The Hellfire Conspiracy

28

“Shall we go to Dashwood’s Estate now, sir?”

Barker thought a moment. I’m sure he was itching to reconnoiter the area himself, but ultimately he shook his head. “Best not. There’s no need to be tipping our hand. Come, I fancy a pint.”

We took an omnibus into the City. I knew Barker could not mean what he said about fancying a pint. From the little he had told me about his time in the East I knew he had been a terrible drinker and brawler when the mood was on him, but since then he carefully watched his own intake, never more than a glass of wine or ale per day, and often a week without either. The only stimulant he preferred was his gunpowder green tea, the little pellets of rolled leaves he had imported for him. Fancying a pint was one thing, allowing himself to indulge in one was another. So, what, I wondered, was he really up to?

At Aldgate Station we got out and stretched our limbs. We both liked the City, from St. Paul’s in the west to the Jewish quarter in the east. North was Newgate, where Mac’s parents lived and where he was briefly imprisoned, and south was the river and the Tower. The Guv led me deep into the center of the district and for a moment shocked me when he stopped in front of St. Michael’s Alley, where the Barbados stood. Then he moved into the next street which was Lombard, and led me into a chophouse called the George and Vulture.

As we stepped inside, I couldn’t help think that I knew the name from somewhere. When I saw a gentleman stretched in front of the fire with a handkerchief over his face, sound asleep, I recognized the pub’s name.

“Pickwick!” I cried, which only served to attract the attention of everyone in the room.

“I beg your pardon?” Barker asked.

“This is the setting for Dickens’ novel The Pickwick Papers, sir. Sam Weller stayed here.”

“Is that relevant to the case?” my employer asked patiently.

“I don’t know. Is it?”

Barker didn’t favor my question with a reply but ordered two half and halfs at the bar, and then we squeezed ourselves into a corner; for the place was filled with solicitors, barristers, and bankers just let out for the day.

“So why are we here, sir?” I asked after a sip of the stout and porter.

“This is where the Hellfire Club began, lad, and here is where the George and Vulture nearly ended. It was on this spot in 1749 that the original chophouse burnt down and was rebuilt. Some say it was consumed with brimstone, but I think we can safely separate truth from legend now.”

“So tell me more about the Hellfire Club, sir,” I said.

Barker dug out his pipe and filled it. With the pint glass in his left hand and the charged pipe in his right, he began.

“The Hellfire Club was the name of a short-lived group in the 1720s that began in this very building. Then in 1746, another group was formed here with the same name, led by Francis Dashwood, the fifteenth Baron le Despencer. It was a group of fast-living politicians and City men-including the Earl of Sandwich and the artist William Hogarth-a notorious club of debauchery, drunkenness, and satanic ritual. The acolytes were known as monks and nuns and the motto was ‘Fay ce que voudras.’ ”

“‘Do what thou wilt,’” I translated.

“Precisely. But the club wasn’t merely for licentiousness. The members were also building ties and making alliances, not only in England but also around the world. The American diplomat Benjamin Franklin was one of hundreds of members. Dashwood was brilliant but a confirmed student of witchcraft. It has been said he founded an order called the Dilettenti, based upon rituals borrowed from the Freemasons.”

“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.”