by Will Thomas
“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.
“Here, put one of these on,” Barker said, handing me an oilskin coat in dark gray. The coats must have been included in the price. The old sailor seemed to take grim delight in our donning these villainous garments, rank with sweat and fish scales.
“And just why am I wearing this?” I dared ask.
“We do not want to attract attention.”
“Two gentlemen punting in the dark when anyone else on the river would be camping for the night? Couldn’t we have gone by train or something?”
“This was the way the original denizens of the Hellfire Club came, and I have no doubt this is how they shall arrive tonight.”
“How do you know Miacca really exists? Couldn’t he be an invention of the Hellfire Club to cover their illicit activities?”
“No, lad. My professional experience tells me that those letters are genuine. Only a very warped individual would think like that.”
The moon had risen, a pale yellow crescent with the features of a man curious about our endeavors. Clouds moved slowly across the sky, concealing and revealing the moon, like a bull’s-eye lantern. Barker stood in the stern, pulling the pole out of the sediment behind and setting it down in front of him. It is not a fast means of transportation, but he got into such a steady rhythm, I was conscious of the passage of land on either side.
I soon saw why he had chosen this mode of transport. Once out of the town proper, we reached a series of locks. In some cases, the lockkeepers were vigilant, and in others, they had to be hailed. Money changed hands in two instances. On others, we punted to the side, and bodily dragged the old boat around the lock.
“Come here, lad,” Barker ordered. “I’ll teach you how to punt.”
He showed me how to stand with my feet braced and to pull and push on the long length of spruce. Like all things new, it was awkward at first, until I got accustomed to it. As long as I was not interrupted by another lock, my pole sunk into sandy silt and all was fine.
The moonlight, when it wasn’t playing peekaboo with the clouds, painted everything in argent hues. It was cool and there was a light breeze, but my exertions made me want to take off my oilskin and jacket and roll up my sleeves. The town had given way to open countryside where all sensible people had gone to bed. There wasn’t a light to be seen anywhere.
“Lad, pull over to the bank quickly.”
The Guv hadn’t shown me how to stop, so it was awkward, but I still managed to guide the boat over to the side, though I lost my footing, falling into the stern.
“What is it?”
“Shhh!”
A boat was coming along behind us. We huddled down and tried to look inconspicuous, as though we were anglers fishing by moonlight. I heard the steady putt of a steam launch, and over it, the sound of men singing. I could hear the words distinctly across the water, though the singers tended to slur their words, a song about a maiden aunt whom a family would not acknowledge after she had run off to Paris. The song was bawdy, and the singers, young rakes of university age or older, sang it with fervor. There was nothing out here to interest them, save the very meeting we were going to disrupt. I wondered how many people would actually be there.
The launch passed with a wake that set us bobbing and soon Barker was punting again. A half hour later, we floated under a bridge, and on the other side, my employer ran the boat aground. We dragged it up on shore against the side of the bridge and began walking.
“We are in Buckinghamshire,” he said. “The baron’s estate is less than a mile away. I thought he might have men at the dock, and we do not wish to be seen.”
The two of us crept along a wagon path. I saw the estate in the distance, well lit against the dark night, and my mind imagined something sinister about it. Barker lit a dark lantern of his own and shone the circle of light upon a large scale ordinance map. A breeze came up, and I felt a chill despite the oilskin.
My employer led me into a valley, and we approached a structure standing tall in the night, a church or abbey. It had a circular courtyard and a pair of open gates lit by torches that bathed everything in a shimmering light.
“That is the entrance to the caves,” the Guv explained.
“It looks deserted,” I said.
“They may be within the labyrinth. It was heavily quarried, according to Dashwood’s design, with some sort of temple at the far end, deep within the earth.”
“How do you know so much about it, sir?” I asked as we came up to the entrance.
“I thought the subject worthy of study. I have a book upon it in my garret back in Newington.”
“I don’t hear anything,” I whispered. “Should we go in?”
“We have come this far,” came the reply.
“Dare I hope you brought a pistol?”
I asked.
“It wasn’t wise,” he answered. “This is private property and we are trespassers.”
We headed into the cave. The tunnel was narrow and faced with brick, an endless corridor of gothic arches.
We followed the corridor to the left and had only gone a few yards when I heard a chilling sound, the squeal of gates behind us. They crashed together, setting off echoes throughout the cave.
“Caught like a rat in a trap, Barker!” a rough voice echoed down the corridor. “We have been expecting you. I hope you enjoy your tour of my caves. You will have until the morning to enjoy my hospitality.”
We heard the sound of a heavy chain being wrapped around the gates and a lock clicking shut, then the harsh, raucous laughter of some of Dashwood’s guests, male and female, drifted to us from the entrance of the cave.
“Sir?” I asked in a low voice.
Barker raised a finger to his lips. I told myself it was too early to panic. Trapped we were, but our lives were not in immediate danger. All the same, any chance to lay hands on Miacca tonight had vanished. If we were jailed here all night, who would stop Ona Bellovich from being murdered? What kind of saviors were we?
Barker turned and led me back down the tunnel to the entrance. The gates were closed and padlocked, and a guard had been set outside to watch us, armed with a hunting rifle.
The Guv ignored the guard, flipping up the large padlock that held us in.
“Drop that!” the guard ordered at once.
“Stop me if you wish. Lad, hold this lantern for me.”
I took the lamp as Barker rummaged about in his pockets. Finally, he pulled out a ring of skeleton keys and inserted one into the lock.
“Stop that or I will shoot!” the guard warned, looking a trifle desperate. No one had thought that Barker might have his own keys.
“I doubt the baron has given you permission to shoot me,” my employer stated, taking out the key and inserting another. “You are merely to see that I don’t escape.”
The mechanism clicked as the lock sprung open. The guard raised his rifle, and then the Guv flung out his arm. The distance between them was suddenly full of pennies glittering in the torchlight, the sharpened ones he called his “calling cards.” They caught the man in the wrist, the chest, and the cheek. The guard fell back with a cry, not even able to fire off his gun in warning. Meanwhile, Barker removed the lock and pulled apart the chains before pushing open the massive gate. He charged out, bent double, covering the ground between them quickly. I heard a loud impact, and the guard fell at Barker’s feet. He wouldn’t be getting up any time soon.
“Should I take the rifle?” I asked, glad for something to hold onto.
“No,” he replied. “No guns.” He seized it and swung it against the wall of the entrance, shattering the stock. “This has slowed us down. Come.”
There was a marble, hexagonal building nearby and we headed toward it. As we approached, I saw that it was a large, open mausoleum for the Dashwood ancestors. This, too, was deserted, but after we passed it, we saw a well-lit building a few hundred yards away, and my ear caught the sound of music and raucous laughter. This was where the satyrs were having their party.
“They are having their unholy revels in a church!” Barker growled. He tossed his lantern to the ground and began to run, with me in pursuit.
Two men stood in the entrance of the old church, and when the Guv entered, he thrust their heads hard against the old wood. As they slid to the floor, I jumped over their sprawling limbs.
Inside, it was a scene from Hogarth. Most of the men were clad in garments from the previous century, breeches, long coats, and tricorns, their faces covered by half masks of black silk. As for the women, they too had their faces covered, but precious little else. They looked like Georgian strumpets, with elaborate wigs and tight bodices and pantaloons. Bottles of whiskey and goblets of wine littered the tables; and the pews had been replaced with banqueting tables, long couches, and chairs. In one corner, a small orchestra sat, wearing powdered wigs and blindfolds, churning out a merry air. But that was not the worst of it.
In the center of the room, a man was just laying a young girl down upon a marble altar. She wore a heavy cape, but it was half open, exposing her bare flesh. I recognized Ona Bellovich. The man wore a similar cape down to his feet, but his face was hidden by an elaborate goat mask, with large horns and a pentagram painted on the forehead.
“This is a raid!” Barker bellowed. “Everyone, stay where you are!”
In fact, they did just the opposite. His demand caused pandemonium. Old roués parted from the women with whom they caroused and grabbed for their breeches. Women screamed and the music trailed off. Some of the men ran for the door, while others turned to stop us. I kicked one in his paunch, and he went down easily. Barker lashed out, catching one in the jaw and stomach who, for all we knew, might be a cabinet minister or judge. From a nearby table, he lifted a cat-o’-nine-tails, whose reason for being there I didn’t want to consider, and began to flail at the legs of the men and women running by.
“Out!” he cried. “Get out!”
In the tumult, I lost sight of Ona Bellovich.
Barker continued to thrash at the escaping crowd, while I pushed my way forward. The man in the goat mask had disappeared, nor could I see his captive. I saw the crowd for what they were: portly bankers and merchants and politicians consorting with low women from Sal’s bawdy house hired for the evening’s frivolity. But what of the sacrifice? Was the girl really meant to be killed on the altar, raped, and strangled in front of all these people?
The room rapidly cleared. The orchestra members tried to carry their precious instruments through the fleeing crowd. I was suddenly seized from behind, and I did not hesitate, giving the fellow a sharp blow to the stomach with my elbow, then stamping on his instep with my heel. I wrapped my arm around the fellow’s neck and was about to smash my fist into his nose when I recognized him. Swanson of the Criminal Investigation Department had materialized in the midst of this raucous crowd.
“Inspector!” I cried, but what was done could not be undone.
“Assaulting an officer of the law!” Swanson sputtered above the din, thrusting me into the waiting arms of two of his constables. “And, Cyrus Barker, you are under arrest!”
My employer swung around.
“On what charge?” he asked.
Swanson came close, and they stood nose to nose. The inspector ticked off points on his fingers. “Trespassing. Assault. Destruction of property. That’s just to start. No doubt you are responsible for the unconscious man back there with the sharpened coins sticking out of him.”
A group of men approached, still clad in Georgian costumes, without their wigs and masks. Lord Hesketh stepped forward, followed by a man whom I assumed was Baron le Despencer himself.
“Get these men out of here!” the latter cried. “I demand that they be punished to the fullest extent of the law!”
“Yes, your lordship,” Swanson replied. “I was just in the process of arresting them, thank you very much.”
“How dare you interrupt my party and chase away my guests,” the baron demanded of Barker. “I shall see that you do time for this.”
“And I, your lordship, shall see that every villager knows exactly what sort of orgy has been going on in this church.”
“There is nothing wrong with a harmless function on my private estate with my friends.”
“There is when young women are being outraged and murdered!”
“That is slander, and I am a witness!” Lord Hesketh spoke up.
“Arrest him. Both of them!” the baron ordered. “I want them both in chains!”
Barker raised the cat-o’-nine-tails, and the man ducked and winced. Instead, my employer offered it to the noble.
“Your property, I believe, your lordship.”
Whether it belonged to him or not, he took it. Then Barker held out his wrists for Inspector Swanson’s darbies.
; “You always push,” the inspector complained. “You won’t let anything alone. You cannot let other men decide what is right.”
“Do you mean those men consorting with fallen women here tonight, the MPs disporting themselves, the aldermen and aristocrats observing a satanic ritual that murders innocent maidens? No, I will not let that alone.” He held up his chained hands. “Do you know the difference between you and me, Donald? Your wrists have been chained since the very beginning.”
“That’s it. Get him out of here,” Swanson said, thrusting Barker toward one of the constables.
Reluctantly, I held out my own wrists. The cold steel of the Hiatt darbies closed about them. I was going to a jail cell, something I had sworn to myself would never happen again.
The constables marched us past the mausoleum to the dock. It had been quiet when we passed here earlier, but all was chaos now. The steam launch that had brought the party was gone, leaving a dozen or more carousers and their female companions stranded. At least the gentlemen had the manners to lend their old-fashioned coats to the partly clad women. It was chilly on the river, with a fog settling in.
Our plans were set at naught. Who knew where Ona Bellovich had been taken, or if Miacca had been the man in the cape and goat mask. There was no opportunity for us to save her now. As we were loaded onto the police launch, I thought any chance of this case ending well was over.
“Hello, gentlemen,” a man said, as we were thrust into a seat. He came forward and gave us a slight smile under his impossibly black mustache. It was Inspector Dunham of the Thames Police.
30
WE WERE ON OUR WAY BACK TO LONDON IN A police launch destined for a jail cell or the interrogation room in Scotland Yard. The darbies around my wrists were cold, and the fog had spread over the surface of the Thames like icing on a cake. We had punted here slowly, but were speeding back, thanks to the powerful boiler on the police steam launch. I was about as wretched as a man could be, knowing I would be in a cell soon. So why, I wondered, did Cyrus Barker seem so cheerful?