of tea—not Lapsang Souchong—opened a packet of cookies invitingly labeled McVities Lyles Golden Syrup Creams, and turned on the laptop. I found sixty four references to the ancient Greek word thelema in the New Testament. I groaned. The joys of being a researcher! I’d rather be able to kick butt while wearing five inch stilettos and skin-tight leather. Oh, I had better add Spanx to that equation.
My reading glasses perched on my nose, I found that the first reference was in Matthew 6:11, the famous Lord’s Prayer passage.
May your purpose be done on earth just like your purpose is done in heaven.
I looked carefully through the remaining sixty three instances of the word thelema, and to my great surprise, every instance explicitly referred to God’s purpose. Well, there was one instance where it was the devil’s purpose, but I was struck by the fact there was not one instance of human, mortal purpose. I pondered the significance of this.
I finally concluded that ‘Do as thou wilt’ perhaps wasn’t so much ‘Do whatever you like,’ but rather, ‘Do what you focus on,’ as in, ‘Focus, then act’. Hmm.
Now to Paul Whitehead. He had received an important letter, the arrival of which had prompted him to burn all his records and then kill himself. It was easy to find his date of death, December 30, 1774. I googled 1774 to see what was significant about that year.
The second entry mentioned the Boston Tea Party, so I googled that. On December 16, 1773, after officials refused to return three shiploads of taxed tea to Britain, some colonists threw the tea into Boston Harbor.
Okay, I pretty much knew all that, just not the date. A web page said that England didn’t receive news of the Boston Tea Party until January 1774 due to transport time in those days, but that the news was not officially announced for two months. I couldn’t find the date in January, so looked up voyage times from America to Britain in the eighteenth century. This was a difficult search. I finally found one source that said the voyage in the nineteenth century would have taken twenty five to twenty eight days.
Horrors. At that point I realized I had eaten all the cookies. Research makes me hungry. The cupboards revealed a packet of cookies called ‘Chocolate Digestives’. In Australia, a digestive was something that someone would take for an upset stomach. Oh well, the illustration on the packet looked good, so I opened the packet and took out only four biscuits this time, in an attempt at sel
f-control.
Back at the laptop and refueled by tea and chocolate digestives, I immediately came across a useful article written by a professor of history. The article mentioned Benjamin Franklin, and said that in those times, voyages across the Atlantic took six to eight weeks.
Whitehead took delivery of the letter on December 23, 1774. If the letter was sent from America, it might have referred to events that happened significantly earlier. On the other hand, the letter was possibly sent from within England.
I sat at the computer for two hours, but couldn’t find anything to tip me off as to what had upset Whitehead so. Sir Francis Dashwood was championing the cause of American independence, and I did find one site that said American revolutionaries were debating whether to break with Britain in November 1774. Of course, I also figured that Paul Whitehead did what he did to prevent something from happening. If he did prevent it, then I’d never be able to find out what it was. It seemed like researching this any further would be pointless.
I got up, stretched my legs, and looked out the window for a car. Aunt Beth’s lawyer was overdue by five minutes. He had called the day before to make a time with me, so he could drop off a package that Aunt Beth had bequeathed to me in her will. I hoped it had something to do with money, and a lot of it.
By the time I got back downstairs, I could see a figure behind the frosted glass of the front door, and made it there just as the doorbell was ringing.
I showed the elderly man into the living room. He looked more like an undertaker than a lawyer.
“Mrs. Sales,” he began in a clipped Oxbridge accent.
“Ms.,” I interrupted. “I’m not married, and if I were married, I would still be Ms.”
He looked at me like I was an insane and overtly feminist member of the colonies. “Ms. Sales,” he said, with emphasis on the Ms., “as I informed you on the phone, I cannot divulge any details of Mrs. Banks’ will at this time, but these two packages are for you. The terms of Mrs. Banks’ will stipulated that our firm was to hand deliver these packages to you.” He handed me the first one, which was a large, yellow envelope. “Open it now,” he said in an imperious tone.