by Shaun Hutson
Donna finished unpacking and crossed to the desk where her handbag was. She sat down, reached inside and took out an envelope, removing the contents.
There were a dozen American Express receipts inside, each bearing the name of a hotel. One of them bore the name of The Shelbourne.
She flipped open Chris’s diary and ran her finger down the entries.
She checked the date on the Amex slip against the entry for Dublin in the diary.
It matched.
So did the one for Dromoland Castle, County Clare.
And The Holiday Inn, Edinburgh.
The Mayfair, London.
Every entry in the diary was matched to a receipt. Only some of them had the initial D beside them; it was these which Donna was interested in.
It had been simple to find out which hotels Chris had stayed in. He always paid by credit card and he always kept the receipts for his accountant. She had merely unearthed them from his office.
How many of these places had he stayed with Suzanne Regan?
Donna swivelled in her seat and looked across towards the bed.
Had he stayed here?
She tried to drive the thought from her mind, feeling an all-too familiar surge of anger and sorrow. If only she’d been able to ask him why, perhaps it would have been more bearable. For a moment, Donna felt tears welling up in her eyes but she fought back the pain, forced the thoughts away. There would be plenty of time for them in years to come, she thought wearily. For now she replaced the receipts in the envelope and pushed it into a drawer beneath some clothes.
She put the photo of Chris and the five men in there too.
The diary she dropped back into her handbag.
Donna got to her feet and padded across to the bathroom where she showered quickly, rinsing away the dirt of the journey. Travelling always made her feel grubby, no matter how luxurious it was. She pulled on one of the towelling robes and wandered back into the bedroom, selecting clean clothes. A white blouse, jeans and some flat suede boots. She dried herself, dressed, brushed her hair and re-applied her make-up, then inspected her reflection in the mirror.
Satisfied, she slipped on her jacket and picked up her handbag, pausing to look at the diary once more and its mysterious entry:
JAMES WORSDALE: DUBLIN NATIONAL GALLERY.
As she made her way to the lift and jabbed the button marked ‘G’ she found her heart thumping a little faster than normal.
Outside the hotel she asked the doorman to get her a cab.
She was at the gallery in less than five minutes.
Thirty-Seven
It was as imposing an edifice as she’d ever seen. A massive grey building, its frontage decorated with stone pillars, its grounds were dotted with statues. The gallery itself looked as if it had been carved by some giant sculptor, minute details in the stonework wrought by caring as well as skilful hands.
Donna had only seconds to appreciate its beauty; she had other things on her mind. She paid the taxi-driver and walked briskly towards the main entrance of the building, slowing her pace as she reached the flight of broad stone steps that led up to the doors.
This was going to cause more problems than she’d thought, but it was the first place to try.
For one thing, there was no time in the diary for meeting Worsdale. Coupled with that, she had no idea what the man looked like.
As Donna climbed the stairs slowly she looked around at the dozens of people entering and leaving the building, wondering how the hell she was supposed to find someone she’d never seen before. Perhaps her husband and Worsdale had agreed a certain meeting place inside or even outside the gallery.
She entered the building, wondering how she was to find this elusive man, wondering again what she was going to tell him even if she did succeed in locating him.
She gazed around at the paintings which hung on the walls, looking but not really seeing.
It was quiet inside the gallery, an atmosphere akin to a library. That same hushed reverence pervaded the place. Donna glanced at the other visitors, noticing how diverse an audience were drawn to such a building.
There were people of all ages, wandering back and forth, some studying the paintings for long moments others just glancing, some checking their guides, some making notes.
As she looked up she saw what looked like a loud speaker in one corner of the room.
A public address system.
The idea hit her like a thunderbolt and she spun round, heading back towards the main entrance, remembering that there was an enquiries desk there. She could get them to broadcast an announcement for her, spread the word around the gallery that Mr James Worsdale was to come to the main entrance.
She smiled at her own ingenuity, the smile fading as she realized the ploy would only work if Worsdale was actually in the gallery. But, she thought again, her mind accelerating now, there was another way. She could leave a message at the desk. Get them to put a sign up telling Mr Worsdale to contact the Shelbourne Hotel and ask for Mr Ward.
Pleased at her plan, she smiled as she approached the desk.
She’d find him yet.
There was a man seated behind the desk reading a book. He looked up as Donna approached and smiled at her.
She returned the gesture, struck by his good looks. He was in his late twenties, thick-set, dressed in jeans, with his long hair pulled back in a pony-tail.
‘Can I help you?’ the attendant said happily.
‘Yes, I think you can,’ Donna told him. ‘I’m looking for someone. I’m supposed to meet them here but I’ve forgotten where,’ she lied. ‘I was wondering if you could put out a message over the public address system to tell him I’m here. If that’s okay?’
‘It’s not supposed to be used for that, really,’ he said apologetically. ‘It’s newly installed. We’ve had a couple of bomb threats lately and it’s been installed to warn staff to clear the building. I’m sorry.’
‘This is very important,’ Donna insisted. ‘Please.’ She could feel her heart sink. If this failed she was lost.
‘I shouldn’t,’ the attendant said, but then smiled broadly.
‘But what the hell. What’s the name of the person you’re looking for?’
Donna smiled broadly.
‘Thank you, I appreciate it,’ she said, relieved. ‘His name is James Worsdale.’
The attendant’s smile faded rapidly and he looked at Donna with narrowed eyes.
‘Are you sure?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I’m sure. Is there a problem?’ Her own smile was replaced by a frown.
‘I can put out the announcement but I don’t think James Worsdale will show up.’
‘Why not? How do you know?’
‘Because he’s been dead for over two hundred years.’
Thirty-Eight
The smile on the face of the attendant was a marked contrast to Donna’s expression of shocked surprise.
As he saw her concern, again his smile faded.
‘Well, let’s say the James Worsdale I know has been dead that long,’ he said apologetically. ‘But if there’s another ...’ He shrugged. ‘It’s an unusual name.’
Donna’s mind was still reeling but she reached for her handbag, pulling out the diary.
‘Look,’ she said, thrusting the book at him and pointing at the entry. ‘James Worsdale, Dublin National Gallery.’
‘You’re in the right place, then. His work is exhibited here. He’s not.’
Donna shook her head, now totally puzzled by what she’d heard. She felt a little foolish, too.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and turned to leave.
‘Wait,’ the attendant said. ‘Have you got five minutes to spare? You came here to see Worsdale’s work; the least I can do is show it to you.’
She hesitated, then smiled thinly.
‘Five minutes?’ she repeated. ‘I feel such an idiot,’ she said.
‘No need to. You wouldn’t be the first one through these doors,’ he nod
ded towards the main entrance and smiled broadly.
The gesture was infectious and Donna at last found herself grinning, too. The attendant clambered out from behind the counter, one of his colleagues taking his place. He walked around to where Donna stood and motioned for her to follow him. Again she was struck by his good looks and his relaxed, easy manner. He introduced himself.
‘My name’s Gordon Mahoney,’ he told her.
‘Donna Ward. How long have you worked here?’
‘Six years. It pays to know whose paintings are exhibited here. People are always asking questions.’
‘But not always looking for the artist,’ she said.
Mahoney grinned.
‘What makes Worsdale’s work so interesting to you?’ he wanted to know as they walked through the gallery, passing among the tourists and the students and the other visitors.
‘It was my husband who was interested in him,’ she said a little sadly.
‘Is he with you today?’
‘He’s dead.’ She swallowed hard.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mahoney said quickly. ‘Was he interested in obscure Irish painters, then?’
‘Was Worsdale like that?’
‘He wasn’t one of our most famous painters. Maybe obscure is being a little unkind to him, though.’
They climbed a flight of stone steps and reached another floor. Mahoney moved briskly along, glancing at Donna every now and then. He finally came to a halt and made a sweeping gesture with his arm designed to encompass the array of canvases on the wall.
‘This is some of James Worsdale’s work,’ Mahoney explained.
Donna stood looking at them, listening as the attendant pointed out each canvas in turn and told her a little about it. They were unremarkable works: landscapes, portraits and still-lifes. She could see nothing amongst them to explain why Chris should have been so interested in the artist’s work. She knew very little about art and couldn’t tell if the paintings were brilliant or not. To her, they looked accomplished but ordinary. What the hell made Worsdale so interesting to her late husband?
‘What was your husband looking for?’ Mahoney wanted to know.
Donna merely shook her head gently, looking from canvas to canvas.
‘I honestly don’t know,’ she said quietly. ‘Is this it? All of his paintings?’
‘All we have. Well, nearly all. There’s one in storage.’ He smiled. ‘In fact, it’s permanantly in storage and it’s probably the most interesting thing he ever painted, but the subject matter makes it a little, how shall I put it, undesirable for public display.’
‘Why, is it obscene or something?’ she asked.
Mahoney laughed.
‘Anything but.’
‘So why is it never put on show?’
‘You could say it’s something of an embarrassment.’ He looked at her and held her gaze.
‘Could I see it, please?’ she asked.
Mahoney hesitated, his infectious smile fading.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’ He looked around, as if afraid that someone might be listening to their conversation.
‘It could be important,’ she persisted.
He nodded finally.
‘Okay. Come with me.’
Thirty-Nine
Nothing about the gallery had been how Donna had imagined it. It was not filled with crusty old men and women poring over the paintings; the whole building had a bright and open atmosphere, instead of the sullen brooding one she’d expected. Most of all, Mahoney didn’t look like the sort of man who would work in an art gallery. He seemed too young and vibrant for work she had previously thought to be the province of uniformed men with starched collars and even stiffer demeanours. Every cliché she had held had been exploded by her visit.
The room where paintings were kept in storage was no exception. She had been expecting a small, dusty room filled with paintings draped in cloths that were thick with dust, where air would have a musty scent of old canvas and decay. Instead the room was light and airy, lit by fluorescent lights and smelling pleasantly of air freshener. There was a thermometer on the wall displaying the temperature, ensuring that it was constant so that the paintings were preserved correctly. There was an expel-air machine on a bank of filing cabinets which rattled in the stillness of the room.
The paintings were carefully stored in crates dependent on their size. Others were propped against the walls. These, she noticed, were covered by white dust sheets. Some appeared to be covered by what looked like cling film.
‘How do you decide which paintings go on display and which are kept here?’ she asked, following Mahoney through the room.
‘We display them on a kind of rotation system,’ he told her. ‘Each artist is allocated a certain amount of space in the gallery. The paintings are usually left on display for three months, then one or two are replaced. Those not on show are kept in here.’ He reached a canvas covered by a dust cover and paused. ‘You wanted to see all of James Worsdale’s work?’
She nodded.
‘Like I said, this one is hardly ever displayed.’ He pulled the sheet clear, exposing the canvas.
Donna took a step closer, her gaze travelling back and forth over the gilt-framed painting.
‘Hardly what you’d call shocking, is it?’ Mahoney said, smiling.
‘Who are they?’ Donna moved closer to the painting.
It showed five men in eighteenth-century garb, four seated, one standing, bewigged and splendid in their clothes and obviously, for their time, wealthy men.
‘Five of the founder members of the Dublin Hell Fire Club,’ Mahoney announced with a sweeping gesture. He pointed each one of the figures out individually, moving from left to right across the canvas. ‘Henry Barry, fourth Lord Santry. Colonel Clements. Colonel Ponsonby. Colonel St George and Simon Lutterell. Rakes and profligates, the lot of them.’ He chuckled. ‘And proud of it.’
‘The Hell Fire Club,’ said Donna quietly. ‘I’ve heard of them.’
‘Most people have, and know something about the legend attached to them. They were rich young men, out for thrills, out to shock the establishment. They used to pass the time being cruel to the poor, gambling, whoring and indulging in most other perversions you could care to name.’ He smiled. ‘A little like an eighteenth-century branch of the Young Conservatives.’
‘Why isn’t the painting displayed?’ Donna wanted to know.
‘The Hell Fire Club were something of a social embarrassment at the time. Lots of them were the sons of well-off men, politicians and the like. Not the sort of offspring you’d be proud of if you were in politics, or some other branch of the upper social orders. Their motto was “Fay ce Que Voudras”, “Do as you will”. And they did, most of the time.’
‘Was Worsdale a member?’ Donna asked, intrigued.
‘No one knows for sure. That’s the curious thing about this painting, though,’ Mahoney said, tapping the frame. ‘The two men responsible for actually starting the Dublin Hell Fire Club aren’t in it.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Richard Parsons, the first Earl of Rosse, and Colonel Jack St Leger. You know the horse race, the St Leger? It was named after Colonel Jack’s ancestor Sir Anthony. Jack lived near Athy in County Kildare, a great drinker and gambler.’
‘What about the other one, Parsons?’
‘He was the most vicious of the bunch, from what I’ve read. He had a fondness for setting fire to cats, apparently.’
Donna frowned.
‘A lovely crowd they were. We’ve got a painting of Parsons here somewhere, a miniature done by another member of the club called Peter Lens. I’ll see if I can find it.’ Mahoney wandered off to another part of the room, leaving Donna to study the canvas more closely. She reached out to touch the surface, aware of a chill that seemed to have settled around her. As Mahoney returned she shook it free but her eyes remained on the painting.
What had Chris wanted here?
‘R
ichard Parsons,’ Mahoney announced, presenting the miniature.
Donna looked closely and frowned. She could feel her heart thumping that little bit faster against her ribs.
‘I’ve seen this face,’ she whispered.
Mahoney didn’t answer.
Donna traced the features with one index finger but it was not the face that caused her hand to shake.
‘Are you all right?’ Mahoney asked, seeing the colour drain from her cheeks.
She nodded.
‘I need to know about these men,’ she said, suddenly looking straight into his eyes. ‘About The Hell Fire Club. How much do you know?’
‘I’ve read a fair bit about them. What’s so important?’
‘Will you meet me tonight, for dinner? I’m staying at the Shelbourne. Will you meet me there? Eight o’clock?’
It was Mahoney’s turn to look puzzled.
He nodded gently.
‘There’s something I have to show you. Something I have to know. I think you might be able to tell me,’ Donna said. Then she turned her attention back to the painting. Again she found that she was quivering slightly as she studied the picture of Richard Parsons.
On the index finger of his left hand he wore a gold signet ring.
It was identical to the one worn by the man in the photo she had back at the hotel.
Forty
Julie Craig rolled over on the large double bed.
She sat up, her breathing heavy in the stillness. She swung herself off the bed and padded, naked, across to the wardrobe, hesitating there for a second.
Apart from her own breathing, the ticking of the bedside clock was the only sound.
She opened the wardrobe and pulled the cord inside. The small bulb inside exploded into life, displaying his clothes.
His jackets. Shirts. A couple of suits.
Julie ran her hand across them, feeling the different materials, her fingers lingering over the silk of the shirts, stroking gently.
She pulled one from its hanger and rubbed it against her cheek, her eyes closed.
Enjoying the softness she allowed the material to brush against her breasts. The nipples stiffened and she squeezed her breasts through the silk, her breathing growing heavier as she kneaded the sensitive buds with her fingers, her excitement growing rapidly. As she stepped away from the wardrobe she felt the moisture between her legs. She drew one index finger through her dewy pubic hair, lifting the glistening digit, touching it very gently to her lips. She shuddered, then slipped the shirt around her bare shoulders before heading towards the landing.
