Death in Hellfire (14 page)

“I take it you are impressed?”

“I’ll say I am. I hadn’t expected anything quite so grand.” They rode round to the main door where they both dismounted, John allowing Samuel to peal the bell. The usual footman replied.

“The Honourable Fintan O’Hare by appointment with Sir Francis Dashwood,” Sam said in an Irish accent so broad that one could have stood on it.

“If Mr O’Hare would like to step inside.” John obliged. “And you may go round to the servants” quarters,” the servant added, and pointed to the back of the house.

“To the stables first, Samuel, if you please,” the Apothecary said loudly. He added in an undertone, “You’ll find Dominique Jean working in one of the outhouses. Talk to him. But when Sir Francis and his cronies come for their horses I want you to follow at a discreet distance. Can you do that?”

“Of course I can,” Samuel answered with a note of irritation in his voice.

John laid his hand on Sam’s arm. “Please don’t be seen. I think it is vitally important that you are not.”

“I shall be a shadow,” the Goldsmith answered.

“And when we get to our destination creep around and observe all you can.”

“Leave it to me,” Sam said solemnly.

Shown into the saloon, John almost reeled back at the fine company assembled there. For as well as the usual crowd of cronies he saw Lord Sandwich, First Lord of the Admiralty, together with Sir Henry Vansittart, the Governor of Bengal. A third man also stood by the window, a man whose features John could hardly recognise.

This morning Charles Arundel looked ghastly, his face having been carefully painted as white as a cloud. He - or his servant - had rouged his cheeks, carmined his lips and blackened his brows so that the man appeared like a travesty of his sex. John thought of Coralie’s attitude on the previous evening and felt momentarily sick.

Sir Francis Dashwood looked up. “Ah, O’Hare, here you are. Allow me to present you to the others. Lord Sandwich…”

John gave his very best bow.

“…Sir Henry Vansittart and Paul Whitehead the poet. Gentlemen, this is the Honourable Fintan O’Hare, son of the Earl of Cavan.”

John was still bowing as the other men murmured a greeting.

“And now my friends, let us to horse. It is a fine day and I am sure we will all make haste when we think of the pleasures awaiting us.”

In the stables their mounts stood waiting, Samuel solemnly holding the bridle of Rufus. John was given a leg-up and once in the saddle he gave Sam a wink and mouthed the word “Follow”. His friend nodded his head silently.

*
 
*
 
*

It was a pleasant ride through the countryside following the course of the meandering river. John, being new to the group, rode slightly behind and occasionally looked over his shoulder for any sign of Samuel. But there was nothing and he came to the conclusion that Sam had either got lost or had mastered the art of shadowing to a fine degree.

It was one of the most beautiful days of the year; late July and already destined to be hot. The cornfields glowed in the early warmth and the scent of wild flowers blew on a minute breeze, filling his nostrils with delight as their perfume hung in the barely stirred air. Barley, long-whiskered and gentle, swayed down by the water and over their heads the sky was as bright a blue as a stained glass window. John, not a religious man, found himself thanking the creator for all this glory, all this splendour, and wondered what he was doing heading for such a sordid gathering. And yet he could not deny some hidden excitement, some lustful urge, working its way towards the surface of his mind.

About five miles from West Wycombe and a narrow bridge appeared before them which they crossed, riding in pairs over its stone surface. The sound of the horses” hooves was magnified by the high sides of the edifice and momentarily John felt trapped. He looked round in a panic and caught the gaze of his companion, Paul Whitehead, whose long face and nose and unsmiling rat-trap mouth did nothing to reassure him. As they left the bridge and hastened through the meadows on the far side John thought he could hear the distant sounds of a horse in pursuit but turning his head again could see nothing.

A mile further on and Medmenham Abbey came into view, a gracious building built by the river’s edge. A cloister with soaring arches had been constructed next to an ivy-mantled tower which gave the place a slightly mysterious and melancholy air. Above these cloisters stood windows with pointed decorations above, while on the top of the roof there was a large and imposing chimney, Sir Francis dismounted.

“Well, here we are again.” He rubbed his hands in anticipation. “Allow me to escort our guest first.”

There was a murmur of approval and John was led toward a front door like that of a church. His eye wandered upward. Over the arch were written the words
Fay ce que voudras
, which he translated as “do as you wish”.

“The slogan of the club,” said Sir Francis, and his voice was molten.

John stepped into the house and looked about him. He stood in a fine hallway with various rooms leading off it. But it was to the fireplace that his eye was drawn, for there, repeated in French, was the club’s motto once again.

“This is a very fine building, sir,” he said to his host. “It obviously has been designed with care.”

“It was my idea entirely,” Sir Francis answered. “I bought the place as a ruin and had it totally restored. Come, let me show you around.”

He led John to a large room situated behind the cloister. Here there were signs of pictures having been recently removed for the marks where they had hung were clearly visible.

Sir Francis, seeing the direction of John’s eye said, “Security, old chap. You never know who might come snooping.”

“Indeed not,” the Apothecary answered, and looked urbane. They stepped out into the cloister and Sir Francis gave a laugh. “Allow me to show you the monks” cells. You’ll be sleeping in one of these tonight.”

“I see.”

They were very small but all had the necessary wooden cot required for the amorous dalliances which the ladies of London were more than willing to provide.

Off the chapter or common room led the refectory, large enough to seat a very goodly gathering. At one end stood the statue of an Egyptian god and at the other end a goddess.

“Who are they?” John asked.

“Harpocrates, the god of silence, and his female counterpart, Angerona. That the same duty might be enjoined to both sexes,” said Sir Francis, and gave a lewd wink.

His whole manner had changed since he had entered the Abbey for he seemed barely able to contain his excitement. And when the others caught up with him the Apothecary could not help but notice that they all seemed volatile. As if to underline this fact Sir Francis rang a small bell and when a servant answered ordered some wine.

“And now, gentlemen, the first ceremony,” he said, and reaching in his pocket removed a bottle of pills. Solemnly he handed one to Lord Sandwich, Sir Henry Vansittart, Lord Arundel, Paul Whitehead and the Apothecary.

“What are they?” John asked curiously.

“They help us be fine, upstanding gentlemen,” Whitehead said in a toneless voice.

John sniffed the aphrodisiac and assessed it as being relatively harmless. He swallowed it.

“We take a great many of these during the proceedings,” said Sir Francis, and swallowed his down with a great glass of wine and another of his laughs, in the depths of which was a slightly unpleasant tone.

Chapter Twelve

T
he women from London had arrived and the proceedings were in full swing, everyone having been called together at six o’clock. Prior to that there had been a great deal of time spent strolling in the grounds which were, in John’s estimation, amongst the most erotic he had ever seen. In one place he had read the words
Ici pama de joie des mortels le plus heureux
inscribed over a grassy bank. And had seen one young monk doing his best to obey the sentiments expressed therein, namely, “Here the happiest of mortals died of joy”. Over a couch of flowers had been written
Mourut un amant sue le sein de sa dame,
which John translated as “A lover dies on the bosom of his lady”. Against a sturdy oak where upright love- making was clearly practised was a stone banner which read
Hic Satyrum Naias victorem victa subegit,
which meant “Here the vanquished naiad overcame the conquering satyr”. But as far as the Apothecary was concerned the absolute winner was at the entrance to a cave, in which Venus was bent over pulling a thorn from her foot. Over the cheeks of her behind were inscribed some words which translated read, “Here is the place where the way divided into two: this on the right is our route to Heaven; but the left-hand path exacts punishment from the wicked, and sends them to pitiless Hell”.

John, a washable condom in his pocket, had been standing, reading it, when a voice behind him said, “Pray, what does that mean, sir?”

He had turned to see one of the sauciest little packages it had been his pleasure to set his eyes on in a long time. She was masked, as were all the women present, but that could not hide her natural assets of hair, a glorious shade of rich red, a tipped up cheeky nose, a full mouth with a most attractive underlip, and a pair of pert and pretty breasts which were almost breaking free of their constraining garments. Whether it was the recently swallowed aphrodisiac or the general eroticism of his surroundings but John felt instantly attracted to her.

He bowed and said, “I’m not sure,” then picked up her hand and kissed it slowly.

She gave him an amused glance and said, “Shall we go in to the cave and see if there is anything written in there?”

He knew perfectly well what she meant but was more than happy to comply. “Come on then,” he said, and taking her hand led her inside.

Within the atmosphere was highly charged, for there was a mossy couch made for love with probably the most explicit inscription of all written above. For John, reading in Latin, saw “Go into action, you youngsters; put everything you’ve got into it together, both of you; let not doves outdo your cooings, nor ivy your embraces, nor oysters your kisses”.

“I wonder what this one says?” she asked teasingly, obviously having had it translated for her many times before.

“It exhorts us to go into action,” John answered.

“Like this?” she said, and putting her arms round his neck gave him a voluptuous kiss.

“Or, even better, like this,” the Apothecary replied, and leading her to the couch, lay down beside her.

Vaguely he heard a couple come into the cave, say “Sorry,” and leave again. But John was past caring, indeed was having such a pleasurable time that the whole world could have walked through the cavernous entrance as far as he was concerned.

The little whore, who had remained masked throughout, grinned at him impudently. “I think you had a good time, young sir.”

“I had one of the best times ever.”

“Oh, you men. You all say the same.”

“And you? Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Not completely,” she answered truthfully. “It’ll take a bit of practice.”

John grinned and wiped his brow. “Madam, I am entirely at your disposal.”

She sat upright. “Oh, it don’t go like that. The Abbot has first choice of all the women. And then the men file past us for inspection. That’s in case a lady’s husband should be present, or an acquaintance for that matter.”

“Not very likely I would have thought.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. We have a mix of females of quality amongst our number, here for the sport, like. And they enter into it with as much enthusiasm as any Covent Garden doxy. Anyway, if they should see anyone they know they have permission to retire without revealing themselves. But if all goes well, when every man has passed us by we unmask and that is how we remain.”

“I see. So how are the women picked?”

“By the gentlemen present, as you would imagine. But once they have taken one of us we become their lawful wives during our stay here. So, sir, if I please you and the Abbot doesn’t want me, then I am yours for the asking.”

“And ask I will,” John replied with enthusiasm.

And now it was evening and the men had walked past their prospective “brides” and the Abbot - Sir Francis Dashwood himself - had made his choice. Somewhat to the Apothecary’s surprise he had picked for his escort an extremely buxom blonde lady who John thought he recognised as Betsy. There had also been a slight mishap as John had seen her standing amongst the whores and ladies. He had wondered for a moment whether she would withdraw but instead she had given him a cheerful grin as he had gone past her. So her husband didn’t pick her, John thought, or was this part of a little game they played in order to keep their marriage alive?

“Brother monks,” the Abbot said rising, “you have seen the ladies and I have made my choice. Now you must make yours.”

The assembled company, all designated monks for the next few days, sallied forward, and John hurried to where his pretty little whore stood waiting.

“Well, sir, do you choose me as your wife?” she asked, smiling at him.

“Will you do me the honour, ma’am?”

“Gladly, sir,” and she curtseyed.