found them by now.’ He chuckled.
‘I mean it,’ Donna snapped.
The Irishman was surprised at the vehemence in her voice.
‘A group of men meeting together to get drunk and cavort with women? I should think that happens quite a lot, but I doubt they’d call themselves The Hell Fire Club. You can see that on any guy’s stag night.’ He shrugged. ‘Dashwood and Parsons had political objectives; they wanted to do genuine damage to society. The clubs helped them recruit supporters.’
‘So you’re saying that couldn’t happen now?’ she said challengingly.
‘No, I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is, I doubt if there are men practising the Black Arts and meeting on a regular basis for drunken orgies the way Parsons’ and Dashwood’s men did. I said it was unlikely; I didn’t say it was impossible. Supposedly there was a Hell Fire Club in London in 1934, but what they were getting up to no one knows.’
Donna reached for her handbag and took the photo out. She pushed it across the table towards Mahoney.
‘That’s my husband,’ she said, jabbing a finger at the image of Chris. ‘I don’t know who the other five are.’
Mahoney inspected the faces carefully, pausing at the two blurred images.
‘Look,’ said Donna, pointing at the first of the fuzzy figures. ‘The ring on the left index finger. It’s the same as the one worn by Parsons in that painting you showed me. The other man is wearing one, too.’
Mahoney frowned.
‘They certainly look alike,’ he mused.
‘They’re the same,’ she snapped angrily.
‘What are you trying to say, Donna?’ he asked.
‘Identical rings, one worn by a man in a painting done two hundred years ago, another worn by a man photographed less than six months ago. It’s a hell of a coincidence, isn’t it? I think that someone found the rings that belonged to Parsons and Dashwood. Those men in that photo. I think my husband knew that. I think he knew who they were. I’m sure that’s what he was working on. All the places you mentioned that they used to meet, my husband had been there recently. I think he’d found a new Hell Fire Club.’
Mahoney didn’t speak, mainly because he wasn’t sure what to say. He could see the sincerity in her expression and hear the belief in her voice.
‘I’m going to drive out to Mountpelier Lodge tomorrow,’ she told him. ‘Will you come with me?’
‘What are you hoping to find there?’
‘I don’t know. Some answers?’
Mahoney exhaled.
‘I told you, it’s just a ruin,’ he said wearily.
‘Will you help me? Yes or no?’
He nodded.
‘Pick me up at eleven,’ he said. ‘At the Gallery.’
‘Eleven.’ She nodded. ‘Gordon, there’s something else.’ She licked her lips before she spoke. ‘Were women allowed to join The Hell Fire Club as members?’
‘No. It was strictly a male preserve,’ he said, smiling. ‘A couple of the high-ranking members like Parsons or Dashwood had what they liked to call “Carriers” but that was it. The carriers were women chosen to be impregnated, made pregnant by members. The children they bore would be used in ceremonies.’
‘Jesus,’ murmured Donna, taking a sip from her cup and discovering that the coffee was cold. She winced and pushed it away from her. She glanced up at the clock on the wall opposite.
It was 11.46 p.m.
‘Gordon, I don’t know how to thank you for your help,’ she said.
‘I could think of a couple of ways,’ he said, smiling.
Donna looked at him coldly.
He raised his hands as if in surrender, then got to his feet.
‘Shall I get them to call you a cab?’ she asked.
‘I’ll be okay. The walk will clear my head.’
She walked to the main doors with him and said a quick ‘Goodnight’, reminding him that she’d pick him up at eleven the following morning.
Mahoney thanked her for the meal and left, stepping out onto the pavement. The fresh air hit him and he sucked in lungfuls and drank them down. After a few moments he began walking, pausing once to look up at the grand fagade of the Shelbourne. He wondered which room she was in. Mahoney smiled to himself and set off. He should be home in less than thirty minutes.
Not once did he notice that he was being followed.
Donna left the hazard lights of the Volvo flashing as she hurried up the steps towards the main entrance of the Dublin National Gallery. As she reached them she glanced back at the hire car, knowing that she couldn’t leave it there for long. She hoped Mahoney would be ready to go.
She’d called Julie that morning to make sure she was all right, and that there had been no more trouble. Julie had told her she was fine. Donna, satisfied that her sister was well, asked the hotel to get her a hire car for the next couple of days. The Volvo had arrived less than twenty minutes later.
Now she reached the main doors and walked in, eyes flicking over the sea of faces in search of Mahoney.
He had told her a lot the previous night, too much for her to take in, but the salient points stuck out clearly in her mind. She had sat up that night in her room, sitting on the bed scribbling notes on one of the Shelbourne’s notepads. She’d finally drifted off to sleep at about two, woken an hour later feeling cold and slipped under the covers, resting fitfully until room service brought her breakfast at eight.
She moved through the gallery quickly, looking for Mahoney but unable to find him. Finally she returned to the information desk where she’d first encountered him the previous day, and found a pretty young woman sitting there stacking up guide books on Dublin.
‘I’m supposed to be meeting Gordon Mahoney here at eleven,’ Donna said.
‘He’ll be back in a minute,’ the young woman told her, still stacking.
Donna glanced agitatedly at her watch and walked to the main doors, trying to see the Volvo parked in the street beyond.
When she turned again she saw Mahoney approaching the desk. Donna smiled and approached him.
‘Are you ready?’ she asked.
He looked at her blankly.
‘Can I help you?’ he said flatly, his gaze barely meeting hers.
‘Gordon, it’s eleven o’clock. I’ve got the car outside. Come on.’
The girl stacking the guide books looked at both of them but said nothing.
‘I can’t go,’ he said sharply. ‘I’m working.’
‘What the hell is wrong with you?’ Donna demanded, irritated by his coldness.
‘I’m busy.’ He reached for a sheet of paper, picked up a pen and began writing.
‘Was it something I said, last night?’ she wanted to know. ‘Why are you acting like this?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ She could hear a note of disinterest in his voice, but something else too.
‘I’ve got work to do if you don’t mind. I’m sorry,’ he told her and continued writing.
The girl finished stacking the guide books and slipped out from behind the desk.
