by Morgana Best
“Are you a clone?”
Jamie looked startled. It might have been the tea as he had just taken a mouthful. “Sorry?”
“You and Douglas. You both sort of look the same. You both keep asking me if I’ve heard of someone.”
“That was the first time I asked you if you had heard of someone.”
I hate it when men are logical. I couldn’t think of a lucid reply, so just waved my hand at him in an attempt to make him continue.
“Paul Whitehead…”
I cut him off. “Oh yes, I know about him. The cave at the Hellfire Caves, the was called Paul Whitehead’s Cave, had a figure of him and an urn.” I at once blushed right down to my toes, wishing I hadn’t mentioned the caves at all.
Jamie ignored my obvious embarrassment and pressed on. “Yes, Paul Whitehead was a satirist and poet. He was a close friend of Sir Francis Dashwood and a member of the Order of the Friars of St. Francis of Wycombe. Whitehead’s wrongful reputation as simply a minor poet probably comes from Churchill’s slander of his character.”
I laughed in spite of myself. “Really, you are a clone. You and Douglas are both walking Googles. I’ve never heard so many catalogues of facts.” I forced down another mouthful of Lapsang Souchong.
Jamie didn’t appear to see the funny side at all. “Whitehead was a very important man. Probably not a soul knew more secrets than he did about political figures of the time. He knew secrets about future American, English, and European leaders. He was the only one to keep records of Dashwood’s and the Order’s activities, and he kept them in a single book.”
I nodded, and Jamie continued. “The reason I’m telling you about him is his urn. He died in 1774. Seven days before his death, a messenger arrived at his house with a letter. Four days later, he ordered his servants to build a huge bonfire on the grounds. He piled all his books and papers onto it for the next seventy six hours. After the final paper burned, he went to his bed and was dead six hours later.”
I wondered if there had been a strong smell of garlic in his bedroom. “Was he murdered or did he kill himself?”
Jamie shrugged. “History tells us that his will instructed that his heart was to be given to Sir Francis Dashwood and put in an urn. He left fifty pounds in his will for the urn’s purchase. Sir Francis Dashwood carried out his wishes and put Whitehead’s heart in the urn in the mausoleum. What history doesn’t tell us is that the fifty pounds was a cover story. The urn was already in the possession of Sir Francis Dashwood and was inscribed with a particular set of arcane symbols.”
“But Jamie, I saw the urn today. The sign said it was the original urn.”
“No, it’s not. It’s said that an Australian soldier stole the heart, but what was actually stolen was the urn. After the theft, the Order put a similar looking urn in its place. There is a painting—you can find it on the net—which clearly shows the original urn and the inscription on it. That is, you can see the inscription in the painting, but it’s not detailed enough to make out what it says. Despite rumors that the original urn is now at West Wycombe Park, in fact it’s never come to light. Misty, I don’t want to frighten you, but there are people who will kill to get those symbols, and the only other place they appear is in the missing page of your aunt’s book.”
I stood up. “I don’t know where it is!” My voice rose almost to shouting point.
“Misty, that could be irrelevant. The people who are after it might try to hurt you to get you to hand it over. They might not believe you don’t know where it is.”
“Just who are these people?”
Jamie just looked at me.
“Come on, you can’t just tell me that and then not tell me any more. Aunt Beth was murdered for that page! You really need to tell me. I insist.” I used my most stern voice.
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell you. You’re in danger as it is. The more you know, the worse position you’re in. Have you considered going back to Australia?”
He was so frustrating. “No, I have not! Look, stop trying to deflect attention from my question. You need to tell me; who are these people?”
Jamie stood up and paced up and down the kitchen for a couple of laps, then sat down again. “Misty, I’d rather not, it’s awkward.”
“What do you mean? Really, if I’m in danger as you say, then surely I’d be better off with all the facts.”
Jamie looked hugely embarrassed. “You won’t like it.”
“Try me.” I fixed him with my best glare, but Diva soon ruined that. She shot out from behind the door and made a beeline for Jamie. To my surprise, she hopped up on him and kneaded his knee, pushing her paws up and down while purring loudly. Jamie stroked her and she only swiped at him once or twice in a half-hearted manner.
I frowned. Was Diva a good judge of character? She liked Jamie, and disliked Douglas and Cassandra, although her dislike of Cassandra might be simply because Cassandra detested cats. I was so lost in thought that I jumped when Jamie started talking again.
“Okay, you asked for it,” he said, while stroking the purring Diva. “They’re the Black Lodge, a secret society who want to use the symbols on the page for what they believe is a ritual to prolong their lives. The reason you won’t like it is that Douglas is one of their leading members.”
I was shocked, but I’d had so many surprises lately and this one was no more shocking than the others. I couldn’t believe a word Jamie said. Or was it Douglas who shouldn’t be trusted?
I was considering this when the doorbell rang. I excused myself, and found Cassandra on the doorstep, a cake in her hands.
“Come in, Cassandra. The cake looks good. I have a visitor,” I warned her in low tones.
At the sight of Cassandra, Diva hissed, leaped from Jamie’s knees and bolted up the stairs, swiping at Cassandra on her way. Fur flew into the air, and Cassandra sneezed.
I did the introductions, then made Cassandra a cup of tea while being a little annoyed that I didn’t have time to process the bombshell that Jamie had just dropped on me. I did doubt it was true, but I wanted to figure out why Jamie would say such a thing. Perhaps he was the one who was in the Black Lodge and trying to throw blame onto Douglas.
Cassandra wasn’t showing any animosity to Jamie this time, no doubt as he was eating her cake with such relish.
“That’s a wonderful cake, Cassandra.”
“Thank you. I used to bring chocolate cream cake over for Beth once a week.”
I dissected the cake, and ate the frosting off the top and the sides. That’s the only part of cake I like, and luckily for me the frosting was thick. I avoided the cream. It looked real, and I only like fake whipped cream. As much as I liked the frosting, I again lamented the fact that Cassandra had shown up just as I was about to find out more from Jamie.
The doorbell rang again. Cassandra and Jamie both looked startled. I checked the time on my iPhone. This would have to be Douglas, and right on time as usual.
I hurried to the door, and sure enough, Douglas was standing there. “I have visitors,” I whispered. This was getting to be a habit.
I led Douglas down the hallway to the kitchen. Cassandra looked shocked. I figured it would have been a long time since she had seen two gorgeous guys in the one room. I turned to Douglas to introduce everyone, but was struck speechless by the look on his face.
I had never seen Douglas’s countenance change too much throughout the time I had known him. He had always been Mr. Cool-As-A-Cucumber. Right now, he was looking like someone from an acting class practicing a different range of emotions: shock, horror, rage, surprise. Cassandra and Jamie noticed it too, for they hastily muttered their goodbyes and took off like bats out of hell. No one had even shaken hands with Douglas, let alone said, ‘Hello’.
Chapter 12
I shut the front door and then went back to the kitchen. Douglas was sitting on one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs. He looked more or less back to his usual self, but something was seething under the surface. Jeal
ousy? Or was that just wishful thinking on my part?
“Who were they?” His tone was not exactly rude or abrupt, but he was quite edgy.
“Cassandra is the next door neighbor,” I said, “and Jamie, um.”
“Go on.” Douglas looked decidedly tense.
I didn’t know how much I should tell Douglas. “Well, I don’t know really. I met him at Aunt Beth’s funeral.”
“So, are you dating him?”
Could he be jealous? I simply said, “No.”
“Well, what was he doing here? Has he asked you out? Is that woman his mother?”
I bristled at his demanding tone. “No, they don’t know each other, and he isn’t interested in me, not like that.” I wondered if Jamie was a rake, the old English word used to describe immoral men such as members of the Hellfire Club. After all, it was the right setting.
Douglas grew impatient. “Misty, what was that man doing here?”
“He said I’m in danger,” I blurted unwisely.
Douglas sat forward on the edge of his chair. “From whom? Misty, please tell me everything.”
I figured I might as well. I still hadn’t had time to process Jamie’s disclosure about Douglas. I figured it was best to put everything out on the table and see where the cards would fall. When I get stressed, I fall into clichés.
I drew a deep breath. “Okay, his name’s Jamie 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’re one of those people who want the page.” I stopped to study Douglas’s reaction.
Douglas had lost his composure once again, and he looked furious. “I know the name Jamie Smith, and it’s just one of the names he uses, by the way. Jamie 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 or disappointed that Douglas hadn’t been jealous, after all. 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 Jamie is in the Black Lodge and out to harm me, and Jamie says you are in the Black Lodge and out to harm me. I don’t have any evidence either way about 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. He does have a reputation as a womanizer.”
I nodded. My stomach twisted into a little knot as it looked like Douglas was jealous, after all.
We drove to Marlow in bliss. Well, I for one was in bliss. Douglas had finally shown some emotion, and what’s more had been jealous at the sight of Jamie Smith.
I loved Marlow at first sight. Picturesque, chocolate box, and charming, it was everything I had imagined an English town would be.
Douglas pulled into the large car 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 was filled with colorful 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 recognize 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 to Thelema in the Bible?”
Douglas nodded again. “Yes, in the New Testament. Look it up for yourself. You’ll need a concordance, because most translations just translate thelema with the English word will. 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 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 witty, 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 leaned out into 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, but 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.
