The Witching Hour

by Morgana Best

We walked around the back and joined the tour group, for the tour was about to start. The guide informed us that this was the best example of Palladian architecture in England. I had no idea what Palladian architecture was, so made a note to google it. I was hastily writing notes while the guide spoke.

  I was surprised to learn that it had appeared as a country hotel in Bridget Jones’ Diary and as the house in The Importance of Being Earnest. I had seen both those films several times but would be interested to see them again armed with this knowledge.

  “What a shame you missed Colin Firth,” the tour guide said.

  “When was he here?” I asked.

  “In 2002.”

  “That’s something of a miss!” a familiar voice called out.

  Everyone turned around. It was Aunty June. I was delighted to see her—Douglas, less so. He scowled at her. “What are you doing here?” he asked in a clipped manner.

  “I’m not here to interfere,” she said with a smile. “I’ll let you two young people do your own thing.”

  The tour guide then directed our attention to the well-preserved frescoes on the exterior walls in the colonnade. “Sir Francis Dashwood, whom you would know as the founder of the Hellfire Club, engaged in Bacchic revelries.”

  I elbowed Douglas. “Does that mean he was on the grog?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s Australian for being drunk, you know, drinking a lot.”

  Douglas shot me a thin smile. “No she means that Sir Francis Dashwood worshiped Bacchus, or at least followed him.”

  I scratched my head. “Bacchus, the Greek god of wine and partying, not to mention orgies?” A fleeting image of Aunt Beth eating grapes and indulging in orgies crossed my mind. Not a pleasant thought. Perhaps this was not the link I’d been looking for.

  “The very one,” Douglas continued.

  The guide pointed overhead and nodded. “Yes, in 1771 Sir Francis Dashwood had the West portico dedicated as a Bacchanalian temple.”

  Nevertheless, I was surprised to see the paintings hanging in the dining room. They were nothing like the stuffy, starched portraits which I had seen in movies hanging on the walls of English country homes; these portraits were quite cheeky. The portrait of Sir Francis closest to the door could only be described as jolly. He was wearing a turban and an ermine trimmed cloak, smiling broadly and waving. His hand held a full glass of red wine.

  The portrait clearly surprised everyone else in the tour group, as we all stood in front of it, looking up. “Typical of Sir Francis Dashwood,” the tour guide addressed us. “He was involved in several aristocratic clubs that promoted paganism as well as the pleasures of sexual freedom, and after visiting Italy a few times, developed a severe dislike for the Catholic Church. In this painting here he is toasting a statue of Venus. This portrait was painted by Knapton in 1742. Now see that painting there.” She pointed to the portrait of a woman. “That is the celebrated courtesan, Fanny Murray.”

  Just then a cold feeling went through me, and the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. I turned around and saw a black mist behind me. As I stared, horrified, the mist crystallised into human form. Dizziness threatened to overcome me, and just as I felt I was losing grip on reality, the figure floated away. I could only watch with my mouth open as the figure disappeared through the door.

  I shivered violently. No one else appeared to have noticed anything amiss, as the guide was still talking about the portraits and everyone was listening intently.

  I grabbed Aunty June’s arm and moved her away from the group. “Did you see that?”

  “What exactly?”

  “I’m not sure. It was ghost maybe, a dark form.”

  “I did feel something otherworldly,” Aunty June admitted. “That’s why I came here. I felt something was about to happen to you. Anyway, was that John Smith at the cemetery? The same John Smith from Whitehaven Island?”

  “Yes, it was!”

  “I thought so, but I didn’t want to mention him in front of Cassandra.”

  I was puzzled. “Why?”

  I couldn’t hear her response as the tour guide was now standing next to me and speaking loudly. “Lady Mary Wortley Montagu was a member of the Hellfire Club. She married John Sales, who was the first British Prime Minister born in Scotland. John Sales was another high-profile member of the Hellfire Club. Lady Mary was a writer, poet and feminist, but what is remarkable about her is that she came across the smallpox vaccine before Jenner. She was investigating the vaccine when she infiltrated the Sultan’s harem in Constantinople. The vaccine for smallpox was unknown in Europe at the time, and when she returned home she caused public controversy by advocating it.”

  “Lady Mary was ahead of her time, an amazing woman. You would have liked her,” Douglas said to me.

  “It sounds like you knew her!” I turned to Douglas, but instead of laughing, his face turned red and he looked stricken. Aunty June too shot him a surprised look.

  I had no chance to ponder this, as the guide walked past me. “The Dining Room holds portraits of members of the Divan Club. The membership was open to those who had visited the Ottoman Empire. It was founded by John Montagu and Sir Francis Dashwood. You would all know John Montagu as the Earl of Sandwich. He’s the one said to have invented the sandwich.”

  While the guide was speaking, she led us back through the entrance. “That concludes our tour of the lower part of the house. The family lives here, and the upstairs section is private. All of you, please feel free to walk around the grounds and the lake. You will see Classical architecture from Greece and Rome. You will see the beautiful Temple of Music on an island in the lake, based on the Temple of Vesta in Rome. Keep an eye out for the Temple of the Winds, an octagonal tower based on the Tower of the Winds in Athens. If you follow the path around the lake, you will come to the Temple of Flora, which is a hidden summerhouse, and the Temple of Daphne. Another hidden temple is the Round Temple, and then closer to the house, you will find the Temple of Apollo and the Temple of Diana. See that equestrian statue up there on the hill. It looks real, doesn’t it?”

  We all agreed.

  “It’s actually only fibreglass. A film crew put it here. Sir Francis Dashwood, not the original Hellfire Club Sir Francis, but the late Sir Francis, asked them to leave it here.” With that, the guide thanked us and left.

  Douglas leant forward. “You know, that last part isn’t correct. Sir Francis bought that fibreglass statue from Pinewood Studios. He only paid eleven bottles of champagne for it.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No, not that Sir Francis. I’m just interested in the Dashwoods.”

  Douglas’s statement didn’t make sense. “Which Sir Francis did you know? How many were there?” I asked.

  The tense expression was back on Douglas’s face. “What? Oh sorry, I was distracted. Let’s go to the lake. Will you excuse us?”

  Before Aunty June had a chance to respond, Douglas took me by my elbow and hurried me around the lake. We walked so fast, I felt like I’d been to the gym. I decided to come back by myself in a week or two to have a good look around. We were already back at the car when the other tourists were still about a quarter of their way around the lake.

  Douglas unlocked the car and opened the door for me. “I suggest we see the Hellfire Caves tomorrow. That’ll give you an insight into Sir Francis Dashwood. If you like, I can detour to my home on the way back. I have a portrait of Sir Francis which shows much of his character.”

  As we sped out in the direction of Oxford—judging by the roadside signs that is—I wondered what sort of house Douglas lived in. I had guessed it would be expensive; I just hadn’t realised quite how grand. I had my first idea when the Bentley stopped outside huge, solid, metal security gates. At Douglas’s touch of a control in the car, the gates opened to a curved gravel driveway winding its way between lime trees through manicured lawns and immaculate gardens. There in front of me was what an Aussie could only describe as a mansion.

/>   “Welcome to Rosebery Abbey,” Douglas said as he escorted me to the front door. “It’s a Georgian country house. It was built out of stone from the ruins of the original abbey. It’s Grade Two listed.”

  To say I was impressed would be an understatement.

  I followed Douglas past the entrance, up the stone steps and across the large, south-facing terrace. The French doors were shut but not locked, so I wondered if other occupants were in the house. The doors opened onto a large room, still illuminated by the fading afternoon sun. The beautiful marble fireplace didn’t look as if it had been alight for years, so my concerns about a gorgeous woman keeping the home fires burning for Douglas were slightly appeased.

  I love timber, so I was admiring the oak floors and the wall panelling when Douglas took me by the arm again and swung me around to face an imposing painting in a dark wooden frame with a single gold edge.

  “Here you are,” he said dramatically. “Sir Francis Dashwood by William Hogarth. This one is called Sir Francis Dashwood at his Devotions.”

  I jumped, and my jaw dropped open. Could this be an original? It looked like an original. I recognised the typical Hogarth frame. I didn’t know too much about art, but judging by Rosebery Abbey, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were an original. I wanted to ask but thought it rude so kept silent.

  “This was painted in the late 1750s and was considered scandalous at the time,” Douglas continued. “Later, Hogarth did go on to paint satire. He was deeply concerned by the political corruption of the times, but his painting of Sir Francis was considered unconventional, to say the least.”

  I tried to recall my schoolgirl Art History classes. “It looks like one of the Renaissance paintings.”

  “Yes, it’s a parody of Renaissance paintings of Saint Francis of Assisi. And see the book?”

  “I take it it’s not a Bible?”

  Douglas laughed. “You got that right. No, it’s the erotic novel Elegantiae Latini Sermonis. This painting was of course considered outrageous in its day.”

  I had no more chance to look around Douglas’s house as he steered me back to his car.

  When we pulled up at Aunt Beth’s, Douglas turned off the engine. He followed me to the front door. I unlocked the door and hesitated. “Would you like to come in?”

  “Just for a moment.” He hesitated, and then continued. “West Wycombe Park made me think of your aunt. She was so fond of the Dashwood history.”

  I wondered if I should tell Douglas that I thought Aunt Beth had been murdered, but made a snap judgment call not to. Still, I needed to get as much information out of him as I could.

  “Misty?” Douglas gently shook me by the shoulders. “Are you okay?”

  “Sure. I’m still upset about Aunt Beth. Why was she interested in the Dashwoods?”

  “She was interested in Sir Francis Dashwood and the Hellfire Club. Did you know that Beth worked as a code breaker at Bletchley Park in World War Two?”

  I was dumbfounded. “No. I don’t think anyone in the family knew. At least, no one ever told me. That’s the place they made the film about—oh, I can’t think of its name—with Kate Winslet, wasn’t it?”

  Douglas was looking out the window again, but at my question walked over to me. “Yes, the film was Enigma. Actually Bletchley Park’s not far from here. Beth was pretty much obsessed with symbols and signs. Have you found that missing page yet?”

  That made me suspicious. Why was Douglas so keen to find the page? I now was certain that Aunt Beth had been murdered for the page, and Douglas was quite clearly keen to find it. I would have to tread carefully. I thought before I answered. “No. I’ve started tidying up that messy room, but I haven’t found any loose pages.”

  “That’s a shame. Would you like me to help you look?” Without waiting for my reply, he turned to look on Aunt Beth’s bookshelves. “Have you looked through any of these?”

  His actions made me uneasy. I made mental note to move him to the top of my short list of murder suspects. Well, so far there were only two on the list, him and John Smith. “Aunt Beth’s books? No.”

  He handed me a dusty looking, leather-encased book. I read the title page aloud. “De Natura Rerum, by Paracelsus. It says the First Edition was 1572, and this book is dated 1872.”

  Douglas took the book back and sat down in a chair. I followed his cue and sat down in the one opposite. It made a horrible squeaky sound and I hoped Douglas didn’t think it was me.

  However, he seemed distracted and asked me a question. “What do you know about Ceremonial Magick? Have you ever heard of the Homunculus? Did Beth ever mention the subject?”

  “No, what does it mean? Oh, do you mean like in Full Metal Alchemist?”

  It was Douglas’s turn to look confused. “Full Metal Alchemist?”

  “Yes, it’s anime. If someone tries to revive a dead person with alchemy and fails, the dead person becomes a homunculus. It’s forbidden to revive a dead person.”

  “So in Full Metal Alchemist, a homunculus is a dead person who was revived, but not revived fully?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not really sure. I don’t know a lot about it.”

  Douglas nodded as if he understood what I was saying. I wasn’t even sure that I did. He opened the old book. “Have you heard of Paracelsus, the author of this book?”

  I shrugged. “I only know he was some ancient dude.”

  Douglas nodded again. “A Swiss chemist, to be exact. In this book Paracelsus said alchemists could make an artificial person. To make one, you need to use alchemy, then you seal the stuff in a glass bottle, and then place it in horse manure for forty days.”

  I thought that was funny, and burst into a fit of laughter. I tried to stop, but that just made my semi-hysterical laughter worse. The fact that Douglas seemed deadly serious didn’t help. I managed to get out the words jet lag followed by stress and Douglas merely nodded. When I got myself under control, he continued.

  “After forty days, it will begin to live and move. Then you have to feed it for forty weeks with the elixir, a potion, of human blood. Paracelsus says that will produce a living child who looks just like any normal human child.”

  I had taken few deep breaths, so was now able to speak. “Well that’s all very interesting, but what does this have to do with Aunt Beth’s missing page?”

  “Rest assured, I’m getting to that! Have you ever heard of Aleister Crowley?”

  I gathered my thoughts. “Yes, I recently did an article for the magazine on him. Fascinating man. Early twentieth century English occultist and famous for Ceremonial Magick and all that.”

  “Quite so. Have you heard of his novel, Moonchild?”

  I shook my head. “A novel? No, not that I remember.”

  Douglas crossed his arms. “Crowley gave instructions for the creation of the homunculus in the book. He wrote a lengthy ritual for making one.”

  At this point, Douglas stood up and walked to the window. I wondered whether I should also look out the window to see what he was looking at, but just when I decided I should, he returned to his chair and sat down. I was beginning to zone out and I was having a bit of trouble staying awake.

  “What’s interesting, in the 1940s, Jack Parsons, the head of Crowley’s temple in California, actually carried out this ritual. Crowley found out and was furious.”

  That got my interest. “What happened?”

  “Well, no child was born, but he believed that a spiritual force was unleashed.”

  “You’d be good on trivia nights.”

  Douglas chuckled. “I would be. Parsons was also a rocket-fuel scientist, and his main partner in trying to make an artificial person was L. Ron Hubbard, later the founder of Scientology. How’s that?”

  “I’m impressed!” I actually was.

  “Yes, but do you want to know what the homunculus has to do with the missing page?”

  I sure did. I hoped he wasn’t going to say that Aunt Beth had anything to do with all this. I tried to keep my ton
e even and not sound too eager. “Yes, what does it have to do with it?”

  “How about I bore you with just one more story?”

  I nodded politely.

  “Do you know what a golem is?”

  “I’ve heard of golems, but don’t know much about them.”

  “Golems were believed to be something that was made into a living creature, out of say, a lump of clay.” Douglas paused. “Misty, you’ll have trouble believing what I’m about to tell you now, and I have to ask you to keep this in strict secrecy and don’t even think of writing about it for your magazine.”

  I nodded again, wondering what was coming next.

  “Your Aunt Beth was in, well, I suppose you could say, a secret society.”

  I was taken aback. “Are you serious? Like, what, the Skull and Bones? Or the Illuminati?”

  Douglas did not look amused. “Exactly. She was in a society of alchemists.”

  I gasped. “You’re kidding! Aunt Beth wanted to turn metal into gold, and make people out of clay?”

  Douglas shot me a look of disapproval. “No, of course not. Think of the Rosicrucians or the Order of the Golden Dawn. Beth was in a similar organisation, but one which knew the secret of long life. Well, not to be coy, Beth was one of a group which studied the ways to prolong human life, to rejuvenate.”

  “Like vampires?” I felt another fit of laughter coming on again.

  “Misty, I’m perfectly serious! I know it’s a lot to take in,” he said.

  “But I saw Aunt Beth! She was, well, old.”

  Douglas frowned at me. “Misty, not everyone in the group used the procedure on themselves. Are you sure Beth didn’t say anything to you, anything at all?”

  I thought hard, but this was all too much to take in. “I don’t think so.”

  “That’s unusual. Membership is hereditary. If your great-grandmother hadn’t taken your grandmother to Australia, she might well have been involved too. I know she was considerably younger than Beth.”

  I thought about it. “Yes, Beth wanted to stay behind and as she was twenty two, my great-grandparents didn’t pressure her to emigrate.”

  “There would have been more to it, Misty. By then Beth would already have been an active member of the society.”