“Well, sir, a young girl is brought in-”
“How young?” Barker growled.
“I don’t ask. A few have been quite young, indeed, and have been genuine virgins. With most, however, it is merely a ruse. I do not examine them at all. I merely issue the certificate. It should be obvious they are not virgins, but it is what the market demands. I am not proud of what I do, Mr. Barker, but I must eat. The Charity Organization Society cannot afford to keep a physician on staff. I am merely a volunteer.”
“You know what I am going to ask you next, do you not, Dr. Fitzhugh?”
“Yes, sir. Miss DeVere was not brought here to be examined. As far as I know, no girl from the charity has. I don’t know how Miss Forth engages these young women.”
“I see. May I trouble you for your address, doctor?”
The doctor gave me the address of a boardinghouse in Morpeth Street, not far from the C.O.S. I heard girls laughing behind me. I turned and saw a group lined up in the hall. One or two winked at us. Barker frowned and I don’t believe it was due to his Puritan roots.
“What’s going on?” he demanded.
“What do you mean? I’ve told you all I know.”
“I mean now. Why are all these women here now?”
“It’s Friday, sir,” Fitzhugh said drily. “It is their biggest night.”
“What certificates are you here for, ladies? Disease or virginity?”
“Both, sir,” a bold girl answered.
“Is there a special event occurring this evening?” he asked.
“A party at some estate,” she said nonchalantly.
“Out of town?”
“There ain’t none in town that I know of.”
Barker drew himself up to his full height. “None of your lip, girl.”
I’m sure she faced rough men often. A girl can quickly grow tough and cynical in her profession. But even she would not take on a man like Cyrus Barker.
“No, sir. I dunno where it is exactly. Along the river somewhere.”
“Get Sal.”
The last girl in line scampered off to get her. The rest of us stood in a somewhat embarrassed silence.
We heard Sally Forth before we saw her. She came down the hallway of her establishment emitting curses the way a steam engine lets off puffs of steam, in full throttle by the time she reached Barker.
“You better not be interfering with my business, Push.”
“If you anger me, Sal, I’ll be back with Swanson of the Yard, and we’ll shut this place down. No Friday night business and no fancy parties out of town.”
Miss Forth’s only answer was “All right. What is it you want?”
“The name of your client tonight.”
“Not that,” Sally said, lowering her voice. “I ain’t stayed open for business these ten years by squealing on my gentlemen.”
“One name, Sal,” Barker maintained. “You press me and you’ll find out how hard I can press back. I’m after a multiple murderer. I don’t care about your fancy girls.”
“This ain’t the normal client,” Sal admitted. “This is the best money I’ve made in years. I could retire on it. He’s highborn. Best if you leave it, Push. Not just for my sake. It could make more trouble than even you could handle.” She turned back toward the young women. “Girls! Out. Hop it.”
They seemed relieved to be dismissed and quickly left.
“I wasn’t going to be seen discussing this, and you, ” she said, pointing a long-nailed finger at Dr. Fitzhugh, “had better keep your bloody mouth shut.”
“Yes, madam.”
“I shouldn’t do this,” she continued, “but I know all about your temper.”
“It is wearing thinner by the moment. The name, Sal. Give me the name.”
She looked reluctant, but somehow it slipped out of her mouth. “Dashwood.”
Barker stood for a moment, then pushed his bowler hat up and ran his hand across his forehead and put his other hand on his hip. It was as if even he had not expected such an answer.
“Thank you, Sal,” he finally said. “Doctor, we shall speak again. Come, lad.”
Outside, we walked along Cambridge Road, but Barker wasn’t paying attention. One of his broad shoulders almost knocked a man over.
“Who is Dashwood, sir?” I asked.
“Does the name have any meaning to you?” he asked.
“It is the name of a family in one of Jane Austen’s novels, sir. Beyond that, I’m afraid I do not know.”
“Francis Dashwood, the Earl of le Despencer. He was the leader of a group of upperclass rakes a century ago. They were involved in satanic rituals and mad revels amidst London’s upper classes. It was the most infamous organization in the history of London.”
“My word,” I said. “You’re speaking of the Hellfire Club.”
“Yes, Thomas. It would appear they have returned. It all fits together. Such an organization would be a perfect cloak for Miacca’s activities. Most of the victims were found between Saturday and Monday. They were likely sacrificed on Friday night, ritually outraged and murdered by these most vicious of libertines. Like Miss DeVere, their bodies were painted. When the Hellfire Club was done with them, they tossed them away like empty tins.”
“That is vile.”
“Yes, and, lad, there is the link you were looking for. Richard Dashwood, the latest baron who owns the estate in Buckinghamshire, is a friend of Lord Hesketh’s and was the referee for your second match with Palmister Clay.”
“My word.”
“And do not forget today is Friday. I believe the Hellfire Club is going to sacrifice Ona Bellovich tonight.”
28
“Shall we go to Dashwood’s Estate now, sir?”
Barker thought a moment. I’m sure he was itching to reconnoiter the area himself, but ultimately he shook his head. “Best not. There’s no need to be tipping our hand. Come, I fancy a pint.”
We took an omnibus into the City. I knew Barker could not mean what he said about fancying a pint. From the little he had told me about his time in the East I knew he had been a terrible drinker and brawler when the mood was on him, but since then he carefully watched his own intake, never more than a glass of wine or ale per day, and often a week without either. The only stimulant he preferred was his gunpowder green tea, the little pellets of rolled leaves he had imported for him. Fancying a pint was one thing, allowing himself to indulge in one was another. So, what, I wondered, was he really up to?
At Aldgate Station we got out and stretched our limbs. We both liked the City, from St. Paul’s in the west to the Jewish quarter in the east. North was Newgate, where Mac’s parents lived and where he was briefly imprisoned, and south was the river and the Tower. The Guv led me deep into the center of the district and for a moment shocked me when he stopped in front of St. Michael’s Alley, where the Barbados stood. Then he moved into the next street which was Lombard, and led me into a chophouse called the George and Vulture.
As we stepped inside, I couldn’t help think that I knew the name from somewhere. When I saw a gentleman stretched in front of the fire with a handkerchief over his face, sound asleep, I recognized the pub’s name.
“Pickwick!” I cried, which only served to attract the attention of everyone in the room.
“I beg your pardon?” Barker asked.
“This is the setting for Dickens’ novel The Pickwick Papers, sir. Sam Weller stayed here.”
“Is that relevant to the case?” my employer asked patiently.
“I don’t know. Is it?”
