by Morgana Best
I drew a deep breath. “Okay, his name’s John Smith and he says that people would kill to get the missing page. He says that those arcane symbols you told me about were on Paul Whitehead’s urn, but the urn was stolen hundreds of years ago, and that you are in the Black Lodge. He said you want the page for the Black Lodge.” I stopped to study Douglas’s reaction.
Douglas had lost his composure once again, and he looked furious. “I know the name John Smith, and it’s just one of the names he uses, by the way. John Smith is one of the leaders of the Black Lodge. He also goes by the name of Jacob Westcott.”
I didn’t know whether to be concerned for my safety. However, I hadn’t lost my common sense.
“Look, Douglas, I’m a journalist, a researcher. I know how to sift through evidence. You say John is in the Black Lodge and out to harm me, and John says you are in the Black Lodge and out to harm me. I don’t have any evidence either way as to which one of you is telling the truth.”
To my surprise, Douglas simply laughed. For some reason he was back to his usual self. “Fair enough. Note that I didn’t say you were in danger from him. I doubt he’s dangerous.” He chuckled. “The Black Lodge likes to play at being a secret society, but I doubt they’ve ever harmed anyone. They’d love to get the page, but they’ve always been all talk. But, Misty, please don’t let him into the house again, and keep away from him, just to be on the safe side.”
I didn’t necessarily believe Douglas, but I nodded.
Within half an hour, we were driving to Marlow. I fell in love with Marlow at first sight. Picturesque and charming, it was everything I had imagined an English town would be.
Douglas pulled into the large parking area behind a beautiful, large park adjoining the Thames. There was a huge statue of a rower. Clearly the English take their rowing seriously. The Thames River was filled with colourful wooden saloon launches and rowing boats.
We sat in a tea room which I figured was the equivalent of a coffee shop back home. It was extremely cute and very English. Douglas had suggested we stop for tea and cake before proceeding the three miles up the road to Medmenham, so he could fill me on the details.
As soon as our order was taken, Douglas handed me yet another leather bound book. “This one’s in poor condition, I’m afraid. Be careful. The head and tail of the spine are softened and frayed, and the hinge is cracked. That’s a shame considering it’s only 1885.”
He searched for a section, and then handed it over. The title was Dickens’s Dictionary of the Thames. I looked at the top of the page and saw that it started in mid sentence. I didn’t want to read what was on the previous page considering the delicate state of the book.
It said that the Monks of Medmenham, who were sometimes referred to as the Hellfire Club, lived at a time when drunkenness was considered to be a gentlemanly virtue. It also said that their motto was Fay ce que voudras.
I looked up from the page. “Fay ce que voudras. I did French as a schoolgirl, but can’t remember any now.”
“It’s the older English spelling, but it sounds the same,” Douglas said. “You would recognise it as Fais ce que tu voudras.”
No, I wouldn’t, but I didn’t want to admit it.
Douglas continued. “Yes, the motto means, Do what thou wilt. It was the club motto of the Order of the Friars of St. Francis of Wycombe, otherwise known as the Hellfire Club.”
I was surprised by this. “I thought that expression was invented by Aleister Crowley?”
Douglas shook his head vehemently. “No, no, no. Crowley came much later. The saying first appeared in the writing of François Rabelais, who lived two hundred years before Sir Francis Dashwood and four hundred years before Crowley. Rabelais was a French satirist known for the four novels known as Gargantua and Pantagruel.”
Our tea and cakes arrived. I had chosen Yorkshire tea and it was delicious, in fact, the nicest tea I have ever tasted. I’m not into tea, but this was absolutely excellent, tasty tea.
Douglas pulled out another book and I hastily moved my tea aside. Douglas laughed. “This is just a modern copy of the first book of Gargantua and Pantagruel, worthless. Here’s a description of how the monks at the Abbey lived. Tell me if it sounds familiar.” Again, Douglas thumbed through and selected the page for me.
I read that they had no rules and basically did whatever they liked. Their one rule was: Do What Thou Wilt.
I was fascinated. “It reminds me of Sir Francis. It seems to me then that Sir Francis based the Hellfire Club on this. So Crowley got it from Sir Francis Dashwood? Or Rabelais?”
Douglas shrugged. “Either or both. Even earlier, you will find several references in the Bible.”
This was getting more and more interesting by the minute. “What, you’re not saying that there are references in the Bible?”
Douglas nodded again. “I mean the word translated will appears in the New Testament. Look up the word thelema for yourself. You’ll need a concordance, because most translations translate thelema with the English word will which is a little too simplistic. Anyway, it looks like a storm is brewing so we’d better head off to Medmenham.”
He lowered his voice. “Misty, the English are not used to people being so animated in a tea room. I suggest you keep your hand gestures to a minimum in such environments.”
It took us no time at all to reach Medmenham. That was just as well, as I was furious with Douglas for that comment and furious with myself for not being quick-witted enough to come up with a snappy, cutting response.
We turned into the tree-lined Ferry Lane, and Douglas drove the short distance down to the Thames. “As you would have figured by the name, this is where the ferry used to go, but now it’s a public slipway for all boats.”
I was taken by the English road sign. In Australia, international tourists are often amused by road signs showing profiles of kangaroos or wombats, or even ‘Koala Crossing’ signs, and I in turn was amused by the English road sign at the end of Ferry Lane. It showed a car falling off a road into water. I took a photo for my article.
We walked back up the lane and came to a set of ornate and high iron gates. I peered through, but couldn’t see the Abbey.
“We have to drive right back around to see the Abbey. You can only see it from the other side of the Thames these days, or of course, from a boat,” Douglas said. “The Abbey was in ruins for years but now it’s been made into luxury residences, and as you can see, it’s a gated community. In the thirteenth century it was the home of the Cistercian monks. They were vegans who dressed in sacks, and had taken the oath of silence. They spent all day praying and working.”
I couldn’t think of any worse possible lifestyle. Just the thought of dressing in sacks and not speaking filled me with horror. I peered through the gates for some time, hoping to glimpse a view of the Abbey, until Douglas ushered me back to his car. We drove around the other side of the Thames, and drove up and down, but the road was too far from the river. I spotted a towpath and pointed it out to Douglas.
“No, Misty, it looks like rain. Let’s go back.” Douglas sounded terse.
I gave up trying to convince him and agreed that we would drive back to Ferry Lane. We drove to the end of the lane and I hopped out, and then walked into the undergrowth off to the right. I figured we should be able to see the Abbey from the slipway. I could make it out, although my view was not as good as it would have been had we been in a boat or on the towpath. The remains of the Abbey could be seen on the far right, and the rest looked to me to be a new addition of luxury accommodation.
I leant out over the Thames while Douglas spurted out facts. “When Sir Francis took over the Abbey, there wasn’t much left of it, just a few broken statues, and a few columns and some walls. In the late 1500s, the then owners added a large brick building and used stone taken out of the ruins. Sir Francis did renovations. He’d already brought over an Italian painter, so used him to paint magnificent frescoes on the ceilings.”
I wasn’t listening, b
ut murmured, “Ah.” I hoped it wouldn’t encourage Douglas to go on. To my dismay, he did.
“Forty prints of the kings of England were hung around the walls of the chapter-room, but a piece of paper was stuck over Henry VIII’s face to demonstrate their disapproval of him on the basis that he destroyed monasteries. There was a bookcase against the wall, and the very books are today in the library at West Wycombe. Remember we were taking about Rabelais back in the tea room?”
“Yes.” I had zoned out. I was taking photos with my iPhone and couldn’t seem to get a decent shot.
“One of the books on the bookcase was by Rabelais, which is to be expected. These days you’ll read that the motto Fay ce que voudras was written over the archway to the entrance to Medmenham Abbey, but what most books don’t tell you is that the motto was written over all the fireplaces as well. A statue of Harpocrates, the Egyptian god of silence, stood at the end of the room. Remember I told you that Aleister Crowley said a being called Aiwass contacted him and dictated The Book of the Law?”
“Yes.” I turned back to Douglas and checked the photos I’d taken.
“Aiwass was said to be a minister of Harpocrates.”
Finally, something interesting. “Ah, so yet another connection to Crowley.”
“Yes, and at the other end was a statue of Angerona, the Roman goddess of silence. This was to impress on both male and female members that they were bound by the oath of secrecy.”
We were still standing on the bank of the Thames facing Medmenham Abbey.
“So, are you bound to an oath of silence?” I asked him.
His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“The secret society.”
“Oh that.” He shifted from one foot to another. “To a degree, I suppose.”
Douglas turned around to leave and I walked with him back up the lane towards his car. Another car came around the corner. It passed us and continued down to the Thames.
I didn’t think anything of it until I heard an engine accelerate behind me. Douglas grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the way. I felt the car as it whizzed past me. The next thing I knew, I was lying on the grass with Douglas next to me.
“Thank you, thank you,” I stammered.
Douglas took my hand and pulled me to my feet. “That was a close call,” he said. “A shame we didn’t get the plates.”
“You saved my life!”
Douglas shook his head. “I don’t think they were trying to kill you.”
“Surely they were,” I protested. “You saw them! That car drove past us down to the lane, did a U-turn, and then accelerated right at me. That can’t have been an error—that had to be deliberate.”
Douglas nodded solemnly. “Yes, it was deliberate, but I don’t think they were trying to kill you.”
I frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“That was a warning,” Douglas said. “I’m sure of it. It was a warning that you need to find the missing page. If you don’t, I might not be around the next time, and the next time might not be simply a warning.”
Chapter 12
The doorbell sounded the following morning before I’d had a chance to have my first coffee. I was still shaken by the events of the previous day. I had called Aunty June and sent several texts, with no response.
John Smith was standing at the door. “I would have called, but I don’t have your phone number. Do you have plans for the day?”
As a matter of fact, I didn’t, and said so. I needed a car and I had to solve Aunt Beth’s murder.
John was still speaking. “Have you visited all the sites you needed to see for your articles?”
I thought it over, and wondered why John was here. Was he in fact in the secret society that Douglas had said he was in, and was he hoping to keep an eye on me? Well, if he was, I could still use him for transport and interrogate him at the same time. I needed to find out who killed Aunt Beth, and I wasn’t making much progress. Having made that resolve, I said, “The main two places I still have to see are the Dashwood church and the Mausoleum.”
“St. Lawrence’s Church? That’s easy. It’s right next to the Mausoleum. When would suit you? That’s if you’d like to come with me, of course.”
I tried to sound not too eager. I found John attractive, but I had not known him long and under less than auspicious circumstances. I didn’t want to behave like a smitten heroine from one those novels Cordelia was always reading. Besides, I didn’t have superpowers. “Yes, thank you. I’m ready now. Would you mind if we stopped for coffee on the way?”
I was glad for a moment that the nightmares, and Merlin objecting to me rolling over, had woken me up early. I was already showered and dressed so didn’t look like one of the scary monsters that sometimes appeared in my magazine. Usually, my primary endeavour in the morning is to have my first cup of coffee.
“I’ll run in and get you one at West Wycombe on the way. My treat.”
The rest was a blur until my caffeine levels were up to the minimum daily requirement, and that was fulfilled while driving the half mile up the hill past the caves to the Church. John parked the car and we walked through the cemetery looking at the tombstones. Some were ancient, some were modern.
I took out my iPhone and took a few photos. “John, do you know much about the church? I know it’s directly over the Hellfire Caves.”
John nodded. “There used to be an old Norman tower here, and that in turn was built just inside the West Wycombe Camp, which was an Iron Age fortification.”
I pointed to the tower on top of the church. “I read about that golden ball. Did Dashwood put that there when he built the church?”
John nodded again. “Dashwood actually rebuilt the church and remodelled it. He fashioned the tower on the customs house in Venice, then had that golden ball put on top. Several people can fit inside it. It’s bigger than it looks from down here.”
I thought it looked pretty big. “Who is St. Lawrence?”
John chuckled. “One of the false stories spread around is that St. Lawrence is the patron saint of prostitutes.”
I laughed. “Well, it’d make sense. I was surprised that Sir Francis would have built an actual genuine church.”
“Another story is that a lot of churches built on known pagan sites were given that name.”
We walked up to the front door and tried it. It was locked. A sign noted the service times, so I decided to come back for an actual service and look inside. “Oh, John, do you know anything about ghosts in the Hellfire Caves?”
He shrugged. “Sure, there are supposed to be two. There’ve been quite a few reported sightings of a young woman in a white dress at both the Hellfire Caves and at the George and Dragon pub, and the general opinion is that she’s the ghost of a barmaid by the name of Sukie.”
“Hang on a moment.” I got out my notepad and pen to make notes. I waved at John to continue.
“The story goes that Sukie fell in love with a rich gentleman. The local lads decided to play a practical joke on her, so wrote her a note pretending to be from the gentleman and asking her to meet him in the secret tunnel that runs from the pub to the caves. The note asked her to dress in a wedding dress. Sukie turned up dressed in a white dress and discovered that it was all a joke at her expense. She threw a rock at the lads, but one threw a rock back, hitting her in the head. The lads were upset and took her back to the George and Dragon pub, but she died that night. Actually, there is no evidence for this legend, so the ghost dressed in white could be anyone.”
I finished scrawling and looked up. I hoped I would be able to understand my own handwriting. “Who was the other ghost?”
“Your old friend Paul Whitehead.”
A chill ran right through my body. I shuddered. It seemed as if the temperature had dropped by at least ten degrees. At that moment I knew without a doubt that Paul Whitehead was my ghost, the one who had been appearing to me in my dreams, and breathing in my ear. Don’t ask me how. I just knew. I shivered a
gain.
John hadn’t noticed and was walking behind the church. “Come on, Misty! Let’s check out the Mausoleum.”
Now that I turned my full attention to the Mausoleum, I wasn’t prepared for its massive size. Hexagonal, and made of flint like the church, the Mausoleum was large enough to encompass several substantial houses. It towered above me. Sadly, the iron gates were locked, but I had a wonderful view of the inside through the bars. “John, it’s so tall!”
“It’s actually based on the Arch of Constantine in Rome.” He paused and looked at me. “Ready for lunch?”
I hoped he hadn’t said that just because my stomach had growled loudly.
We had made inconsequential small talk on the way to the restaurant, which was in Bray, not far from Marlowe. I was jittery. I had no idea of John’s motives. He was treating me as if I were a friend, a colleague.
I had spent the meal so far looking around at the posh restaurant’s other patrons, and wondering if any had been sent by the Black Lodge. I figured my scrutiny did not appear overt, as my back was to one wall and the patrons were in front of me, in my direct view of the uber-stylish and sleek, wall-mounted aquarium. I dragged my gaze away from a man dining alone—who dines alone at a place like this?—and across the elegant table settings. My mind made an unexpected digression to wonder whether the fish were freshwater or saltwater.
I had never been to such a restaurant before, not on my salary. I imagined that at night it was an intimate dining room with sumptuous surroundings and flickering candles, the height of classic style and yet with a tranquil atmosphere. Today, at midday, it was a place where business people had gathered to eat lunch. The combination of diffused lighting and soft music should have been relaxing, but for some reason it set my nerves on edge. I was someone who liked to put things in boxes, all neat and sorted. Why was I here? Why was John acting as tour guide?
I had eaten two desserts instead of a main and a dessert. I had quickly polished off the Yoghurt Sphere capped with Apple Brunoise on Mint Sorbet, and was now scoffing down the Pear and Strawberry Cannoli with Ginger Jelly on a bed of Macadamia Milk Ice Cream.
