by Shaun Hutson
She paused at the head of the stairs, as if expecting someone to ascend; the house remained silent save for the creaking of settling timbers.
Julie turned and headed back across the landing, down the short corridor towards the office.
Outside she hesitated again, feeling the silk shirt around her shoulders. She pulled it more tightly, rubbing her shoulders, allowing one hand to slide across her breasts and down her belly. Then she pushed open the door and stepped inside the office, flicking on the table lamp.
The dull light cast thick shadows in the small room where her brother-in-law had worked.
The atmosphere was slightly chilly but she scarcely seemed to notice it as she sat herself at Ward’s desk. She ran one finger across the keys of his typewriter and looked across the room to the photo of him which hung on the wall, smiling.
She smiled back at it, licking her lips, her breathing now deep, almost laboured.
Julie stood up and faced the photograph, slipping the shirt from her shoulders so that once more she was completely naked.
She moved closer to the picture, her eyes never leaving Ward’s face, her feet brushing against the soft silk as she walked over it.
She knelt before the picture as if in prayer, then slowly opened her legs, stroking the insides of her thighs with both hands. Julie had her eyes closed now and her head tilted back, so that her long hair dangled down and brushed against her arched back. Her mouth dropped open slightly, her breathing deep as she allowed her hands to slide up her body, cupping both breasts, rubbing both nipples with her thumbs. She opened her eyes, kept her gaze fixed on Ward’s face and allowed her hands to glide over her smooth skin back down towards her pubic mound.
Her fingers stirred the tightly curled hair there, one index finger probing more deeply, grazing the hardened nub of her clitoris, stroking gently before plunging further to stir the warm wetness of her vagina.
She began to make slow circular movements on her clitoris, gradually increasing the speed, sliding another finger into her slippery cleft. She felt a sensation of heat building up between her legs as she rubbed harder and faster and held her gaze on Ward’s picture as the pleasure grew more intense.
‘Oh, Chris,’ she whispered as the beginnings of an orgasm made her shudder. ‘Chris.’
Forty-One
‘I owe you an apology,’ Donna said, pushing her plate away and dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin.
Mahoney looked puzzled but continued sipping at his soup.
‘I never even asked if you had other plans for tonight,’ she said.
‘I can live with it,’ Mahoney told her, smiling.
‘I’m not in the habit of picking up men I’ve just met,’ she told him.
Especially when my own husband has only been dead for just over a week.
‘I’m not complaining.’
Donna smiled thinly and watched him as he finished his soup.
He was dressed in a black jacket and black shirt, immaculately pressed, as were his trousers. His shoes were shined to perfection. The long hair she’d admired was still drawn back in a pony-tail. They’d drawn the odd inquisitive glance as they’d entered the dining-room of the Shelbourne, but Mahoney had been convinced that was because of the way Donna looked. She would have turned heads anywhere in a navy blue backless dress which rose just above her knee. Moving elegantly on a pair of high heels, she looked stunning. Her long blonde hair, freshly washed, seemed to glow in the dull light from the chandeliers.
Donna looked at him again, wondering why she felt so guilty to be sitting at the table with this man. Perhaps it was because there had been such a short gap between this meeting and the burial of her husband.
Do you think Chris ever felt guilty when he was with Suzanne Regan?
She tried to push the thought from her mind but found that it persisted.
‘I used to work here, you know,’ Mahoney said, pushing his bowl away and glancing around him. ‘I was a trainee chef for six months.’ He raised his eyebrows.
‘What happened?’
‘I managed to tip half a pint of crème brûlée over the manager one evening when he came in to see how I was getting on. They sort of decided for me that it wasn’t my perfect vocation. I was sacked.’ He raised his wine glass in salute. ‘Cheers.’
She echoed the toast and drank.
‘From there to the National Gallery,’ she said.
‘Via half a dozen other jobs. I’ve been a barman three times. There’s always plenty of vacancies for bar work here. We like our drink, the Irish. More drinkers call for more barmen. It’s a simple equation.’
She found him looking at her a little too intently and lowered her gaze.
‘What made you come here?’ Mahoney wanted to know. ‘You said your husband was working on a book but that doesn’t explain why you came to Dublin.’
‘I wanted to find out what he was working on,’ she said as the waiter removed the plates and tidied the table for the main course. ‘The entries in his diary were all I had to go on. I think he was researching something, but I’m not sure what. That’s why I had to find out who James Worsdale was.’
‘And now you do?’
‘I’m none the wiser, unless his work was something to do with the Hell Fire Club. It seems the most likely explanation now. Tell me what you know about them, Mr Mahoney.’
‘Call me Gordon, please. I’ve never felt very comfortable with formality.’
She nodded and smiled.
‘Gordon,’ she said.
He raised his hands.
‘There’s so much to tell, Mrs Ward,’ he began.
‘Donna,’ she told him. ‘I thought we’d dispensed with formality.’
Mahoney grinned.
‘The subject is vast,’ he began. ‘It depends what you want to know. It also depends on whether or not I can tell you what you want to know. I don’t profess to be an expert.’
‘You said you’d read a lot about them.’
‘I’ve seen a lot of horse races but that doesn’t make me a jockey, does it?’
She smiled again and reached for her handbag, sliding the diary free, laying it beside her as if for reference. The photo was in there, too, but she left it for the time being.
‘I know more about the Dublin Hell Fire Club, obviously,’ he continued. ‘They were just one of the off-shoots. There were a number of branches affiliated to the main club in England. They had individual leaders at each club but one overall head. The affiliates were known as cells. As far as I can tell there were cells in London, Edinburgh and Oxford as well as here in Dublin.’
Donna swallowed hard, one hand involuntarily touching the diary. She remembered the entries.
Edinburgh.
London.
Oxford.
Her husband had been to all those places shortly before his death.
‘Where were the meetings?’ she wanted to know.
‘In Ireland, usually at a place called The Eagle Tavern on Cork Hill. That’s where Worsdale’s painting was done. They also met at Daly’s Club, College Green. That’s where Parsons picked up his charming habit of setting fire to cats. He’d pour scaltheen over them first.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It was a mixture of rancid butter and raw Irish whiskey, I believe. It’s no wonder members of the Hell Fire Club were crazy if they drank that.’
The main course arrived and Mahoney sat back in his seat, seeing how intently Donna was looking at him, hanging on his every word. She glanced irritably at the waiter, barely resisting the urge, it seemed, to hurry him up so that her companion could continue. He finally left and Mahoney continued.
‘Their favourite meeting place, though, was Mountpelier Hunting lodge near Rathfarnham. The ruins are still there today. Kids drive up there at nights and try to spot ghosts.’ He smiled.
Donna didn’t.
‘How was it destroyed? You said there were only ruins there now.’
‘One of the Hell
Fire Club members, Richard Whaley, accidentally set fire to it one night. Well, he supposedly had drink spilled on him by a coachman so, by way of revenge, he poured brandy over the man and ignited him. Whaley got out but quite a few of the others didn’t.’
‘How difficult is it to reach?’ Donna enquired.
‘It’s easy. You can drive up there. It’s only twelve miles or so. They reckon on a clear day you can see the ruins from O’Connell Street.’ He smiled again.
‘Have you ever been up there yourself?’ she wanted to know.
‘When I was a student. Half a dozen of us went up there one night.’ He shrugged. ‘The only spirits I saw were Jamesons and Glenfiddich.’ He chewed a mouthful of food.
‘So what did they do at these meetings?’ Donna persisted.
‘Orgies, mainly. They drank a lot, they gambled, supposedly they practised the Black Mass. Their object was to undermine society, the Church in particular. But most of all it was just an excuse for an orgy.’
‘What about the other clubs?’
‘They were the same, but all the other cells were presided over by the man who founded the order at a place in England called Medmenham Abbey. They were called “The Monks of Medmenham”. One man was responsible for starting the Hell Fire Club. A man called Francis Dashwood.’
Dashwood.
D.
Beside every entry. D.
‘Dashwood was the President of the club. He used to travel around all the other cells to make sure they were carrying out their objectives.’ Mahoney chuckled. ‘They had a nickname for him. They called him The King of Hell.’
Forty-Two
Gordon Mahoney held the brandy glass in his hand and swirled the amber fluid around gently before sipping at it.
The dining-room was almost empty; just one other couple occupied a table on the far side of the room now. Mahoney felt exhausted, as if he hadn’t stopped talking since he sat down earlier that evening. Donna’s questions had been unceasing, her curiosity boundless. He regarded her over the rim of the brandy glass, captivated by her looks. She certainly was a beautiful woman. As she drank her coffee Mahoney looked at her, studying the smooth contours of her legs, noticing the way the dress clung to her slim hips and waist. He felt an embarrassed stirring in his groin and shifted position in his seat.
‘Did Dashwood ever come to Dublin?’ Donna asked.
Mahoney sucked in a deep breath, preparing himself for the next round of questions.
‘I would think so. Like I said to you earlier, he visited the cells all round the country. Parsons spent some time in England, too. They were powerful men. Dashwood was Postmaster-General of England at one time. Most of the members were wealthy young men. They were bored, I suppose. Nowadays the rich snort coke; in those days they got drunk and had orgies.’ He smiled.
‘What about the witchcraft side of it?’ Donna wanted to know.
‘They were perverts. It just gave them an excuse to do what they wanted in the name of the Devil. A lot of what went on was based on gossip, most of it spread by members themselves.’ He drained what was left in his glass.
‘What happened to Dashwood and Parsons?’ Donna wanted to know.
‘No one knows for sure. Parsons just disappeared, not long after the fire at Mountpelier lodge. Dashwood died, supposedly, of syphilis. The clubs broke up when too much political pressure was put on them, when it came out that some of their leading members were important social figures. The scandal ruined them.’
Donna nodded slowly, drawing her finger around the lip of the cup.
Mahoney watched her intently.
‘Could there be a Hell Fire Club today?’ she asked finally. ‘Now, in the twentieth century?’
Mahoney shrugged.
‘Anything’s possible, but if there was I think The News of the World would have found them by now.’ He chuckled.
‘I mean it,’ Donna snapped.
The Irishman was surprised at the vehemence in her voice.
‘A group of men meeting together to get drunk and cavort with women? I should think that happens quite a lot, but I doubt they’d call themselves The Hell Fire Club. You can see that on any guy’s stag night.’ He shrugged. ‘Dashwood and Parsons had political objectives; they wanted to do genuine damage to society. The clubs helped them recruit supporters.’
‘So you’re saying that couldn’t happen now?’ she said challengingly.
‘No, I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is, I doubt if there are men practising the Black Arts and meeting on a regular basis for drunken orgies the way Parsons’ and Dashwood’s men did. I said it was unlikely; I didn’t say it was impossible. Supposedly there was a Hell Fire Club in London in 1934, but what they were getting up to no one knows.’
Donna reached for her handbag and took the photo out. She pushed it across the table towards Mahoney.
‘That’s my husband,’ she said, jabbing a finger at the image of Chris. ‘I don’t know who the other five are.’
Mahoney inspected the faces carefully, pausing at the two blurred images.
‘Look,’ said Donna, pointing at the first of the fuzzy figures. ‘The ring on the left index finger. It’s the same as the one worn by Parsons in that painting you showed me. The other man is wearing one, too.’
Mahoney frowned.
‘They certainly look alike,’ he mused.
‘They’re the same,’ she snapped angrily.
‘What are you trying to say, Donna?’ he asked.
‘Identical rings, one worn by a man in a painting done two hundred years ago, another worn by a man photographed less than six months ago. It’s a hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? I think that someone found the rings that belonged to Parsons and Dashwood. Those men in that photo. I think my husband knew that. I think he knew who they were. I’m sure that’s what he was working on. All the places you mentioned that they used to meet, my husband had been there recently. I think he’d found a new Hell Fire Club.’
Mahoney didn’t speak, mainly because he wasn’t sure what to say. He could see the sincerity in her expression and hear the belief in her voice.
‘I’m going to drive out to Mountpelier Lodge tomorrow,’ she told him. ‘Will you come with me?’
‘What are you hoping to find there?’
‘I don’t know. Some answers?’
Mahoney exhaled.
‘I told you, it’s just a ruin,’ he said wearily.
‘Will you help me? Yes or no?’
He nodded.
‘Pick me up at eleven,’ he said. ‘At the Gallery.’
‘Eleven.’ She nodded. ‘Gordon, there’s something else.’ She licked her lips before she spoke. ‘Were women allowed to join The Hell Fire Club as members?’
Could Suzanne Regan have introduced Chris to the others?
‘No. It was strictly a male preserve,’ he said, smiling. ‘A couple of the high-ranking members like Parsons or Dashwood had what they liked to call “Carriers” but that was it. The carriers were women chosen to be impregnated, made pregnant by members. The children they bore would be used in ceremonies.’
‘Jesus,’ murmured Donna, taking a sip from her cup and discovering that the coffee was cold. She winced and pushed it away from her. She glanced up at the clock on the wall opposite.
It was 11.46 p.m.
‘Gordon, I don’t know how to thank you for your help,’ she said.
‘I could think of a couple of ways,’ he said, smiling.
Donna looked at him coldly.
He raised his hands as if in surrender, then got to his feet.
‘Shall I get them to call you a cab?’ she asked.
‘I’ll be okay. The walk will clear my head.’
She walked to the main doors with him and said a quick ‘Goodnight’, reminding him that she’d pick him up at eleven the following morning.
Mahoney thanked her for the meal and left, stepping out onto the pavement. The fresh air hit him and he sucked in lungfuls and drank them down. Afte
r a few moments he began walking, pausing once to look up at the grand fagade of the Shelbourne. He wondered which room she was in. Mahoney smiled to himself and set off. He should be home in less than thirty minutes.
Not once did he notice that he was being followed.
Forty-Three
Donna left the hazard lights of the Volvo flashing as she hurried up the steps towards the main entrance of the Dublin National Gallery. As she reached them she glanced back at the hire car, knowing that she couldn’t leave it there for long. She hoped Mahoney would be ready to go.
She’d called Julie that morning to make sure she was all right, and that there had been no more trouble. Julie had told her she was fine. Donna, satisfied that her sister was well, asked the hotel to get her a hire car for the next couple of days. The Volvo had arrived less than twenty minutes later.
Now she reached the main doors and walked in, eyes flicking over the sea of faces in search of Mahoney.
He had told her a lot the previous night, too much for her to take in, but the salient points stuck out clearly in her mind. She had sat up that night in her room, sitting on the bed scribbling notes on one of the Shelbourne’s notepads. She’d finally drifted off to sleep at about two, woken an hour later feeling cold and slipped under the covers, resting fitfully until room service brought her breakfast at eight.
She moved through the gallery quickly, looking for Mahoney but unable to find him. Finally she returned to the information desk where she’d first encountered him the previous day, and found a pretty young woman sitting there stacking up guide books on Dublin.
‘I’m supposed to be meeting Gordon Mahoney here at eleven,’ Donna said.
‘He’ll be back in a minute,’ the young woman told her, still stacking.