The Hellfire Club

After telling two mildly prurient anecdotes about the accidental unclothed encounters of writers of opposite sexes, Lily hopped off the ledge and declared that their final stop, Honey House, the only cottage restored to its original condition, was the perfect conclusion to their tour.

An overgrown stone path curved away from the pond and led into the trees. At the rear of the group, Nora and Dart walked along just behind the puzzle makers, and the others strung out in pairs behind Lily's pink suit. The air had darkened.

'Might rain,' Dart said.

'It will,' Tidball said. 'It's getting here a little ahead of schedule, which is good for them. Rain cuts into attendance quite a bit. Shorelands gets muddy when it rains. If it's going to happen, they'd rather have it now instead of on the weekend.'

'Cuts into attendance?' Neary asked. 'I should say. Rain has the same effect on attendance that the fellow in the papers, Dart, had on his victims.'

Lily and the couple behind her stepped onto a bridge over the stream which wandered through the northern end of the estate. Their shoes rang on the bridge, trip trap, trip trap, like the three billy goats gruff in the fairy tale.

'Heard anything new about good old Dart?' Dart asked. 'What a story! We couldn't make much sense out of it. Fellow was accused of murder but never charged. What was the woman doing in the police station? More there than meets the eye. Still on the loose, this odd couple?'

'Oh, yes,' said Neary. 'According to the radio, Dart is supposed to be in Northampton, and that's not far from here.' His eyes had become large and serious. 'I agree that more is going on than meets the eye. Frank and I have a connection with the woman.' He leaned in front of Nora to look into Dart's face. 'You asked about our editor, Davey Chancel. Well, she's his wife. If you ask me, Nora Chancel had something going with this Dart.'

'I should say that's a definite possibility,' Dart said. 'What do you know about this woman, your editor's wife?'

The others had crossed over the bridge, and now the two Franks, followed closely by Nora and Dick Dart, stepped onto it. Trip trap, trip trap.

'We've heard rumors,' Tidball said.

'Go on,' said Dart. 'I'm absolutely riveted.'

'Apparently the woman is an unstable personality. We think they were in cahoots. When he got arrested, she went to the police station and staged her own 'kidnapping,' quote unquote, to get him out. She's probably more dangerous than he is.'

Neary laughed, and a second later Nora laughed, too.

They followed the others toward a cabin tucked away at the base of the trees. Lily stood at the front door facing them.

'Quite a saga, isn't it?' Dart asked.

'I can hardly wait for the movie,' Nora said.

Lily held up a hand as if taking an oath. 'We here at Shorelands are very proud of what you are about to see. The planning began four years ago, when our director, Margaret Nolan, said to us at dinner, 'Why don't we make it possible for our guests to walk into one of our cottages and experience the world created by Georgina Weatherall? Why not recreate the past we celebrate here?' We all fell in love with Margaret Nolan's vision, and for a year we assembled records and documents in order to reassemble a picture of a typical cottage interior from approximately 1920 to approximately 1935. We vowed to cut no corners. Let me tell you, when you begin a project like this, you find out how much you don't know in a hurry!'

Polite laughter came from everyone but Nora and Dart.

'You are wondering how we chose Honey House. I'll be frank about that. Expense had to be a consideration, and this is one of the smallest cottages. Our last great general renovation was in 1939, and the task before us was enormous. With the help of Georgina Weatherall's records, we covered the walls with a special fabric obtained from the original manufacturer. It had been out of production since 1948, but several rolls had been preserved at the back of the warehouse, and we bought all of them. We learned that the original paint came from a company which had gone out of business in 1935, and nearly lost hope, but then we got word that a paint supplier in Boston had fifteen gallons of the exact brand and color in his basement. Donations poured in. About a year and a half ago, it all came together.'

'This should go without saying, but I must insist that you touch none of the objects or fabrics inside. Honey House is a living museum. Please show it the respect it deserves, and allow others to enjoy this restoration for many years to come. Am I understood?'

Dart's cry of 'Absolutely!' rang out over the mutter of assent from the group.

Lily smiled, turned to the door, took a massive key from a pocket of the pink suit, and looked over her shoulder. 'I love this moment.' She swung the door open and told the young couple directly in front of her to switch on the lights.

The boy led the first of the group through the door. Soft sounds of appreciation came to those still outside.

'They all do that,' Lily said. 'As soon as the lights go on, it's always Ooh! Aah! Go on, Norman, get in there. It'll knock your eyes out.'

Dart patted her shoulder and followed Nora through the door.89

Every possible surface had been covered with porcelain figurines, snuffboxes, antique vases, candles in ornate holders, and lots of other things Nora instinctively thought of as gewgaws. Paintings in gilt frames and mirrors engulfed in scrollwork hung helter-skelter on the aubergine-colored walls.

Lily addressed the group. 'I will leave you to feast upon this splendid recreation. Feel free to ask me about anything that strikes your eye.' The couples separated into different portions of the interior, and she came up to the Franks with a proprietary swagger. 'Isn't it wonderful?'

Nora said, 'I had no idea the guests lived in this kind of splendor.'

'Nothing was too good for the people who came here,' said Lily. 'To Miss Weatherall, they were the cultural aristocracy. Mr Yeats, for example.' She pointed across the room at a photograph of a man with a pince-nez on the bridge of his nose. 'He was a great gentleman. Miss Weatherall loved his conversation.'

'A writer named Creeley Monk stayed here, too,' Nora said.

'Creeley Monk? I don't seem to recall…'

'In 1938.'

Lily's eyes went flat with distaste. 'We like to dwell on our triumphs. And here we have one example, standing right next to you! Frank and Frank are published by Chancel House, which was born that very summer, when Mr Driver met Mr Lincoln Chancel. Now, he was a great gentleman.'

'I guess it wasn't such a bad summer after all,' Nora said.

Lily gave a ladylike shudder.

'Is this a reconstruction of what would have been here during the thirties?'

'No, not at all,' Lily said, untroubled by the contradiction of her earlier remarks. 'We wanted to represent the estate as a whole, not just a single cottage. When you put it together like this, you get a real feel of the times.' A man who apparently wanted to question her about a collection of paperweights waved to her, and she scampered away.

'Nineteen thirty-eight isn't their favorite year,' said Tidball.

'I wonder if you know anything about a poet named Katherine Mannheim?' Nora asked.

Tidball rolled his eyes upward and clasped his hands in front of him.

'It seems you do,' Nora said. Dart looked on, indulgent, pleased to sense the presence of trouble ahead.

The Franks exchanged a brief glance. 'Let's wait until the tour is over,' Neary said. 'Were you going to look at the Mist Field and the Song Pillars?'

'You haven't seen the Song Pillars, you haven't seen Shorelands,' said Dart.

Half an hour later, the four of them lagged behind the others on the path threading north through the woods. Dart was walking so close behind Nora that he seemed almost to engulf her.

'Where did these airy-fairy names come from?' he boomed out.

'Georgina,' Neary said, striding along at the head of their column of four. 'When her father owned the estate, the only cottage that had a name was Honey House, after an old butler who lived there, Mr Honey. After her father