Forrester interrupted. ‘How do we know this?’
‘There are plentiful clues, in this area, that reveal Dashwood’s disdain for orthodox faith. For instance, he adopted the motto “Fay ce que voudras”, or “Do as you wish”. This was taken from Rabelais, a great satirist of the church. The motto was later co-opted by the diabolist Aleister Crowley in the twentieth century and is now commonly used by Satanists across the world. Dashwood had this motto inscribed over the archway at the entrance of Medmenham Abbey, a ruined abbey, near here, that he rented for parties.’
‘That’s right sir,’ said Boijer, looking at Forrester. ’I saw it. This morning.’
Bigglestone invited them to follow, still giving them his guided tour speech. ‘In 1752 Dashwood made another eastern journey, this time to Italy. The trip was made in secret: no one is sure where he went. One theory is that he went to Venice, to buy books about magic. Other experts believe he may have visited Naples, to see the excavations of a Roman brothel.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Dashwood was a highly libidinous man, Detective Forrester! In the gardens at West Wycombe is a statue of Priapus, the Greek god who suffers a constant erection.’
Boijer laughed. ‘Gotta cut down on the Viagra.’
Bigglestone ignored the interruption. ‘Underneath the statue to Priapus Dashwood had his sculptor engrave Peni Tento Non Penitenti. That is to say: “A tense penis, not penitence”, confirming, you see, Detective Forrester, his outright rejection of Christianity. Of religious morality.’ They were walking quickly down the main cavern now. Bigglestone jabbed at the clammy air with his umbrella, as if he was fending off a footpad. ‘See here. According to Horace Walpole, these smaller caves were fitted with beds so the brothers could have their sport with young women. Sex parties were common in the caves in Dashwood’s time. As were drinking parties. We also hear rumours of devil-worship, group masturbation and so forth.’
They had emerged into a larger cave, this time carved into Gothic and religious shapes: a faintly mocking version of a church.
The guide pointed the umbrella high. ‘Right above us is the church of St Lawrence, built by the same Francis Dashwood. The church ceiling is a precise facsimile of the ceiling in the ruined Temple of the Sun at Palmyra, in Syria. Francis Dashwood was not only influenced by the ancient mysteries but also by the ancient sun cults. But what did he really believe? A matter of dispute. Some assert that his political and spiritual vision can be summed up thusly: that Britain should be ruled by an élite; and that this noble élite should practice a pagan religion.’ He smiled. ‘And yet, allied to these views was a definite tendency to libertinism: drunken orgies, abusive blasphemy, and so forth. All of which begs the question. What was the true rationale for the Club?’
‘What do you think?’ Forrester asked.
‘You ask that question as if you expect a succinct answer! I’m afraid that’s impossible, Detective. All we know is that, in its heyday, the Hellfire Club numbered the most prominent figures of British society amongst its members. Indeed by 1762, the Friars of Medmenham, as they called themselves, dominated the highest circles of the British government, and thus the nascent British Empire.’ Bigglestone began the walk back through the higher caves to the car park; explaining as he went. ‘In 1762 the existence of the club was finally made public. It was revealed that the Prime Minister, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, plus various lords, nobles, and Cabinet ministers, were all members. This revelation meant that the Hellfire Club became a byword for aristocratic wickedness and lubricious exclusivity.’ Bigglestone chuckled. ‘Following this scandal, many of the most famous members, like Walpole, Wilkes, Hogarth and Benjamin Franklin, decided to quit. The very last meeting of the club was convened in 1774.’
They were in the narrow rock corridor that led from the cave system to the entrance and the ticket office; the walls were close and dripping wet.
‘From this point the Hellfire caves entered centuries of neglect, but they remained a poignant and sometimes troubling memory. But they are unlikely to ever reveal their final secret-because the club members took pains to bury their mysteries with their own corpses. It is said that the last steward of the Order, Paul Whitehead, spent the three days before his death burning all relevant papers. So, what really went on inside the caves is a question whose answer may only be found…in the fires of hell!’
He stopped. Boijer was clapping politely. The guide did a little bow, then looked at his watch. ’Gosh, it’s nearly six. I have to go! I do hope tomorrow’s plan comes off, officers. The twelfth baronet is very keen to help the police catch those awful murderers.’
He hurried across the tarmac and disappeared down a hillside path. Boijer and Forrester walked slowly to their police car, parked in the shade of an oak tree.
As they walked, they went over their plan. Hugo De Savary had, by phone and email, convinced Forrester that the gang was bound to visit the Hellfire caves, because if the gang were looking for the Black Book, the treasure Whaley had brought back from the Holy Land-this was one place they just had to search: in the epicentre of the Hellfire Club phenomenon.
But when would the gang visit the caves? Forrester had worked out that they only hit a target when it was most likely to be deserted. Craven Street in the middle of a weekend night; Canford School one early morning at half term.
So the police had set a trap. Forrester had paid a visit to the present owner of West Wycombe Estate, the 12th Baronet Edward Francis Dashwood, direct descendant of the Hellfire lord, and had got permission to close the caves for one day. The unexpected closure would be spuriously publicized, as being ‘in celebration of the baronet’s wedding anniversary, and to give the loyal staff of West Wycombe a holiday’. Adverts to this effect had been put in all the local papers. The news had been posted on relevant websites. Scotland Yard had even persuaded the BBC to run a small TV item, focusing on the scandalous history of the site, but mentioning the temporary closure. Consequently, as far as the general public were concerned, the Hellfire caves were going to be completely empty. The trap had been baited.
Would the gang turn up? It was a long shot, Forrester knew, but this idea was all they had. Forrester felt a definite pessimism as Boijer raced their car along the country roads to their hotel.
The only other lead they had of any sort was a CCTV shot of Cloncurry from Canford School. The gang had disabled the rest of the school’s cameras by snipping the cables. But one camera had been overlooked, and it had yielded a blurry image of Cloncurry walking through the school. Cloncurry had stared chillingly at the camera as he walked past. As if he knew he was being filmed. And didn’t care.
Forrester had stared at the grainy image of Cloncurry for hours, trying to get inside the young man’s mind. It was difficult: this was a man who could flay a pinioned victim, alive. A man who could cheerily cut out a tongue, and bury a screaming face in soil. A man who could do anything.
He was strikingly handsome, with high cheekbones and almost oriental eyes. An angular and dashing profile. And somehow this made his intense wickedness all the more sinister.
Boijer was parking the car. They were staying at the High Wycombe Holiday Inn, just off the M40. It was a fitful night. Forrester had a tiny bit of spliff after dinner, but it didn’t help him sleep. He dreamed, sweatily, all night, of caves and naked women and lurid parties; he dreamed of a small girl lost amongst the laughing adults, a small girl crying for her father, lost in the caves.
He woke up early, dry-mouthed. Leaning across the bed, he picked up the phone and called Boijer, stirring his junior from sleep. They drove straight to their Portakabin.