“There are the Masons again.”
“Indeed. If one believes they are a benevolent organization, then Dashwood’s club was its evil brother, out for plunder and power.”
“So what happened to them?”
“There was a time they wielded great power. Dashwood excavated elaborate catacombs within his grounds at West Wycombe and built a temple, but soon factions grew and political rivalries compromised the club. Even evil sometimes falls prey to petty jealousies. By 1765, the Hellfire Club had disbanded.”
“Now it is back again.”
“Aye. The new Baron le Despencer is apparently compounding the earlier baron’s traits of lust, drunkenness, and satanism; and it appears he already has a constituency upon which to rely, including Lord Hesketh and possibly the Marquis of Queensberry. He’s gaining influence among the aristocracy, and yet, so far, he has not attracted notoriety like his ancestor.”
“Did the original Hellfire Club sacrifice virgins?” I asked.
“They did, but it was both voluntary and symbolic. There was no abducting and butchering of children. In that way, this fellow is worse, and yet I still have questions. The bruise, for instance.”
“What bruise?”
“There was a bruise on Gwendolyn DeVere’s rib cage. It was in the very place where the fatal blade would have entered to cut out her heart. I believe it was symbolic, a wooden knife, or a false one loaded on a spring. If it was symbolic, then why kill her afterward? If not, why not really sacrifice her, in which case, there was no need to strangle her? It is perplexing.”
“What exactly do you plan for us to do tonight?”
“I wish to break up their meeting. Surely they are not all ardent satanists. If I prove that their secret activities are known, then it is possible that those who are merely there for sport shall panic and run away, never to return.”
“What if they are all ‘ardent satanists’?”
“Then we’ll be in for it, I suppose.”
“Why not call the Yard?”
“The club has not broken the law conclusively, and the baron wields a great deal of power in Buckinghamshire. Hmmm.” Barker began scratching absently under his chin as another thought occurred to him.
“What is it?”
“I just recalled something else about the original Dashwood. He was a Freemason.”
“I see.”
“There may be no connection. The Hellfire Club might have nothing to do with the Freemasons and Pollock Forbes. They may be little more than a group of libertines drinking and consorting with fallen women and indulging in a bit of theater. But they could be much more than that, and you and I must ascertain which it is.”
“Is there no way to assemble a group of us?” I asked. “Mac would wish to come and Handy Andy’s folks are always good for a scrap.”
“No,” Barker said, giving a sigh. “I shall not endanger them or their good names.”
“I suppose,” I said, looking at the bustling pub of professional men, “that there is something apropos about planning to bring down a satanic society in the very public house where they first began it.”
“That’s the spirit, lad.”
I thought about the fact that everyone here in the pub would be going home soon, to their homes and families, while Barker and I were about to challenge a satanic cult. It gives one pause.
“What made you decide to become a detective?”
The Guv looked at me appraisingly before answering. “I’d done similar work in China from time to time before I owned the Osprey -bodyguard work, finding things, small investigations.”
“That’s not a complete answer, if I may say it. There is the London Metropolitan Police, the Criminal Investigation Department, and even the Special Branch for such work. Why set up as an enquiry agent?”
“Scotland Yard is a branch of the government, whose purpose is to defend society as a whole, to lower the number of crimes, and deter criminals. It’s not set up to help private individuals like Major DeVere.”
I sat back in my chair and tried not to smile.
“You’re looking awfully smug, Thomas. Out with it, then.”
“You’re a socialist, sir.”
“What do you mean, you rascal?”
“The Salvation Army and the Charity Organization Society are set up to meet the needs of individuals who have fallen through the cracks. Wouldn’t you say you do the same? You are the last hope of inquiry. That’s why DeVere came to you.”
There was a rumbling in Barker’s chest. He was chuckling.
“Very good, lad. You are using your reason. I could argue with you, but let us cut through all that and say you are right, with one caveat. I am not a socialist, but I do something similar to what they do.”
“I still have one question, sir, that I would ask if we are to go charging in blindly tonight after an entire cabal of satanists.”
“Ask it.”
“Well, sir, from what you have said and what I’ve gleaned from the sermons we’ve heard at the Baptist Tabernacle, you believe that society is wearing down and getting worse and worse, moving toward chaos and that it must be so because that is what has been predicted.”
“I don’t know if I would have worded it quite that way, but I’ll accept the analysis. So what is the question?”
“The question is why? Why do you do what you do? The government probably doesn’t appreciate your interference, and Scotland Yard is often against you. The Home Office has used you a time or two but thinks you questionable. Why care what happens here? I’m not saying it’s not needful, but why us?”
“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.