‘What makes Worsdale’s work so interesting to you?’ he wanted to know as they walked through the gallery, passing among the tourists and the students and the other visitors.
‘It was my husband who was interested in him,’ she said a little sadly.
‘Is he with you today?’
‘He’s dead.’ She swallowed hard.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mahoney said quickly. ‘Was he interested in obscure Irish painters, then?’
‘Was Worsdale like that?’
‘He wasn’t one of our most famous painters. Maybe obscure is being a little unkind to him, though.’
They climbed a flight of stone steps and reached another floor. Mahoney moved briskly along, glancing at Donna every now and then. He finally came to a halt and made a sweeping gesture with his arm designed to encompass the array of canvases on the wall.
‘This is some of James Worsdale’s work,’ Mahoney explained.
Donna stood looking at them, listening as the attendant pointed out each canvas in turn and told her a little about it. They were unremarkable works: landscapes, portraits and still-lifes. She could see nothing amongst them to explain why Chris should have been so interested in the artist’s work. She knew very little about art and couldn’t tell if the paintings were brilliant or not. To her, they looked accomplished but ordinary. What the hell made Worsdale so interesting to her late husband?
‘What was your husband looking for?’ Mahoney wanted to know.
Donna merely shook her head gently, looking from canvas to canvas.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘Is this it? All of his paintings?’
‘All we have. Well, nearly all. There’s one in storage.’ He smiled. ‘In fact, it’s permanantly in storage and it’s probably the most interesting thing he ever painted, but the subject matter makes it a little, how shall I put it, undesirable for public display.’
‘Why, is it obscene or something?’ she asked.
Mahoney laughed.
‘Anything but.’
‘So why is it never put on show?’
‘You could say it’s something of an embarrassment.’ He looked at her and held her gaze.
‘Could I see it, please?’ she asked.
Mahoney hesitated, his infectious smile fading.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’ He looked around, as if afraid that someone might be listening to their conversation.
‘It could be important,’ she persisted.
He nodded finally.
‘Okay. Come with me.’
Nothing about the gallery had been how Donna had imagined it. It was not filled with crusty old men and women poring over the paintings; the whole building had a bright and open atmosphere, instead of the sullen brooding one she’d expected. Most of all, Mahoney didn’t look like the sort of man who would work in an art gallery. He seemed too young and vibrant for work she had previously thought to be the province of uniformed men with starched collars and even stiffer demeanours. Every cliche she had held had been exploded by her visit.
The room where paintings were kept in storage was no exception. She had been expecting a small, dusty room filled with paintings draped in cloths that were thick with dust, where air would have a musty scent of old canvas and decay. Instead the room was light and airy, lit by fluorescent lights and smelling pleasantly of air freshener. There was a thermometer on the wall displaying the temperature, ensuring that it was constant so that the paintings were preserved correctly. There was an expel-air machine on a bank of filing cabinets which rattled in the stillness of the room.
The paintings were carefully stored in crates dependent on their size. Others were propped against the walls. These, she noticed, were covered by white dust sheets. Some appeared to be covered by what looked like cling film.
‘How do you decide which paintings go on display and which are kept here?’ she asked, following Mahoney through the room.
‘We display them on a kind of rotation system,’ he told her. ‘Each artist is allocated a certain amount of space in the gallery. The paintings are usually left on display for three months, then one or two are replaced. Those not on show are kept in here.’ He reached a canvas covered by a dust cover and paused. ‘You wanted to see all of James Worsdale’s work?’
She nodded.
‘Like I said, this one is hardly ever displayed.’ He pulled the sheet clear, exposing the canvas.
Donna took a step closer, her gaze travelling back and forth over the gilt-framed painting.
‘Hardly what you’d call shocking, is it?’ Mahoney said, smiling.
‘Who are they?’ Donna moved closer to the painting.
It showed five men in eighteenth-century garb, four seated, one standing, bewigged and splendid in their clothes and obviously, for their time, wealthy men.
‘Five of the founder members of the Dublin Hell Fire Club,’ Mahoney announced with a sweeping gesture. He pointed each one of the figures out individually, moving from left to right across the canvas. ‘Henry Barry, fourth Lord Santry. Colonel Clements. Colonel Ponsonby. Colonel St George and Simon Lutterell. Rakes and profligates, the lot of them.’ He chuckled. ‘And proud of it.’
‘The Hell Fire Club,’ said Donna quietly. ‘I’ve heard of them.’
‘Most people have, and know something about the legend attached to them. They were rich young men, out for thrills, out to shock the establishment. They used to pass the time being cruel to the poor, gambling, whoring and indulging in most other perversions you could care to name.’ He smiled. ‘A little like an eighteenth-century branch of the Young Conservatives.’
‘Why isn’t the painting displayed?’ Donna wanted to know.
‘The Hell Fire Club were something of a social embarrassment at the time. Lots of them were the sons of well-off men, politicians and the like. Not the sort of offspring you’d be proud of if you were in politics, or some other branch of the upper social orders. Their motto was “
‘Was Worsdale a member?’ Donna asked, intrigued.
‘No one knows for sure. That’s the curious thing about this painting, though,’ Mahoney said, tapping the frame. ‘The two men responsible for actually starting the Dublin Hell Fire Club aren’t in it.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Richard Parsons, the first Earl of Rosse, and Colonel Jack St Leger. You know the horse race, the St Leger? It was named after Colonel Jack’s ancestor Sir Anthony. Jack lived near Athy in County Kildare, a great drinker and gambler.’
‘What about the other one, Parsons?’
‘He was the most vicious of the bunch, from what I’ve read. He had a fondness for setting fire to cats, apparently.’
Donna frowned.
‘A lovely crowd they were. We’ve got a painting of Parsons here somewhere, a miniature done by another member of the club called Peter Lens. I’ll see if I can find it.’ Mahoney wandered off to another part of the room, leaving Donna to study the canvas more closely. She reached out to touch the surface, aware of a chill that seemed to have settled around her. As Mahoney returned she shook it free but her eyes remained on the painting.
‘Richard Parsons,’ Mahoney announced, presenting the miniature.
Donna looked closely and frowned. She could feel her heart thumping that little bit faster against her
