by J. F. Penn
They were silent for a moment as they continued to scan the densely packed walls of information.
“I think you should look at this,” Blake said.
Jamie turned to look at the montage, the word Lyceum scrawled in the center of the mass in Jenna’s looped handwriting. The images circling it were cut from old newspapers and magazines, others printed from the internet. They showed bacchanalian scenes of orgies and feasting, sacrificing to the Devil, sex on altars and then in one, a corpse being cut up and dissected as figures copulated around it, faces distorted by lust. A chill crept over Jamie’s skin.
“What is this?” she said, a frown creasing her brow as she bent closer to examine the pictures, trying to work out what they were about.
“Look here,” Blake said. “It says that the Hellfire Club had its headquarters in caves under the hills of West Wycombe. This picture shows a map of the cave system and Jenna’s research seems to point to this as the meeting place for the Lyceum.”
Jamie looked confused. “I’m sure I’ve heard of the Hellfire Club before.”
“It’s infamous,” Blake said. “It’s been in lots of films and books, but it was actually a real club. Back in the eighteenth century, it was established by Sir Francis Dashwood under the motto ‘Fais ce que tu voudras’ or ‘Do what you want’ and history is rife with rumors of what they did down there in the dark, beyond the reach of the law.”
Jamie looked at one image, a man carving his own heart from his chest and offering it to a laughing figure, who bent with jaws open to bite into it.
“If they met in the caves back then, maybe they still do now. So who owns it?”
She turned and bent to the safe again, removing the title deed to look at it more closely. It was registered to the Neville Foundation, one of the many holding companies of the Nevilles.
“I still don’t know what’s going on,” Jamie said, rubbing her eyes. “But clearly Jenna linked the Lyceum to this location and her family. Maybe she challenged them about it. Maybe she threatened to expose them.”
“And that may have been what got her killed,” Blake said, turning to her. He was so close inside the unit and as he looked down at Jamie, his blue eyes showed deep concern. Jamie felt the weariness of the last twenty-four hours pressing upon her, the emotional exhaustion and the edge of physical collapse. All she wanted to do was lean into his strength and wait for him to put his arms around her. She could sense an attraction between them, even in these desperate times, despite her overwhelming need to find Polly.
Jamie bit her lip, the stab of pain helping her to refocus.
“According to Jenna’s diary, the Lyceum meets tonight.”
There was a beat of silence.
“You want to go, don’t you?” Blake said finally. Jamie didn’t respond, staring at the images in front of her. “But I think it’s time to let your friends in the police deal with this.”
She looked at her watch.
“There’s no time,” she whispered.
Blake took her hands in his gloved ones, spinning her towards him.
“No, it’s too dangerous. You can’t go. Think of your daughter. She wouldn’t want you to put yourself in danger like this.”
Jamie snatched her hands away.
“I am thinking of Polly,” she shouted, tears spilling from her eyes. “I’m only thinking of her.”
Blake turned and banged his fist on the wall, the metallic sound echoing through the empty corridors. His face betrayed his frustration and Jamie was surprised at his vehemence, but she also felt a flicker of gratitude that he cared enough to protest.
“I need to call this in,” she said. “So the police team can get round here and follow the new leads. But I know they won’t be fast enough to get to the Lyceum tonight. There’s too much information to process. I have to go myself.”
“I’ll come with you, then,” Blake said, his eyes pleading.
Jamie sighed. “Thank you for your support, seriously. But I need to do this alone.”
“You don’t have to do everything alone, Jamie.” He took a step closer to her. “Taking the world onto your shoulders will only crush you unless you let people help … people who care.”
At another time, Jamie knew that she would have leaned into his embrace, but she felt her resolve would crack if he touched her. The deep grief she was barely holding in check would break over them both and she would never stop crying. She had to keep it together, and being alone was the only way.
She stepped back, her face stony and her voice cold.
“I’m a police officer, Blake. This is my job and I know what I’m doing. You wouldn’t be of any use.”
He looked at her and she held his gaze, unflinching.
“Fine.” Blake’s voice was curt, his jaw tight with emotion. Jamie almost begged him to stay, craving his strength and support. Instead, she turned to look at the wall again, studying the images there without seeing. “I’ll leave you to it then.”
Blake walked out of the lockup and took a few steps down the corridor, then stopped. Jamie thought he was going to turn and say something. Perhaps that’s all it would take to break her resolve. But then he walked on, without looking back.
When his footsteps had faded to nothing, Jamie took a deep breath and put her thoughts of Blake aside. She used her smart phone to carefully photograph the evidence that Jenna had collected: the title deed, the photos of key suspects and some of the newspaper cuttings. Jamie was convinced that Cameron or someone at the department was trying to frame Day-Conti, but this evidence would surely get him released and the investigation refocused on the Nevilles.
She called Missinghall, knowing that she couldn’t direct this to Cameron in case he really was involved with the Nevilles. The phone rang three times before he picked up.
“Jamie, are you OK? I heard about the theft of your daughter’s body. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks Al, I think it’s related to the Jenna Neville case, but I need you to keep that quiet for now.”
A beat of silence as her words sunk in. “Sure, but shouldn’t you be resting or something? This is a difficult time for you, Jamie.”
“I have to work, Al, there’s no time for me to wait around, and I’ve found new evidence you need to get the team onto.”
“Are you at the scene? I’ll come over right now. Shit. How are we going to handle this?”
“Nothing to handle,” Jamie said. “I’ll text you the address and you get started.”
“Won’t you be there when we arrive?”
She was silent.
“Jamie? Where are you going? Seriously, what are you up to?”
Jamie knew her actions were reckless, crazy, but mostly she didn’t care anymore. She had nothing more to lose.
“I can’t tell you yet Al, but I’ll call it in when I can.”
“Then at least be careful, and let me know if I can help.”
“Later, then,” Jamie said and ended the call.
With some cleaning materials she found down the hallway, Jamie wiped any fingerprints from the key so that O and Blake’s involvement couldn’t be traced. She knew it was tampering with evidence but with her suspicions of Cameron, she couldn’t have them under suspicion and her actions were for a greater good. She placed the key on top of the safe and then left the lockup, telling the manager on the way out that her team would be coming along later that day.
Chapter 21
As Jamie traveled West along the motorway out of London, she felt a sense of purpose again, as if by moving she could outrun the pain of Polly’s loss. She had briefly gone home to shower, change and pack a small rucksack, expecting to be away for the night and in need of a torch and other gear for investigating further. She had also downed another coffee and taken several more ephedrine tablets. Jamie felt the beginnings of shakiness from the sleep deprivation and the pills, but she was also running on a kind of nervous energy that fueled her need to go on. She couldn’t rest until this was over.
The M40 motorw
ay was busy, but her bike helped her to navigate the snarls in traffic, and soon Jamie reached the turnoff for High Wycombe. Dominated by industrial warehouses, there was still evidence of the medieval market town amongst the concrete modernity. As Jamie rode through the outskirts, she caught sight of the Neville Pharmaceuticals logo on some of the warehouse buildings: they were one of the biggest employers in the area.
She continued out of the town towards the village of West Wycombe in the Chilterns, and even this close to the motorway the English countryside welcomed her. Jamie rode under a great canopy of beechwood trees, grey-green trunks stretching high, bare branches reaching to the sky forming a guard of honor. A cool winter sun dappled patches on the road and Jamie felt a touch of its rays like a blessing.
As she entered the village of West Wycombe, Jamie realized that the Hellfire Caves were now a popular tourist attraction, and her hopes sank as she realized the Lyceum couldn’t possibly meet somewhere so public. Parking the bike, she walked up to the entranceway of the caves. It was designed as a Gothic church, with tall arched windows revealing the wooded forest behind, a cathedral revering nature. Jamie hesitated at the entrance, then decided to take a tour anyway. If there was nothing here, she would have to revisit all of the evidence in the photos but why else would Jenna have the title deeds in the safe? This location had to be important.
As she stood waiting for the tour, cold air seeped into Jamie’s bones, sapping her energy further. She shivered. Was this just a wild goose chase? Right now, the only clues she had that could lead to Polly pointed at these caves. There must be something down here that would help her with the next steps.
A guide gathered a group of woolen-wrapped tourists together and Jamie joined them.
“Welcome to the Hellfire Caves,” the guide said. “Originally of ancient origin, these caves were extended in the 1740s by Sir Francis Dashwood. They were dug by villagers in need of employment and you can still see the pick axe marks on the walls. Here’s your maps.” She handed out a page. “You won’t get lost, just follow the guide ropes and it’s well lit. But watch out for the ghosts.” She smiled, trying to inject some enthusiasm into her voice but Jamie caught an edge of boredom there. Another day, another tourist. Our lives are so dominated by minutiae, Jamie reflected, the day to day, never-ending grind. She could understand the attraction of something secret and exclusive, where people felt special and chosen. Membership of such societies was common across all cultures, but more so amongst the rich and powerful with time and money to spare. The Freemasons, and indeed, the Hellfire Club, had counted some of the most senior British aristocrats and statesmen of the time as members.
Jamie looked down at the little map, and waited until the rest of the group had gone in before she entered. She wanted to sense how the place felt without others around and she couldn’t cope with the noise of tourists intruding into her thoughts. Part of her was breaking inside, desperate to hold Polly’s body in her arms again, but she had to assume the mantle of the detective and focus on being objective.
She stepped inside the entranceway and began to walk down the slight incline, the ground hard under her feet. The temperature was warmer in the caves as they retained the heat and in the winter were more comfortable than the air outside. A straight entrance tunnel led to a small cave, stacked with tools similar to those used by the eighteenth century workers. Jamie looked at the picks and crowbars, wondering whether they might have seen violence beyond digging in the caves.
Walking on into Paul Whitehead’s chamber, Jamie read the notes next to the grand urn and bust of the man. A steward of the Hellfire Club, Whitehead had left his heart to Sir Francis Dashwood. A mental image of the dying man suddenly came to Jamie, Whitehead’s chest cracked open so his still pulsing heart could be ripped from his body. She shook her head. Where did these thoughts come from? She shivered, realizing that the temperature in the caves had dropped as she descended. Reading on, she noted that Whitehead’s ghost was thought to watch over the caves, remaining with the desiccated relic of his heart. The man had protected the club in life, even burning papers containing evidence that might have revealed the Hellfire activities just before he died.
Walking deeper into the caves, Jamie entered Franklin’s Cave. The American Founding Father and polymath, Benjamin Franklin, had been a great admirer of Dashwood and his diaries revealed that he had visited the caves, although not as an official member of the Club. Further on was the Banqueting Hall, forty feet in diameter with statues of classical figures in chalk niches. In between the wider caverns, tunnels were shaped into beautiful Gothic arches, giving the impression of an underground castle. There were dark portals off the side of the main corridor, shut off with rope and No Entry signs. Jamie decided to check further into one, but just beyond the light of the lamp, the tunnel had a metal gate, heavily reinforced and locked. Jamie shook the bars, testing their strength, wondering what was in the caves beyond her sight. What went on here after dark when the tourists left?
Navigating the tunnels hacked into the chalk, Jamie finally reached a small waterway that ran through the caves. It was studded with stalactites that hung from the ceiling, twisted shapes dripping stagnant water into a stream. Named the River Styx, it represented the boundary between the living and the dead in ancient Greek mythology, where the wrathful drowned each other for eternity in Dante’s Hell. It could only be crossed by paying the ferryman with coins that were laid on the eyes of the dead. At the end of the channel was the Cursing Well, where a strange mist hung over a pool, like the fetid breath of slimy creatures dwelling in the shadows. The lights flickered and Jamie felt her pulse race. She felt as if she was being watched, as if footsteps followed her into the bowels of the cave system. She looked behind her. There was no one, but she was suddenly eager to get out of the eerie cavern.
Crossing the waters quickly, Jamie emerged into the Inner Temple, where the Hellfire Club had allegedly met for celebrations of debauchery and Satanic ritual. She read that the layout of the caves was claimed by some to correspond almost exactly to the sexual organs of a woman being penetrated by a man. Given the reputation of the Hellfire Club, it seemed entirely possible that fertility rituals had been performed or that the design at least reflected the activities that went on down here beneath the earth. But were those depravities still happening today?
From the ceiling hung a great hook, presumably for a chandelier. But as Jamie glanced at it, she imagined a body hanging there, suspended above the table, tortured in front of those seated below, their eyes shining with delight. She looked away and noticed stains on the floor, as if pools of blood were seeping from the ground beneath. She blinked quickly and the vision was gone. Jamie rubbed her forehead. It must be lack of sleep, for why else would her mind play these tricks? Her imagination was clearly affected by the dissections of the Hunterian and her concerns about Polly. There was nothing here to suggest that the caves were used for anything other than tourism. They sometimes had ghost tours in here at night, but other than that the place closed at dusk. But Jenna Neville has been convinced this area was important for the Lyceum, so there must be more to it than just the official sanitized version that the public got to see.
Returning to the entrance, Jamie bought a guidebook to West Wycombe and went to a local pub to read while she ate a quick meal. Inside one of the Appendices she found a copy of a poem that referred to a secret passage running from the church of St Lawrence, intersecting at the River Styx directly below the altar. Eating without tasting, Jamie pulled up the photo of the title deed Jenna had found. The land included Hearnton Wood and the area surrounding the church of St Lawrence, so Jamie decided to head up there next.
As she was reading, her phone buzzed with a text from Missinghall.
Lockup discovery sparked a mad scramble on evidence. Day-Conti released from custody. Be careful, whatever you’re doing. Let me know if you need help.
Jamie felt the ghost of a smile on her lips at his words. Missinghall was a decent man
, a good officer and she felt lucky to have someone who cared enough to watch her back. She had pushed people away for so long, protecting her precious time with Polly, but now she realized how alone that left her. She looked at her watch. It was time to finish this and the church was the next logical place to investigate.
The church of St Lawrence was on the summit of West Wycombe Hill, visible from the village below. It was a brisk walk up the steep slope and Jamie found herself breathing heavily, but she pushed upwards, the pain in her legs and lungs a welcome distraction. At the top, she stood to catch her breath, gazing at the odd building behind the Dashwood mausoleum. Originally an Iron Age fort, the medieval church had been built in the fourteenth century, but little of the original structure remained. It had been radically remodeled by Sir Francis Dashwood in 1752, pieces of the new stuck onto the old, with no aesthetic sense of retaining the medieval beauty.
On top of the tall Gothic tower was a shining gold orb that caught the last of the winter sun, a copy of the Golden Ball from the custom house at Venice. Ivy climbed the walls of the mottled stone as if nature was trying to reclaim the land, but Jamie still found the church a little crass, the simplicity of faith perverted into a glorification of the Dashwood name.
The churchyard was dominated by white crosses and the tombs of the aristocrats who had been buried here over the centuries. Jamie paused at the lych-gate and then walked slowly through the graves thinking of Polly. Somehow the lichen-covered tombstones comforted her, for death is our constant companion, walking alongside us through life. It edges closer over the years until it is all that supports us and we long to relax into its final embrace. Polly was beyond pain now, and all Jamie wanted to do was find her and let her ashes rest beneath the carpet of earth, bringing new flowers to life.
Jamie entered the church, her eyes drawn to a central panel, richly frescoed in the style of the Italian Renaissance. The walls were a mustard color with deep red columns topped by Corinthian capitals, supporting a coffered ceiling decorated with a floral pattern. Jamie walked to the altar, looking for some secret passageway or hint of Satanic ritual, but disappointment soon rose within her. Once again, there was nothing here that suggested anything untoward. It was just a slightly odd parish church with little tourist appeal. She left the church and walked back out into the churchyard. What was she missing? Jamie sensed the truth was just out of reach, but she was sure that Jenna had been killed because of the knowledge she had discovered about the Lyceum. There must be something here.
