No, they’d rather risk public exposure from a group shot in a grainy photograph than the wrath of Bates and the more damaging photographs he possesses.
Well, we shall see about that.
The hired hands get to work. It is going to be a long night, printing up thousands of copies of the first photograph, paying off hundreds of people to distribute them.
Money, as I’ve said, is wasted on the rich. It works wonders on the poor when you’ve got a job to do.
I’m sure you remember the furor when the photographs began fluttering. Even the American newspapers report on the mysterious snapshots appearing all over England. Who are they, these members of the Club? Who has gone to such trouble of perpetrating such an elaborate charade?
Why, figuring out what might be going on is much more fun than a night in the Club Belladonna ever was. Unless, of course, you’re one of the seven monks, gazing with such odd expressions at the camera.
Who are they? Why are they here?
All England is abuzz. Except for us. We’re waiting.
After the thrilling spectacle of seeing five of the seven monks unmasked, the telephone rings in Pritch’s office. “Speak to me,” says one of his assistants, who answers the call.
“Is Mr. Jay there?”
“Who shall I say is ringing?” the assistant says.
“Arundel Gibson.”
What have we here? If it isn’t the honorable son himself. How delightful. Find their weak spot, Leandro taught us. Find the weak spot and reel them in.
“Hold the line.” The assistant hurries over to Pritch and tells him who it is. Pritch’s eyes light up like the diamond-studded heels of Belladonna, glittering with brilliant flashes as she walked from table to table in her club, waving her fan with assured languor.
“Mr. Gibson,” the Pritch says, lowering his voice slightly. “I take it this is a catastrophe.”
“Yes. God help me, yes, it is,” Arundel says, sounding quite strung out. So on edge that he doesn’t realize he’s not speaking to one of the Jaybirds. “I need to see you right away. It’s most urgent.”
“I see,” Pritch replies. “And how do we know you’re to be trusted?”
“Bloody hell, man, I’m ringing you from a call box,” he cries. “I must see you. No one knows I’m ringing. Certainly not my father. Even now. He’d have my head if he found out.”
Or his inheritance.
“Hold the line,” Pritch says. He puts the receiver down and lets Arundel stew for a moment. Then he picks it up again. “Meet us tonight at the Grey Fox. It’s a pub in Aldgate East, on Old Montague Street. Eight o’clock sharp. Be on your own, or the meeting’s off.”
“Aldgate East"are you mad?” Arundel says. He can’t help himself. This slum section of the East End is not quite the posh world of Eaton Square.
“Eight o’clock, old bean,” Pritch says, and hangs up. Then he calls the Jaybirds and briefs them on what to do.
When Arundel shows up, flustered and nervous at eight o’clock on the dot, Jay One and Jay Two are already seated in a dark corner, their backs to the wall, nursing their scotches. In fact, a rapidly emptying bottle of Glenmorangie is on the table, along with a battered tin bucket of ice and a glass for their guest.
“Have a nip, old bean,” says Jay One as Arundel sits down beside him, looking around anxiously and pushing his hair back off his forehead in the nervous gesture they remember. The lone table near theirs has already been claimed by a disheveled drunk, nursing pint after pint of Guinness. None other than Pritch, of course.
“Looking a tad peaky,” says Jay Two, pouring him a drink.
“Shouldn’t wonder,” Jay One says.
“Bit of a strain.”
“Rather overexposed.”
“Terrible shot. Terrible.”
Arundel buries his head in his hands, then gulps down his scotch.
“All alone, old bean?” Jay One asks.
“Of course I’m all alone. Who’d be bloody daft enough to follow me to this godforsaken hellhole?”
“Not quite what I meant,” Jay One says softly.
“Knew we could count on you, though,” Jay Two adds.
“Had you followed, just in case.”
“Can’t be too careful.”
“Oh, you two could rouse the dead. If only for the pleasure of shutting you up,” Arundel says in frustration.
“I say,” Jay One sounds huffy.
So does Jay Two. “My word,” he says.
They fall silent for a minute. Then Arundel blows his nose and sighs.
“A catastrophe,” Jay One prompts.
“Urgent catastrophe,” Jay Two says.
“We’re waiting.”
“Take your time.”
“Bit of a mess,” Jay One says confidentially.
“Not your fault.”
“But it is my fault!” Arundel cries, then covers his mouth with his hand at his outburst. “I gave my father the letter, and look what happened!”
Oh ho, the passion of youth. He really is a sweet boy, after all. Much too sweet to have been inducted into the Club. They only wanted the nasty ones. Those bound by depravity to be enticed into bidding.
“Steady on,” Jay One says sternly.
“Bit presumptuous,” Jay Two says. “Not your fault at all.”
“Listen, old bean,” Jay One goes on, “and listen carefully. You are not to blame. We chose you because you are solely without blame. Because we knew we could trust you; that you are honest and forthright and, I daresay, still rather imbued with a sense of honor where the family name is concerned. If we hadn’t chosen you, some other less praiseworthy messenger would have been sent in your stead. Do you believe me? Do you?”
He says this so earnestly that Arundel nods as his eyes fill with tears. Jay One had never before said so much in one breath.
“The fault lies with the members of the Club,” Jay Two adds. “They and they alone are to blame.”
“But what did they do that was so awful?” Arundel asks.
“What did they do?”
“What did they not do?”
“Trickery, old bean.”
“Trickery and deception.”
“But half the people I know are involved in some sort of trickery and deception,” Arundel says.
Jay Two shudders. “Not what I’d call friends,” he says.
“I didn’t say they were friends,” Arundel protests.
“Where’d they learn these tricks? I wonder,” Jay Two goes on, ignoring him.
“Dear daddy, perhaps?” Jay One offers.
“At daddy’s knee.”
“Bent over daddy’s knee is more like it.”
“Surrogate daddy.”
“Headmaster, you mean.”
“And his switch.”
“Paddle. Strap. Belt.”
“Or school chums.”
“Even Nanny.”
Jay Two looks aghast. “Surely not the nanny?”
“Afraid so,” Jay One replies.
“What are you going on about?” Arundel cries in frustration.
“What made them, of course,” Jay One explains.
“Molded them,” Jay Two adds.
“Warped them.”
“Warped whom?” Arundel asks.
“The members of the Club, of course.”
“Why they’re so wicked.”
“Why they must be stopped.”
“But what did these members of the Club do besides trickery?” Arundel asks, clearly exasperated.
The Jaybirds look at each other, then at Arundel. The sick feeling in his stomach worsens into a painful, burning ache. His very own father is one of these perverted creatures the Jaybirds are going on about. His father is one of the monks, about to be unmasked for everyone in the world to see. His father knows all about whatever else the Jaybirds are gong to tell him. His very own father.
“Can we trust you?” Jay One asks.
“Trust you implicitly?” Jay Two asks.<
br />
“Haven’t told this to a soul, you know.”
“Certainly not to one of the children.”
“I’m not a child,” Arundel protests. “And you have my word. My word of honor.”
The Jaybirds look at each other.
“I swear it,” Arundel says fiercely. “I swear by the honor of my sister.”
“They tricked women, old bean,” Jay One says softly. His voice is kinder than Arundel has ever heard it. “Not even women, really. Young, innocent girls. Not much older than you are now.”
“You mean they seduced these girls?” Arundel asks.
“No,” Jay Two replies. “They didn’t seduce them at all.”
They fall quiet, and for the first time since their first unfortunate meeting, Arundel is desperate to hear them speak.
“But what exactly did they do?” he asks.
“They auctioned them,” Jay One says.
“They tricked them, and they drugged them, and they auctioned them to the highest bidder,” Jay Two adds.
“One thousand pounds per week.”
“Once they’d bought her, they did anything they liked with her.”
“They met every three years. In different houses.”
“Have been meeting for hundreds of years.”
“Tradition, you know. Coded messages.”
“Secrecy was half the fun.”
“Not as much fun as bidding.”
They fall silent again. Arundel’s skin has turned the frosty gray color of a winter sky just before the storm. He is willing himself not to be sick.
“My own father is one of them,” Arundel says, his voice choking. “My own father did such a thing.”
“Afraid so, old bean,” Jay One says.
“Does my mother know about this?” Arundel asks.
“Surely not.”
“Why ever would he do such a terrible thing?” Arundel asks. He is nearly in tears. “How could he want to do it? Did he ever buy"”
“Don’t know,” Jay One says. “Why would any man?”
“Power,” Jay Two says.
“Power, and mastery.”
“Wickedness.”
“Am I going to become like my father?” Arundel cries.
“Not a chance, old bean.”
“Not a whiff.”
“How do you know?” Arundel asks.
“You’re here, aren’t you? Said it was a catastrophe,” Jay One says.
“Haven’t told us why yet, exactly,” Jay Two adds.
“Because I know my father’s in that photograph,” Arundel says. They know which photograph he means. “And I want to know what I can do to stop it before he’s exposed like all the rest of them He hasn’t been himself since the photos started to appear. He’s been ill, and at home, you see, and my mother’s frantic with worry. I don’t want anything to happen to my mother, or my sister.”
“Or yourself,” Jay One says calmly.
“Rather ruin your reputation,” Jay Two says, equally calm.
“What kind of person do you think I am? How dare you?” Arundel says in disbelief. “I’m not here on behalf of myself. Oh, I don’t know what I’m doing. I think I’m going mad, that’s what, and there’s no one else to talk to. I know my father’s done something. He’s had many more visitors than usual, and"”
“We know, old bean,” Jay One interrupts.
“Can’t be too careful,” Jay Two says.
“For your own protection.”
“Oh God, help me,” Arundel says, slumping and burying his head in his hands once more.
“No one helped the girls.”
“No one at all.”
“You can help them.”
“You alone.”
“What do you mean?” Arundel asks, sitting back up.
“Once they’re all exposed, the Club will be finished,” Jay One explains.
“Long overdue,” Jay Two says.
“But there’s one in particular.”
“You mean my father?” Arundel asks.
“No. Not your father,” Jay Two says.
Arundel sighs deeply and finishes his drink.
“The worst of all of them,” Jay One says.
“By far the worst.”
“Will you help us find him?”
“Will you?”
Arundel wipes his eyes. His mouth is set in a grim line. He looks an awful lot like Guy at this moment, as if he’d aged instantly from a self-absorbed young buck into a grown man facing the harsh realities of the world.
Welcome to the Club!
“I’ll help you on one condition,” Arundel says.
The Jaybirds pour themselves a drink and sit, impassive. They can wait.
Arundel takes a deep breath. “That you keep my father’s face out of it,” he says. “That, should he give me the information you need, you stop releasing the photographs. Or any that have his face exposed. It’s not for my sake. Or for his, the bastard. It’s for my mother and my sister. I don’t care what happens to me anymore,” he says.
“Or to your father,” Jay One says.
“No. Not to my father,” Arundel replies, his face paling further.
“You’re a good man,” Jay One says soberly. “I’d be proud to call you my own son.”
“I’m my father’s son,” Arundel says bitterly.
“And your mother’s,” Jay Two adds.
“That is of no comfort to me now,” Arundel says. His voice is weary. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”
“Tell him Bates. Bates in 1935.”
“Where Bates is.”
“Bates will never know how we found him.”
“We cover our tracks.”
“Yes, you do, don’t you?” Arundel murmurs to himself.
“The photographs will stop.”
“The Club will be forgotten.”
“If he can bring himself to tell his only son.”
“Where Bates is.”
“Otherwise, we offer no assurances.”
“None indeed.”
Again, they fall silent. An occasional laugh from the bar filters their way, but no voices are distinguishable.
“I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole, haven’t I?” Arundel says eventually.
“The girls were pushed down the hole,” Jay One says. His voice is again surprisingly tender. “And couldn’t get out again.”
“Would you like us to make a house call?” Jay Two asks. “Keep you out of it.”
“Be a pleasure, old bean,” Jay One adds.
“No thank you,” Arundel says. He looks so forlorn and bewildered that I would have ventured to bestow one of my dazzlingly reassuring smiles upon him, had I been there, of course. My naturally sentimental disposition makes me turn to mush at times like this.
“You are a better man than he,” Jay One says.
“That provides me with no comfort whatsoever,” Arundel replies, then stands up to leave.
“Ring us whenever you’re ready, old bean,” Jay One says, handing him a tiny slip of paper with a new phone number. “We shall be waiting.”
“You won’t let us down,” Jay Two says.
“You missed your calling, you know,” Arundel says as he puts on his hat and buttons his coat. “You should have been performing in a music hall revue.”
“Pulling our leg, are we?”
“Bit of a nipper, eh?”
Jay One stands up, then reaches over to clasp Arundel’s hand. “You are a brave man, Arundel Cyril St. James Gibson,” he says. “And I consider myself honored to have made your acquaintance.”
“Likewise,” says Jay Two, shaking his hand as well. “We won’t let you down.”
“Not now.”
“Not ever.”
Arundel squares his shoulders, then goes out to face the world, and his father.
We never do find out what exactly Arundel Cyril St. James Gibson said to his father. Or what his father said to the other members of the Club. All we know is that a few days
later, Arundel calls the number we’d given him and says only this: Compton Bates. Marrakesh. Hasn’t been seen in England since 1944, not in the flesh. But, somehow, he’s kept in touch.
Oh ho, His Lordship’s magic touch. His hot, dry fingers even hotter in the desert. Living the grand life in his own harem, no doubt where women can disappear without a trace. Where secrecy can be bought for a lower price than willing flesh.
That’s all we need to know.
One more time a member of the Club is unmasked, but then the photographs stop appearing as mysteriously as they’d begun. Who was the seventh monk? Everyone wants to know. Why did the Club exist? Who could have done such a thing? Who was responsible?
The six exposed Club members aren’t talking. Their lives are over. Their reputations; their jobs, should they have them; their families; their exalted position and social standing in the world"all crushed and shattered, destroyed forever. Their future has been wiped out in as long as it takes for a flashbulb to explode. They deserve nothing less than utter ruin and humiliation.
Once we find them and grind them to bits, the members of the Club cease to exist. Their presence, so large and terrifying in memory, is now dwarfed by the reality of His Lordship. Frankly, we don’t care about any of them anymore, no more than we care about June and her wretched family. They are discarded like popped balloons after a birthday party.
Our team is moving in for the kill. That’s all that matters now.
The bribes are stupendous, but we pay them without question. The papers and fake passports are in perfect order. Compton Bates is a very sick man, you see. So sick that when we find him, he must be flown out of the country, strapped to a gurney, on private planes to his own cancer specialist in Washington, D.C. The planes have been chartered, the pilots on standby, their time bought. They’re happy to wait by the pool of La Mamounia until the signal comes. First they’ll be flying a fairly small plane to Lisbon, then transferring to a larger plane for the journey to Washington, D.C, then on to King Henry, Virginia, where they’ll be landing on the private runway of a plantation.
We could have said their very important passenger was Nikita Khrushchev himself and it wouldn’t have mattered, not with all the baksheesh we’ve dispensed.
You don’t want to know the particulars, do you? Not now. Not when we’re so close.
Once we found him in Morocco, we kept watch. When we knew he’d been lulled into a sense of false security as six quiet weeks passed after the scandal of the monks, we snatched him. We drugged him heavily, and we blindfolded him, and we kept him in the dark.
Belladonna Page 45