Heathen/Nemesis

closed the door again and slid the chain into place.

She lifted the envelope, testing its weight, then she moved across to the phone.

Running her finger down the notepad beside it, she found the number she sought and pressed the digits.

At the other end it began to ring.

Fifty-Two

6.46 p.m.

Julie cradled the mug of tea in both hands and looked at the wall clock on the other side of the kitchen. She checked her own watch.

‘Come on,’ she murmured irritably.

The phone on the wall close to her rang and she picked it up at the second ring.

‘Donna?’ she said.

‘Yes,’ the voice at the other end said.

‘What kept you? I called this morning.’

‘I’ve only just got back to my room and picked up your message. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing, as far as I know. I’ve had a visitor today. Chris’s solicitor, a man called Neville Dowd. Do you know him?’

‘I met him a couple of times. What did he want?’

Julie looked at the envelope lying on the worktop. She told Donna about it.

‘What’s in it?’ Donna asked.

‘It’s private. You didn’t expect me to open it, did you?’ Julie said, surprised. ‘You’ll have to look when you get back. How’s it going, by the way?’

Donna told her sister what had happened in Ireland, the information she’d accumulated about The Hell Fire Club and also what she’d found in the library in Edinburgh. She explained a little about The Hell Fire Club itself.

‘So that’s what Chris was working on?’ Julie said finally. ‘Who the hell were the men who attacked you in Ireland?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know if it’s linked to Chris’s work either.’

‘Can’t the police do anything?’

‘They can’t act on maybes, Julie. I haven’t got any concrete proof to show them.’

‘Someone tried to kill you; how much more concrete does proof have to be?’

‘Listen, I’ve been thinking about Chris’s work. You know how deeply involved he got with it; he had on other books. I think he might have discovered some kind of organisation like The Hell Fire Club. A modern day off-shoot of it. I’m not sure.’

‘Then why didn’t he go to the police if he had?’

‘I don’t know.’ Donna sighed. ‘I don’t know what he was trying to do. I don’t know if she was involved with it.’

‘Who?’

‘Suzanne Regan.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Donna, I thought you’d forgotten about that.’

‘Forgotten about it? My husband dies in a car crash with his mistress and you think I can forget about it?’

‘I meant about his love life. I thought you were supposed to be finding out what he was working on, not going on about what he might or might not have done with Suzanne Regan.’

‘I think she was involved with it, too,’ Donna said.

‘How?’

‘Some of the things I found out from books here today. I think Chris was using her to get himself accepted into the organisation, whatever it was.’

‘You mean he was trying to join them?’

‘It’s possible. She could have been his way in.’

‘What would he have gained by joining a group like that?’

‘That’s what I have to find out. I thought Martin Connelly might know, but I’ve phoned his office and his home a couple of times and there’s never anyone there. Have you heard from him?’

‘Why would he call me?’ Julie said defensively.

‘He might want to find out if I was back yet. If he does call, tell him I’ll speak to him when I get back.’ There was a pause, then the silence was finally broken by Donna. ‘I think Chris was involved in something, Julie. Something dangerous. Perhaps that envelope Dowd brought round will answer some questions.’

Julie looked at the envelope lying on the worktop.

‘There’s nothing more for me here,’ said Donna wearily. ‘I’m coming home tonight. I’ll get a shuttle flight.’

‘Do you want me to pick you up from the airport?’

‘No, I’ll get a cab. I’ll see you later. Take care.’

‘You too.’

Donna hung up.

Julie gently replaced the receiver and walked across to the envelope. She picked it up, feeling the weight of it. It was packed tightly with papers and ...

She ran her fingers gently over the manila surface and felt the outline of something small and cold inside. She pressed it with the tip of her index finger, trying to figure out what it could be. She frowned, gliding the pads of her fingers across the shape like a blind person reading braille, feeling every contour.

Fifty-Three

‘She must die.’

The voice floated through the air like smoke, the words almost visible in the heavy atmosphere.

‘Not yet,’ another said. ‘Not until we have the book.’

The room was large, the walls oak-panelled on two sides. The other two were dark brick. Paintings hung on them, large canvases in gilt frames. The room was lit by a number of small reading lamps, none powered by anything stronger than a sixty-watt bulb. It gave the room an artificially cosy feel, which was added to by the open fireplace and the array of expensive leather furniture that dotted the floor, spread out on thick carpet as dark as wet concrete.

The air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke; a number of the twelve men seated there puffed away quite happily while they talked. They sat at different places in the room, most of them also with drinks cradled in their hands.

The house in Conduit Street was just two minutes walk from Berkeley Square in one direction and, in the other, the bustling thoroughfare that was Regent Street. The house and the room within were like a peaceful island in the sea of activity that constituted the centre of London.

The room was on the second floor of the three-storey building, its curtains drawn, its inhabitants hidden from those below. Windows like blind eyes reflected the lights of passing cars.

One of the men in the room got to his feet and crossed to a well-stocked drinks cabinet, refilling his glass, offering the same service to his colleagues.

They had been drinking for the best part of an hour but none were drunk. Even so, large quantities of brandy and gin were consumed as the men talked.

There was a large table in the centre of the room, made of dark polished wood. Two men sat at its head,