The Hellfire Club

her nausea.

'I never read it,' she said.

'Davey Chancel's wife never read Night Journey? You lied to him, didn't you? You told him you'd read it, but you were lying.'

Nora turned her head to stare at the two elderly couples at separate tables in front of the window. The big reversed letters on the window arched over them like a red rainbow.

'You did, you lied to him.' Another dirty explosion of laughter. He went back to work on the second cheeseburger. 'Don't suppose: you ever heard of a place called Shorelands.'

'Hugo Driver was there. And Lincoln Chancel. In 1938.'

'Bravo. Do you remember who else was there that summer?'

'A lot of people with funny names.'

'Austryn Fain, Bill Tidy, Creeley Monk, Merrick Favor, Georgina Weatherall. The maids. A lot of gardeners. And Katherine Mannheim. Did Davey tell you anything about her?'

Nora thought for a moment. 'She was good-looking. And she ran away.'

'Upped and vanished.'

'What do you think happened to her?'

'Her sisters say she had a 'weak heart,' whatever that means. Supposed to avoid exertion, but she refused to be an invalid. Rode bikes, went on trips. If she'd lived like Emily Dickinson, she might still be alive.'

'You read Emily Dickinson?'

He made a sour face. 'Florence. One of my ladies. Besotted with Emily Dickinson. Had to put up with reams of that stuff. Even had to read a biography. Bitch makes Jane Austen look like Mickey Spillane.' He closed his eyes and recited.

'There's a certain Slant of light,

Winter Afternoons -' That oppresses, like the Heft

Of Cathedral Tunes -

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us -

We can find no scar,

But internal difference,

Where the Meanings, are -'

He opened his eyes. 'It's not even actual English, it's this gibberish language she made up. Read page after page of that vapor for Florence, and now it's stuck in my mind, along with everything else I ever read.'

The lines had swept into Nora like an inexorable series of waves. 'That's too bad,' she said.

'You have no idea. Anyhow, I guess the Mannheim girl croaked, and in the confusion Driver swiped her manuscript. Night Journey was published the next year, and what do you know, pretty soon every other person in the world was reading it.'

'I saw soldiers carrying it in Vietnam,' Nora said.

'You were in Nam? Excuse me, the Nam. No wonder you have this wild streak Why were you there?'

'I was a nurse.'

'Oh, yes, I recall a certain adventure involving a child, yes, yes.'

She looked down at her plate.

'Nora fails to demonstrate excitement. Very well, let us return to our subject. Most, I repeal, most unusually, Mr Driver makes over the copyright to his book to his publisher in exchange for an agreement that he shall be paid all royalties due during the course of his and his wife's lifetime, all rights thereafter to revert to said publisher, who agrees to remit a smaller portion to Driver child or children for the course of their lives. This was supposed to be a gesture of gratitude, but doesn't it seem a bit excessive?'

'You've been doing a lot of work.' Acting on its own instructions, her hand detached another wad of tuna and brought it to her mouth.

'Made stacks and stacks of notes, none of them currently available, due to the interference of our local fuzz. Fortunately, I retain all of the essentials. I'd like to visit a library during our busy afternoon, continue my research, but let me distill our mission for you.' He looked sideways to ensure that the waitress was still seated at the counter. 'You know three of these scribblers offed themselves.'

She nodded.

'Austryn Fain. No wife, no little Fains. Creeley Monk was a perv, so of course he left behind no weeping widow or starving children. But luck is with us, for in the summer of 1938 Mr Monk was sharing his life with a gentleman still with us, a doctor in fact, named Mark Foil. Dr Foil, bless him, still lives in Springfield, the very same city in which he dwelt with our poet. I very much want to think that he occupies the same house, along with lots and lots of Monk memorabilia. Unfortunately, I couldn't find an address for him, but once we get to Springfield, I'm sure we will be able to unearth it.'

'Then what?' Nora asked.

'We telephone the gentleman. You explain that you are doing research for a book on the events at Shorelands in 1938. You feel that the other guests, Creeley Monk in particular, have been unfairly overshadowed by Hugo Driver. Since you happen to be in Springfield, you would be extremely grateful if Dr Foil could give you an hour of his time to discuss whatever he remembers of that summer - anything Monk might have said to him, written to him, or put in a diary.'

Even in her present condition, encased within a tough, resistant envelope which at the cost of prohibiting any sort of action protected her from feeling, Nora remarked upon the oddity of this creature's obsessions so closely resembling Davey's. What Dart was asking her to do seemed as abstract as the crossword puzzles concocted by Davey's two old men in Rhinebeck. She filled in a square with a question. 'What if Monk never even mentioned Hugo Driver?'

'Very unlikely, but it doesn't matter. After we get inside I have to kill the old boy.'

The hyena within Dick Dart displayed its teeth. 'He'll see us, baby. If we get lucky down the line, the old guy is going to put things together. Next stop is Everett Tidy, son of Bill. Everett lives in Amherst, he's an English professor. Don't you think the name Tidy in a headline will catch Foil's eye? Got to cover our tracks.'

The smell of cigarette smoke floated toward them, and Nora turned to see the waitress approaching their table.

Dart said, 'Let's shop and do the library while we can still use the Lincoln.'49

Main street, of what town? Dart pulled her into women's clothing stores, shooed away the clerks, and hand in hand drew her up and down the aisles, flicking through dresses, blouses, skirts. Here a sand-colored linen suit, skirt knee-length, jacket without lapels ('Your interview suit,' Dart said), in the next shop brown pumps and a cream silk jersey, short sleeves, collarless. No, she did not have to try them on, they would fit perfectly. And they would; without asking, he knew her sizes. Into a barn where summer-school students with lumpy backpacks prowled the long aisles and Dart heaped up jeans, hers and his, T-shirts, ditto, a dark blue cotton sweater, hers. A minimalist boutique, a conference with another charmed clerk, the production of six Gitano bras, white, six pairs of Gitano underpants, white, six pairs of Gitano pantyhose. Around the corner, his and hers low-cut black Reeboks.

Two wheeled carry-on black fabric suitcases. Into Main Street Pharmacy for quick selections under the eye of a blond-gray mustache with granny glasses: L'Oreal Performing Preference hair color, Jet Black and Starlight Blonde; LaCoup sculpting spritz; Always ultra plus maxi with wings, her brand, though Dart had not asked; Cover Girl Clean Make-up, Creamy Natural; Cover Girl Lip Advance, Poppy; Maybelline Shine Free Sunset Pink eye shadow ('Glimmer, don't glitter,' said Dart); K-Y; Cover Girl Long 'N Lush mascara; Vidal Sassoon Ultra Care shampoo and conditioner; Neutrogena bath bars; Perlier Honey Bath and Shower Cream; Revlon emery boards and cuticle sticks; OPI Nail Lacquer, a smooth, quiet blush she could not catch before he tossed it into the basket; a dram of Coco by Chanel; a jug of Icy Cool Peppermint Scope mouthwash; Hoffritz finger- and toenail clippers, styling scissors, tweezers, nail cleaner. From behind the digital register where the numbers mounted past one hundred dollars, the mustache declared, 'Mister, I've seen savvy husbands before, but you take the cake.'

Back to the car. Dart angled in before a bowfront shop, Farnsworth & Clamm, and drew Nora into an air-conditioned club room where another mustache marched smiling toward them through glowing casements hung with suits. Yes, Dart murmured, 46 extra long - this one, this one, a double-breasted blue blazer, four blue shirts, four white shirts, cotton broadcloth, spread collars, 17 neck, 36 sleeves, eight boxer shorts, 38 waist, eight pairs