“And your husband came here, to such a den of iniquity?” he marvelled, staring at me with judgement in his eyes.
I let my pain show in my face. “Yes,” I said quietly.
Realising his insensitivity, the doctor placed a comforting hand on my arm. “I’m sorry. I realise this must be difficult. If you wouldn’t rather–”
“No,” I said abruptly, before he could send me home. “I’ve come this far and need to know if Robert was here.”
The doctor took a deep breath, and looking as if he was about to offer me his arm, thankfully stopping himself at the last moment.
“Shall we?” he said, covering his embarrassment.
I punched him manfully in the arm. “Whatever you say, old man.”
Watson laughed, playing along at last, and we approached the astonishing facade. All at once, the impish doorman danced a jig and hooted in merriment. “A-ha,” he shouted out to us in his native French, “still they come, the lost and bedevilled. Oh, how they shall roast.”
To his credit, Watson didn’t hesitate. He marched up to the red-faced fellow and, with surprising mastery of the imp’s own tongue, demanded entrance. The doorman bowed dramatically. “Of course, foolish mortal, we welcome all sinners here.” With a flourish, the gaudy fellow opened the heavy wooden doors and stepped aside. “Enter and be damned. The Evil One awaits.”
Showing more humour than I expected, Watson rubbed his hands together as he crossed the threshold. “Well, I hope he’s stoked the fire. It’s been positively freezing all day.” The doorman brayed a peel of frenzied laughter, slamming the door behind us.
We found ourselves in a sloping corridor, decorated to resemble the Devil’s gullet and lined by glowing grates that belched thick smoke.
“Charming,” Watson commented, coughing into his gloved hand. “I’m surprised they don’t open a concern in the West End.”
“It’s only a matter of time,” I replied, taking the lead and walking towards a door at the end of the uncanny passage. The music that spilled through the gaudily painted wood was unmistakable: the second act of Berlioz’s La damnation de Faust. Robert and I had seen it performed at the Opéra de Monte-Carlo in ’93 and I was glad that I could blame the smoke for the tears that once again troubled my eyes.
A narrow window slid open in the door, a ghastly face appearing in the gap. Spotting us, this keeper of the inner sanctum let out a howl of pleasure and, throwing open the door, beckoned us in.
“More fuel for the fire – welcome, welcome.”
If Watson had balked at his first sight of the club, one glance at this fellow almost had him running for the hills. Unlike the imp on the street outside, the master of ceremonies wore no cloak. In fact, he wore little at all, his corpulent frame naked, save for a loincloth to protect what little was left of his dignity. Every inch of his flesh was daubed red, although rivulets of sweat had carved obscene paths through the greasepaint. Beady bloodshot eyes were caked in thickly applied mascara that ran down prodigious jowls, while his hairless mound of a head was adorned by a pair of wooden antlers, around which some creative soul had twisted velvet snakes of multiple colours.
On seeing Watson’s obvious discomfort, the grotesque slapped his immense belly and squealed with shrill laughter, beckoning us towards a table in the corner of the stifling room. He was still giggling inanely as he pranced away, leaving Watson gazing around in horror and bewilderment. The low ceiling was covered in a mass of writhing wax bodies, tormented by demonic effigies that seemed almost alive in the flickering light of the torches that smouldered on the walls. Vapours rose from the floor, bringing with them the unsettling odour of brimstone and sulphur, while, suspended in an oversized cauldron at the far end of the room, five wailing musicians launched into a raucous rendition of Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre. The audience whooped and applauded, as photographers in scarlet dinner jackets and carnival masks chronicled the chthonian gaiety, their flash powder only adding to the disorientating atmosphere.
Watson produced another handkerchief, but this time employed it by dabbing the sweat from his brow. Conspiratorially, he leant forward to make himself heard over the infernal strings and braying laughter of our fellow patrons. Any bravado the doctor had displayed at the gates of hell was now gone, replaced by the near panic of a man who finds himself severely out of his depth.
“My dear,” he stammered, his breath warm against my cheek. “Perhaps this was not such a good idea. Such a place…”
“Mere histrionics, nothing more,” I replied, turning so his face was inches from my own. “But, you can see why I would worry that Robert would choose to come here.”
His eyes swept across the bawdy tableau, the revellers throwing caution and decency to the wind, urged on by scantily-clad waitresses who supplied tray after tray of potent libations in phosphorescent glasses.
Such a nymph soon approached our table, wickedly offering to deliver any pleasure from the nine circles of hell. Watson looked as if he was about to fall from his chair until I advised the poor doctor that she meant drinks, nothing more.
“Oh, t-that’s all right then,” he spluttered in English, before reverting to French to order two coffees.
“Coffees?” our serving girl parroted, with a look that suggested that she was about to mercilessly mock the doctor to an inch of his life, or have him ejected on the spot for wanton conventionality.
I jumped in, winking at the young nymph. “And make sure there’s a shot of cognac in both of those, eh?”
The waitress smiled in return. “Two seething bumpers of molten sin with a dash of brimstone intensifier coming right up.”
As she turned to leave, Watson called after her.
“Is there anything else I can get you, sinner?” she asked, with a look that could instantly condemn any man’s soul to eternal damnation.
“We’re looking for a friend of ours, who came here.”
For the first time since her arrival, the imp’s outrageous act faltered, her large eyes darting between us. “Hell asks no questions,” she replied, with just enough steel in her sing-song voice to warn that the conversation was at an end. Watson was having none of it however, and pushed home his point. “His name is Robert Langtry. We know he came here. We just wish to know that he is safe.”
The waitress shot a look over at the portly master of ceremonies, who stomped over, his earlier jocularity a mere memory. “Is there a problem here?” he asked, glaring at us both.
Watson raised a placating hand. “We were merely asking after a friend of ours who we know frequented your… charming establishment a number of times.”
The man’s glower intensified. “Demons tell no tales. I suggest that you take the hint, sir. Otherwise, you could find yourself burned for re–”
A crash from a nearby table cut the obvious threat short. One of our neighbours, a tall man in fine evening dress, but more than a little worse for wear, had tumbled from his stool, taking a tray of lightly glowing glasses with him.
“Excuse me,” the drunk slurred in broken French, his thick beard matted with wine and God knows what else. “Here, I’ll help.”
“No need,” the master of ceremonies insisted, helping the inebriated idiot to his feet as an army of nymphs appeared from nowhere to sweep up the broken glass. “Perhaps you have had enough hellfire for one night, proud sinner.”
The drunkard laughed off the suggestion. “Nonsense,” he drawled, producing a wallet stuffed with banknotes. “I’m happy to pay for my transgressions.” He threw his arms out in an expansive gesture that would have struck me in the face if I hadn’t ducked at the last moment. “For everyone’s transgressions!”