Heathen/Nemesis

She found him looking at her a little too intently and lowered her gaze.

‘What made you come here?’ Mahoney wanted to know. ‘You said your husband was working on a book but that doesn’t explain why you came to Dublin.’

‘I wanted to find out what he was working on,’ she said as the waiter removed the plates and tidied the table for the main course. ‘The entries in his diary were all I had to go on. I think he was researching something, but I’m not sure what. That’s why I had to find out who James Worsdale was.’

‘And now you do?’

‘I’m none the wiser, unless his work was something to do with the Hell Fire Club. It seems the most likely explanation now. Tell me what you know about them, Mr Mahoney.’

‘Call me Gordon, please. I’ve never felt very comfortable with formality.’

She nodded and smiled.

‘Gordon,’ she said.

He raised his hands.

‘There’s so much to tell, Mrs Ward,’ he began.

‘Donna,’ she told him. ‘I thought we’d dispensed with formality.’

Mahoney grinned.

‘The subject is vast,’ he began. ‘It depends what you want to know. It also depends on whether or not I can tell you what you want to know. I don’t profess to be an expert.’

‘You said you’d read a lot about them.’

‘I’ve seen a lot of horse races but that doesn’t make me a jockey, does it?’

She smiled again and reached for her handbag, sliding the diary free, laying it beside her as if for reference. The photo was in there, too, but she left it for the time being.

‘I know more about the Dublin Hell Fire Club, obviously,’ he continued. ‘They were just one of the off-shoots. There were a number of branches affiliated to the main club in England. They had individual leaders at each club but one overall head. The affiliates were known as cells. As far as I can tell there were cells in London, Edinburgh and Oxford as well as here in Dublin.’

Donna swallowed hard, one hand involuntarily touching the diary. She remembered the entries.

Edinburgh.

London.

Oxford.

Her husband had been to all those places shortly before his death.

‘Where were the meetings?’ she wanted to know.

‘In Ireland, usually at a place called The Eagle Tavern on Cork Hill. That’s where Worsdale’s painting was done. They also met at Daly’s Club, College Green. That’s where Parsons picked up his charming habit of setting fire to cats. He’d pour scaltheen over them first.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It was a mixture of rancid butter and raw Irish whiskey, I believe. It’s no wonder members of the Hell Fire Club were crazy if they drank that.’

The main course arrived and Mahoney sat back in his seat, seeing how intently Donna was looking at him, hanging on his every word. She glanced irritably at the waiter, barely resisting the urge, it seemed, to hurry him up so that her companion could continue. He finally left and Mahoney continued.

‘Their favourite meeting place, though, was Mountpelier Hunting lodge near Rathfarnham. The ruins are still there today. Kids drive up there at nights and try to spot ghosts.’ He smiled.

Donna didn’t.

‘How was it destroyed? You said there were only ruins there now.’

‘One of the Hell Fire Club members, Richard Whaley, accidentally set fire to it one night. Well, he supposedly had drink spilled on him by a coachman so, by way of revenge, he poured brandy over the man and ignited him. Whaley got out but quite a few of the others didn’t.’

‘How difficult is it to reach?’ Donna enquired.

‘It’s easy. You can drive up there. It’s only twelve miles or so. They reckon on a clear day you can see the ruins from O’Connell Street.’ He smiled again.

‘Have you ever been up there yourself?’ she wanted to know.

‘When I was a student. Half a dozen of us went up there one night.’ He shrugged. ‘The only spirits I saw were Jamesons and Glenfiddich.’ He chewed a mouthful of food.

‘So what did they do at these meetings?’ Donna persisted.

‘Orgies, mainly. They drank a lot, they gambled, supposedly they practised the Black Mass. Their object was to undermine society, the Church in particular. But most of all it was just an excuse for an orgy.’

‘What about the other clubs?’

‘They were the same, but all the other cells were presided over by the man who founded the order at a place in England called Medmenham Abbey. They were called “The Monks of Medmenham”. One man was responsible for starting the Hell Fire Club. A man called Francis Dashwood.’

Dashwood.

D.

Beside every entry. D.

‘Dashwood was the President of the club. He used to travel around all the other cells to make sure they were carrying out their objectives.’ Mahoney chuckled. ‘They had a nickname for him. They called him The King of Hell.’

Forty-Two

Gordon Mahoney held the brandy glass in his hand and swirled the amber fluid around gently before sipping at it.

The dining-room was almost empty; just one other couple occupied a table on the far side of the room now. Mahoney felt exhausted, as if he hadn’t stopped talking since he sat down earlier that evening. Donna’s questions had been unceasing, her curiosity boundless. He regarded her over the rim of the brandy glass, captivated by her looks. She certainly was a beautiful woman. As she drank her coffee Mahoney looked at her, studying the smooth contours of her legs, noticing the way the dress clung to her slim hips and waist. He felt an embarrassed stirring in his groin and shifted position in his seat.

‘Did Dashwood ever come to Dublin?’ Donna asked.

Mahoney sucked in a deep breath, preparing himself for the next round of questions.

‘I would think so. Like I said to you earlier, he visited the cells all round the country. Parsons spent some time in England, too. They were powerful men. Dashwood was Postmaster-General of England at one time. Most of the members were wealthy young men. They were bored, I suppose. Nowadays the rich snort coke; in those days they got drunk and had orgies.’ He smiled.

‘What about the witchcraft side of it?’ Donna wanted to know.

‘They were perverts. It just gave them an excuse to do what they wanted in the name of the Devil. A lot of what went on was based on gossip, most of it spread by members themselves.’ He drained what was left in his glass.

‘What happened to Dashwood and Parsons?’ Donna wanted to know.

‘No one knows for sure. Parsons just disappeared, not long after the fire at Mountpelier lodge. Dashwood died, supposedly, of syphilis. The clubs broke up when too much political pressure was put on them, when it came out that some of their leading members were important social figures. The scandal ruined them.’

Donna nodded slowly, drawing her finger around the lip of the cup.

Mahoney watched her intently.

‘Could there be a Hell Fire Club today?’ she asked finally. ‘Now, in the twentieth century?’

Mahoney shrugged.

‘Anything’s possible, but if there was I think The News of the World would have