Death in Hellfire (10 page)

“Cavan?” said Lord Arundel, wrinkling his nose very slightly. “Is that an Irish title?”

“Yes, my Lord,” John answered politely.

“I see.” And Charles put a great deal of meaning into those two words.

John found himself disliking the fellow, partly because he had ruined the green velvet coat of which the Apothecary had been particularly fond.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked spitefully.

“Than when?” said Arundel, peering down the length of his thinly sculpted nose.

“Than yesterday, sir. I was the person who helped you to your room.” John smiled disarmingly.

“Were you, by Jove? Then I owe you my heartfelt thanks.” Despite the warmth of the words Charles contrived to say them with a chill in his tone.

John was just beginning to get annoyed when a footman threw open the door and intoned that dinner was served. At this Sarah, Lady Dashwood, accompanied by Coralie Clive appeared and were escorted in to dine by their husbands with the Apothecary following somewhat lamely behind.

Once in the dining room, he was again struck by the beauty of the ceiling which carried a huge painting of the Triumph of Bacchus and Ariadne. Indeed the theme of the room was definitely bacchanalian and John, looking at the sideboard loaded with decanters, felt that he was in for a definite feast. Mentally he girded himself for the fray. His eye wandered to a plaster statue of the Venus de” Medici standing in a niche in the right-hand wall. She seemed to preside over the room and John could not help but contrast her voluptuous curves, scarcely concealed by her judiciously placed hands, with the flat and forbidding figure of Sir Francis’s wife, who sat looking grim as ever on her husband’s right. Coralie, on the other hand, looked beautiful, though greatly changed, in deepest red.

John studied her. Her figure was much the same, perhaps an inch or so fuller, though still admirable. Her hair, black as midnight, had just a hint of frosting, yet her emerald eyes were clear and fresh despite the little lines round them. He looked at her hands, one toying with the stem of her wine glass, and was filled with a longing to hold one.

She must have caught his gaze because she said with a certain amount of amusement, “And how was your father when you last saw him, Mr O’Hare?”

He answered, with Sir Gabriel Kent in mind, “Still well despite his great age, thank you ma’am. He spends much time in reading these days but is most delighted when he is visited by my daughter.”

Lady Dashwood looked up. “You have a daughter! I did not realise you were even married, sir.” She said the words like an accusation.

“I was married some years ago, my Lady, but unfortunately my wife…died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she replied in her usual stiff way. But Coralie said in an undertone, “How unhappy you must have been.”

“I was indeed, madam. I was wounded to the heart for more than one reason.”

Sir Francis called from the end of the table. “Mr O’Hare, I’m sorry for your personal tragedy but we do not have sad people around us for long. So drink and be merry. I would like to propose a toast. To the Earl of Cavan and his many sons.”

“I’ll drink to that and gladly,” John answered and rose to his feet as did the other men present.

“And now,” said the host, beaming geniality, “let us eat.”

It was an excellent meal of several courses into which John tucked heartily. However, he could not help but notice that Charles picked at his food, moving it round his plate with his fork, yet drinking heavily all the while. He came to the conclusion that there was something wrong with the man though he couldn’t as yet identify what it was.

It was a strange sensation, sitting next to Coralie, wondering what she was thinking, almost as if the clocks had been turned back and the intervening years with all their spent passions and terrible dramas had not taken place. But they had and there could be no denying them. John decided that there was only one thing to do and that was to get as merry as possible without reducing himself to the level of Charles Arundel, whom he already cordially disliked.

“Do you travel at all, Mr O’Hare?”

“Not a great deal, Sir Francis. But I hear that you are quite a voyager.”

“Oh yes, indeed. When I was very young I went on the Grand Tour and the impression it left on me was remarkable. I also went on a visit to meet the Empress Anna Petrovna of Russia and I have made a journey to Greece and Asia Minor.”

“I envy you that, sir.”

“It was in Asia Minor that I met young Arundel’s father.”

“Really?”

John stole a glance at Charles and saw that a bright pink flush had now invaded his cheeks.

“Oh yes. I have been a friend of his ever since. He was a member of the Divan Club which is an organisation specifically for people who have visited the Ottoman Empire.” John’s ears became alert, wondering if it was possible that this was the club to which Sir John Fielding had referred. “How very interesting, sir. Does that club still function?”

“No, alas. It was difficult to find members with the right qualifications. But I am still friendly with several of the people concerned.”

At this Dashwood gave rather a coarse laugh in which Charles joined. John was convinced that they were referring to something else and wondered if it could possibly be another club. He was just about to make some superficial comment when there came another ring at the front door.

Sir Francis looked up. “That will be James Avon-Nelthorpe. He is travelling from London and said he might be late.” He turned to his wife. “You have no objection to him joining us I take it, my dear?”

She sighed a little and turning to a servant said, “Lay another cover, would you.”

There was the sound of voices in the hall and then the door to the dining room was opened and a footman intoned “The Honourable James Avon-Nelthorpe and Mrs Avon-Nelthorpe.” Every head turned to look and John, giving the couple who stood in the doorway a quick glance, formed the immediate impression that the Honourable James had brought an ancient London whore with him. For the woman in his company was easily old enough to be his mother and was fat, short and wore far too much rouge. On top of her white-blonde mass of curls she had a pink hat with a whirl of pink feathers floating at the side, this matching her open robe which covered a very fussy white petticoat beneath. Dimly visible beneath this extraordinary outfit were a pair of pink top-boots, and pink gloves gave the finishing touch.

“Damme James,” said Sir Francis, rising. “You did not say you were bringing your wife.”

“Oh, cooee!” exclaimed the newcomer. “Sorry to intrude, I’m sure. Do hope you’ll forgive me Lady Dashwood. It’s just that James has hurt his back and he has no one attend to it for him but his little wifey.”

She grinned, displaying a row of small white teeth, sharp as blades.

“Oh, no trouble at all,” Sarah answered in her monotonous voice. “Wilkins, lay two places.”

“I don’t think you know everyone,” said Sir Francis, still standing. “Lady Arundel, may I present Mrs Avon-Nelthorpe?” The fat lady bobbed a curtsey. “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure, Lady Arundel. The pleasure is entirely mine.”

“How do you do, ma’am,” said Coralie extending a gracious hand.

“And may I present the Honourable Fintan O’Hare to you, Mrs Avon-Nelthorpe?” Over him she ran a shrewd little eye, encased in pouches of fat, in quite one of the most penetrating glances he had ever seen, indeed he almost felt stripped bare so all-consuming was it.

John rose and bowed fulsomely. “How nice,” was all he could think of saying.

The Honourable James meanwhile stood shuffling from foot to foot, blushing violently. He was an extraordinary young man with bright hair, the colour of carrots, which he wore tied back in a queue. In contrast with his wife he had a lanky frame with hardly an ounce of superfluous flesh on it and wore his clothes with a certain natural inelegance, rather as if they were the first thing he could find to put on. His skin was fair and covered with freckles and he was only saved from being rather ugly by a fine pair of eyes, topaz in colour, which gleamed as he looked round the assembled company.

“Sorry indeed, Lady Dashwood, to be a dashed bore but the fact is that Betsy and I had a most appalling journey from London, don’t you know. We hardly stopped at all.”

“Except for comfort,” Betsy said predictably.

“Quite,” said Sir Francis. “Do please sit down. “Mrs Avon- Nelthorpe if you would sit next to Lord Arundel and James next to Lady Arundel.”

She took her place at once and gave his Lordship a nudge in the ribs. “Hello, Charles,” she said and flashed one of her sharp-toothed smiles.

He looked slightly discomfited. “How are you, Betsy? Well, I trust.”

“Yes, thank you. I am in good health.” She turned her attention to John. “I’m sorry I didn’t quite catch your name.”

“Fintan, ma’am. Fintan O’Hare. I am Irish.”

“Are you now? How delightful. I think them a most amusing race.”

John smiled and nodded as she rambled on in this vein, wondering all the while about her origins. She was, he could have sworn, a lady of the night who had somehow - his mind reeled away from going down this path - inveigled a respectable young man into marrying her. His gaze turned on the husband. A plain creature when all was said and done with only his eyes to redeem him.

James looked up at this point and, fleetingly, the Apothecary saw something beneath the workaday surface; something quite molten and alarming. But almost instantly it was gone, leaving John with the impression that he had imagined it, that the carroty-haired young man was ordinary in the extreme. Yet had that notion been deliberately foisted upon him?

Betsy was holding forth. “I do find coaches so uncomfortable these days. La, but they make my bum ache.”

“Really?” said Coralie, icily polite.

“Ah well,” put in Sir Francis jovially, “you’ll find the beds here really restful. A good night’s sleep will soon put you at your ease.”

This remark was completely harmless in itself, but at that particular moment John glanced up and this time caught an extremely lewd wink given by the host to Arundel, who returned it with an elegant shrug of his shoulders.

The Apothecary decided to enter the conversation, saying, “Flow do you manage to amuse yourselves, here in the heart of the country?”

Lady Dashwood said boringly, “Oh well, we enjoy country pursuits.”

“Such as?” John persisted.

“Of an evening we play chess, or have music and singing, or we might even dance.”

“Of come now, Mr O’Hare, you live in the country in Cavan. Surely you must know what people get up to the in the evenings,” said Coralie, turning to regard John with her wonderful green eyes.

“I think I have some idea, ma’am,” answered John, innocently enough, but at that moment catching Sir Francis’s nut-brown gaze.

“We find plenty to do with ourselves, young fellow, don’t you worry.”

“Oh no, sir, I’m quite sure you do. I’m not worried at all,” John answered insouciantly, and looking straight at his host raised his eyebrows in a question.

Chapter Nine

 
“
A
nd what happened then?” asked Samuel, brimming with ale and jolliness.

“I watched like a somewhat drunken hawk and felt sure that at least two of them - I refer to the men of course - were hiding something,” John answered.

“What?”

“That I am not certain about.”

“Well I am,” said Dominique, slurring his words very slightly. “What you refer to is the Hellfire Club.”

“Ah! Tell me, does it still exist?”

“Of course it does. But it doesn’t meet at West Wycombe. Oh no, they’re far too clever for that.”

“Then where?”

“At a place called Medmenham Abbey, not far from here. At least that is what my father-in-law told me and he overheard much during his days at the big house.”

John gave a subdued shout and several lingering customers turned to look at him. “As I thought,” he said.

The dinner party had gone on for rather a long time, during which he had become more and more convinced that Sir Francis and Lord Arundel were sharing some sort of secret. Eventually, though, he had managed to escape, bowing to everyone and thanking Sir Francis and Lady Dashwood profusely. Then he had hurried back in the Langlois coach to the George and Dragon to find, much as he had expected and hoped, that both Samuel and Dominique were in the taproom and drinking merrily. Samuel in his guise of manservant had stuck to ale, which had made him both excited and sweaty, while Dominique, a Frenchman to his fingertips, had ordered a good wine and had already consumed a whole bottle.

John, feeling positively sober in comparison, took a sip and said, “Tell me, Dominique, was your father-in-law ever invited to any of these meetings?”

Dominique snorted. “Not he, sir. He was considered trade.” The Apothecary looked at him levelly. “I am trade too.”

The water gilder stared at him. “But I thought…”

“I’m afraid I lied to you. The fact is that I am by profession an apothecary and I have a shop in Shug Lane, Piccadilly. At the moment I am working for Sir John Fielding…”