The Hellfire Conspiracy (21 page)

“Precisely. They’ll be reading ‘Maiden Tribute’ from Lyme Regis to the Outer Hebrides. If that doesn’t pass the bill, then London really has become Babylon, and I shall step down from the helm of this newspaper and retire.”

“‘Maiden Tribute,’” Barker said, frowning.

“Greek mythology, sir,” I supplied. “Children in Crete were sacrificed to appease the lusts of a monster named the Minotaur.”

“You should have left London, Mr. Stead,” Barker said.

“That would add fuel to the rumor that I truly was transporting Miss Armstrong for immoral purposes.”

“True, but you would be out of harm’s way. Is there not some other way?” Barker implored. “This is ruinous to your career.”

“My constituents claim they shall support me, should this go to trial. If they do not, I should start my own journal in competition with the
Gazette
when I am a free man again. Have you any other option?”

“None, now that the machinery is in place. I should warn you that there is a group of nobles who are ready to fight against any possible bill—and I do not mean merely in the houses of Parliament. They have procured the services of a local gang. This may be dangerous for you.”

“I thank you for your concern, sir, but I have already taken such a possibility into account. I expect siegelike conditions upon these offices when it is announced. To be frank, Mr. Barker, I would appreciate your support. I’m told you are a good man in a scrap.”

“Those sound like Andy McClain’s words. Is he involved in this?”

“Not directly,” Stead answered. “He has been occupied these last few days but said I could count on him if things grew violent.”

I felt bad then, having wasted McClain’s time on a personal quarrel, when such large events were brewing.

“Alas, I cannot guarantee my participation,” Barker said. “I am after a murderer, and that must take precedence. If I can be here, I will, but I wish you to understand that I do not believe in a socialist platform, merely in this one issue.”

“Understood,” Stead said, rising. The two men shook hands.

“It is another dead end, but I am pleased to take you off my list of suspects. Come, Thomas.”

W
E HAD JUST COME BACK FROM STEAD’S OFFICE.
Some of the swelling had gone down in my face, but now muscles that had been silent before began to ache, and I was glad for a few moments rest. Barker was halfway through one of his exercises in the back of the empty room, moving slowly and deliberately. I was content to watch him from the mattress. Mac was boiling hot water for tea while keeping an eye on the activity in the street and announcing arrivals and departures from the charity as it began to close for the day.

“Mrs. Carrick is coming back from delivering an elderly man, probably to the Stranger’s Home. Miss Levy is informing the poor applicants that the charity is shutting down for the day and shooing them away.”

“What do you think Israel’s chances are with her?” I asked as he handed me a fresh cup of the nearly colorless green tea.

“Let us see,” Mac said, who as a Jew might offer better insight. “She’s from a better family than he, she’s devilishly attractive, she’s the first Jewish female to attend Cambridge, and she’s a published poet. As for Israel, he’s from Whitechapel, works as a reporter, and is a known socialist. Were you a matchmaker, what would you think?”

“That he doesn’t stand a chance,” I said, but I wasn’t thinking of Israel and Miss Levy just then. I was thinking more of Miss Potter and myself. Did I really think our relationship might go any further? What had I, an enquiry agent’s assistant and a former felon, have to offer a beautiful, ambitious, and intellectual girl of good family—or any girl at all, for that matter? How would she feel if she saw me now, I wondered, with my face mottled and bruised?

Barker finished his final movements and then took a dainty sip from his cup. A man his size could have used a bowl instead, but he used small, handleless cups from the Orient that held almost nothing.

“Dr. Fitzhugh is leaving,” Mac returned to his narration. “He’s turned left. That’s not his usual route. He’s heading toward Cambridge Road.”

“Come, lad,” Barker said, actually tossing his empty cup onto the mattress at my feet. “Any deviation in Fitzhugh’s routine is of interest to me.”

I pulled myself out of bed, and the two of us took the staircase quickly. We sprinted across the road and when we reached Cambridge Road, Barker waved me across. I walked one side of the pavement, while he took the other. Our quarry was easy to spot because of a new silk top hat he wore that caught the late afternoon sun. The first way to convince the populace that one is a respectable doctor is to dress like one, I suppose. The problem was, I soon discovered, Dr. Fitzhugh was not as respectable as I thought he was.

Barker’s method of stalking his prey is to hang back enough to avoid being noticed, and to wait until it goes to ground. In this case, Fitzhugh turned into a brick building around the corner in North Street. Barker crossed the street as I reached the door he had entered.

“Old Sal,” Barker said. “I would not have believed it.”

“Sal?”

“Sally Forth. Not her real name, of course, her professional name. She’s an abbess.”

“Some sort of religious organization?”

“You’re being marvelously dense this evening, lad. She keeps a brothel.”

I knew such an establishment provided a constant source of temptation to men, young, old, and even married. Illicit pleasure could be sampled for just a few shillings, even less from the prostitutes of Whitechapel, but such moments of pleasure had another, higher price. Too many men, even highborn ones, had contracted diseases for which modern medical science had no cure. Young men I had known had slid into dementia and eventual death. Word of such catastrophes were discussed among youths and mentioned in vague terms by clergymen as object lessons. Despite the fact that young women in better establishments received regular examinations to verify that they were disease free, as an acquaintance once warned me, it only had to happen once.

“Shall we wait for him to come out?”

“We don’t have time to wait,” Barker said, and before I could prepare myself, he was pushing me through the front door.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” a robust, blond woman with large teeth cried, swooping down on us. Then she recognized Barker. “Oh, it’s you, Push. What in hell are you doing here? Have you come to shut me down? Because if you have, you’d better think the better of it.”

“No, Sal. I shall leave that to the Moral Purity League. I have a question or two to put to Dr. Fitzhugh.”

“He’s in the back. Last door on the right. And do go out the back way. You’ll scare off the customers!”

A painted girl clad only in bloomers and a chemise had come up and was attempting to catch my attention. I was doing my best to ignore her, despite her lack of proper clothing. When Barker gave the signal to follow, I took the opportunity to do so.

Barker and I reached the end of the corridor, and he roughly threw open a door. I came in after him and, despite our locale, was surprised at what I saw.

Fitzhugh had been engaged with a young woman wearing an outfit much like that of the girl I had seen in the hall. At our entry, he stumbled back and flushed a deep crimson, but the girl took it as a sort of joke, tying up her clothing and laughing harshly at us before leaving.

“I thought it was something like this,” Barker said, leaning against the doorframe.

“Surely you don’t think—” Fitzhugh blustered. “I don’t avail myself of these women, sir. I work here. These women must be examined and certified to be free of disease. It’s the only way I can make enough money to both live and save for my own surgery.”

“And the work at the charity?” Barker asked.

The doctor sat down on the edge of a bed. “It is to assuage the sense of guilt I feel over the work I’m forced to do. I despise this, gentlemen. I cannot put it any more plainly. I’ve been searching for a junior position with an established physician, but there are none to be had. I’ve got close to a dozen letters out at the moment. I’ve written to doctors as far away as Edinburgh, but there has been a large crop of new physicians this year.”

Fitzhugh turned to a ewer and bowl, poured water, and lathered his arms up to the elbow. It was as if he was trying to scrub his own soul.

“So you examine these women to determine if they have any disease,” Barker prompted.

“Yes. If I find anything wrong, I report it to Miss Forth and the police to make certain the girl doesn’t work. I’ve treated some with mercury, though I find it an unsatisfactory treatment in most cases and downright dangerous. The various venereal diseases are fatal, you understand.”

“And that is all you do here?” The Guv continued to push him.

Fitzhugh dropped his head and shook out his hands before taking a towel. “I suppose I should make a clean breast of it. I also issue certificates of virginity.”

Barker went as cold and immobile as I’ve ever seen him. “And how exactly does that work?”

“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.”