The Hellfire Papers

by Derek Wilson

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

When the Master of St Mary's House, Cambridge, hires Tim Lacy to retrieve a collection of eighteenth-century documents willed to it by a wealthy past member of the college, he omits to mention that these manuscripts have a possible connection with the suicide of the late Dean and that there are those who remain determined to ensure that the documents never reach the College library. Supposedly penned by a scandal-mongering member of the notorious Hellfire Club, these papers, if genuine, could be of enormous historical significance and monetary value. And their significance is not lost on Lacy when an academic friend who has been helping him on the case is murdered. When it emerges that the Hellfire Club has repercussions into the highest circles of the current day, Lacy must fight to reveal a dark, long-kept secret before anyone else pays with their life...

Release date: November 30, 2012

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 291

Sample

‘Damn!’ The chapel bell stopped ringing as Emma took the last flight of stairs two at a time. She yanked open the outer door
and paused briefly to hug her gown around her. Grand Court was empty, stark, cold and dismal. Its Tudor façade was obscured
by the driving rain, except where lamplight showed pools of yellow stone and glistened unevenly on the cobbles. Emma lowered
her head and made the twenty-yard sprint through the deluge to the college chapel.


As she leaned her weight against the heavy oak, it opened suddenly inwards and she almost fell into the arms of Kenton, the
junior porter. He stepped back, as alarmed as she was.


‘Easy, miss! You’ll just about make it.’

‘Is the Dean here?’

‘Everyone’s here who’s going to be here – all four of you. I rang the bell as long as I could but Dr Vare’s a stickler for
punctuality.’


Emma shrugged. ‘Oh well, thanks anyway.’

She crossed the small vestibule, pulled open the baize-covered door and slipped into the dimly-lit chapel as the portal hushed
shut behind her. The two rows of stalls on each side of the building were virtually empty. After the buffeting of the rain
the warm silence made an almost physical impact. Emma moved on her toes to the reading desk in the far corner. She was aware
of but did not glance at the kneeling figure of the Dean in his seat to the right of the door. Apart from the spots illuminating
the plain altar, the only pools of light came from the lamps on the reading desk and the Dean’s stall and the bulbs over the places occupied by the other members of the congregation, two of the college’s small contingent
of theology students.


Unlike larger colleges such as King’s and St John’s, St Mary’s House did not boast a large, impressive chapel. It certainly
had no famous choir to fulfil the liturgical obligations laid down by its founder. But day after day divine office was said,
attended usually by no more than a handful of fellows and undergraduates. Among them was the person designated to read the
lessons, a task laid in rotation upon all third-year students who could not give convincing evidence of virulent atheism.


Emma reached her seat, checked that the Bible in front of her was open at the right place and curled herself into the corner
of the wide stall, hoping against hope that her late arrival had gone unnoticed by Dr Vare.


She looked across at the dark head of the surpliced figure leaning forward over folded arms in an attitude of prayer. He certainly
seemed oblivious to all around him. As well as she knew him, Emma had never thought of the Dean of St Mary’s as a devout person.
He possessed a brilliant mind, an agile wit and a positively sulphuric tongue. His students went in awe of him and it was
said that he even overpowered meetings of the college’s governing body. Dr Vare’s conduct of worship was usually brisk and
imperious and gave the distinct impression to many that he was doing Almighty God an immense favour by being there at all.
So it was quite a revelation to see this austere cleric apparently so absorbed in silent supplication as to be oblivious of
time.


Emma looked at her watch. If the old boy did not get a move on they would be late for hall. As it was she was going to be
hard put to it to grab dinner, get changed and be ready by the time Gavin collected her to go to the Arts Theatre.


One of the theologians coughed pointedly and looked across at her with raised eyebrows.

Emma mouthed, ‘Go and prod him!’ and pointed towards the Dean.

The young man shook his head and grinned.

When another two silent minutes had passed it was obvious that something was wrong. It was also obvious that neither male
member of the congregation was going to do anything.


Emma slipped from her seat and walked softly across the patterned marble. She stood in front of the Dean’s stall.

‘Dr Vare.’ She steeled herself for a sharp rebuff.

There was no response.

Emma peered closely but could not see the Dean’s face. ‘Dr Vare, are you all right?’

Emma turned to the others. ‘I think he’s blacked out. Come and help.’

She was aware that her pulse was racing. She reached out a hand to the Dean’s shoulder. There was no resistance. Dr Vare fell
slowly sideways and landed heavily on the floor between the seat and the desk.


‘Oh my God!’ Emma gasped. ‘He’s had a heart attack.’

Then she saw the crimson stain all the way down the front of the crisply laundered surplice.

Catherine Lacy felt uneasy and she could not quite say why. She was in an unfamiliar environment. But it was a very agreeable
environment and all she had to do was sit back and enjoy it. She was among strangers – high-powered strangers in elegant evening
dress. But she enjoyed meeting people and could hold her own in any company. She had no idea why she was here. But she had
no reason to regret this example of serendipity. Yet there was something irrationally unnerving about this evening. She sensed
a hidden agenda. She and Tim had been invited here for a purpose – a purpose as yet unrevealed. She shook her head. Perhaps
she was being fanciful.


From her seat at high table the attractive thirty-two-year-old blonde looked along the vastness of the hall. The places where
undergraduates had sat earlier for their dinner were empty, but huge logs blazed in the large fireplace halfway along one
wall and the light flickered over portraits of long-dead masters of the college. Above, the hammer beams were illumined by
concealed lighting. The polished oak before her was heavy with silver plate and candlesticks. The food and wine were excellent.
Around her, intelligent conversation ebbed and flowed. It was all a fascinating insight into the arcane world of academia,
especially as she and Tim had no close connections with that world. There was that pinprick of mystery again. Why on earth
had they been invited to Cambridge to attend a dinner in honour of a visiting American lecturer?


‘Are you being quietly impressed by all this English ancientry?’ Stuart Longton, seated on her left, looked like what he was,
a bespectacled thirty-five-year-old academic, well set on a distinguished (some said, brilliant) career. ‘We confidently claim
it as the oldest college hall in Cambridge. It was built for the Austin friars when they set up here in the thirteenth century
– a full three hundred years before Henry VIII kicked them out and generously ‘gave’ St Mary’s House their property. It hasn’t
changed much over the years. We’ve been made several offers for it by some of your fellow countrymen.’


Catherine laughed. ‘If you’re trying to bait me you’re forgetting that I’m a fully Anglicized American now. I live in deepest
Wiltshire. You can’t get much more English than that.’


‘That’s as maybe. For me you’ll always be Catherine Younger, the most devastating head-turner at Harvard, the girl I almost
married.’


‘Oh, yeah? If you’d ever plucked up the courage to propose, I just might have scared the pants off you by accepting. What
would you have done then?’


‘Hurried home triumphantly with all my research notes in one pocket and a beautiful young bride in the other.’

‘If you were so smitten, how come you never kept in touch? Your invitation to this shindig came quite out of the blue.’ She
sat back to allow the steward to remove her plate. As she did so her bobbed fair hair glowed halo-like in the soft light.
‘You haven’t told me yet why you did invite us. If you’re planning to fan the old passion into flame I ought to warn you that Tim spent a few years in the SAS.
On our first date I saw him disarm a gunman and almost break his neck.’


Stuart gazed along the table to where Tim Lacy sat talking with (or, Stuart thought, much more likely listening to) Dr Ingrid
Brunhill from Oxford, a thin-lipped woman with lank black hair. He saw a man with features that were strong rather than fine,
framed with dark hair that had a tendency to curl. He seemed to be coping attentively and sympathetically with his garrulous,
self-obsessed neighbour. For that alone he deserved a medal.


‘Tim’s good at his job, isn’t he?’

Catherine thought she detected a hint of anxiety behind the question. ‘What an odd thing to ask a loyal wife. Of course he
is. He started Lacy Security ten years ago, when he resigned his commission. Now it’s one of the leading international companies
specializing in the protection of public and private art collections. Why the interest?’


The next course arrived and for several moments they were occupied in helping themselves to vegetables from the silver dishes
proffered by college servants.


Dr Longton lifted his wineglass. ‘To you, Catherine. I’m very glad you came. These occasions can be terribly boring without
good company to enliven them.’


‘I find that hard to believe. You have quite a few interesting and important people here, don’t you? I presume that the idea
of such events is maintaining the college’s contacts in high places. Tell me about these VIPs you’ve assembled tonight.’


‘Well, you met the Master, Sir Evelyn Masquerier.’

‘Yeah, quite a smoothie. Not like my idea of a top academic.’

‘Oh, he’s not. He got a passable degree in economics. Did some research. Published a couple of things. Then he was head-hunted
by Mercantile Pacific. He spent most of the last thirty years as a merchant banker.’


‘So, why …?’

‘Well may you ask. It certainly wasn’t a unanimous election. But the college desperately needed money and Masquerier knows
all the right people.’


‘And did he deliver the goods?’

‘That depends on your point of view. In the two years he’s been here he’s tightened up our accounts and wangled a couple of
major corporate donations, but only at the cost of turning us into ‘St Mary’s House plc’. We have to capitalize on every asset.
You wouldn’t believe the number of conferences we cram in here during the vacations. St Mary’s is becoming more like a hotel
than a college. The current stage of his game plan is to become known as the man who produced the economic miracle at St Mary’s.
That should lead to a life peerage and prestigious chairmanships of as many City boards as he cares to take. That’s why he’s
sucking up to Lord Everton, the great do-gooder and commercial baron.’


‘Which one’s he?’

‘You mean you don’t know Lord Teddy, the professional philanthropist? Dear me, his PR machine must be slipping. He’s the barrel of lard sitting between La Brunhill and the delectable Lady Masquerier.’ Stuart indicated an elderly, balding man
who was laughing vigorously at a story he had just told the attractive, auburn-haired woman on his left.


‘That’s Masquerier’s wife?’


‘Yes, that’s the fair Deborah – every bit as beautiful and ruthless as her Old Testament namesake.’

‘She must be all of twenty years younger than her husband.’

‘Deborah is thirty-eight. Sir Evelyn is sixty-two.’

‘Does it work?’

‘Deb isn’t around very much. She spends most of her time in London and Cheltenham as a TV executive. She’s on the board of
Chiltern Cotswold. Very tough and high-powered. All in all, I’d say she and the Master deserve each other.’


‘My, we are in cynical vein this evening! Isn’t there anyone here who meets with your approval?’

Stuart peered disdainfully up and down the table as though looking for a pound coin in a handful of small change. ‘Finsley-Kerr’s
very much upwardly mobile but not a bad sort for all that.’ He indicated a middle-aged man with aquiline features.


‘I’ve seen him somewhere before.’

‘Probably on the telly. He’s a junior minister at the Heritage Department. He sometimes gets pushed out by the cabinet to
do interviews when there are awkward questions to be answered and his superiors don’t want to risk having their images dented.’


Before Catherine could respond, her other neighbour, who introduced himself as the Master of Caius, offered an opening conversational
gambit. They identified a mutual interest in Scottish neo-expressionism and this subject carried them through the pudding
and well into the savoury. Only then was Catherine able to return her attention to her host.


‘Stuart, you still haven’t told me why you invited us here.’

He frowned. ‘Aren’t you enjoying yourself?’

‘Yes I am. More than I expected, to be honest. But …’

‘Did you get introduced to your compatriot over sherry?’

‘The guest of honour? Very briefly. Who is he?’

‘Professor Zangster – Joseph N. Zangster. I have it on impeccable authority that the N stands for Nicodemus. He heads the
modern history faculty at Princeton. He’s over here to deliver this term’s Devereux Lectures and to pick up an honorary degree into the bargain. I don’t suppose that’s all he’ll pick up.’


‘Meaning?’

Stuart shrugged. ‘Sorry, just being bitchy. I suppose I’m fed up at the thought of having to go along every week and hear
him spout. There’s always a three-line whip out in the faculty on these occasions.’


‘Isn’t he an interesting speaker?’

Stuart shrugged dismissively. ‘Zangster’s a leading expert on mid-eighteenth-century politics but we could have had someone
more prestigious. It was largely pressure from Masquerier that got him invited. I wish I knew what the old boy was up to.’
He spoke the last words almost to himself.


Catherine pounced on the silence which followed. ‘Now, perhaps you’ll tell me—’

Stuart put a finger to his lips. Someone banged heavily three times on the table. The Master of St Mary’s House rose to propose
a toast to the guest of honour.


After dinner the party retired to the senior combination room for dessert and port. These were taken at three smaller tables
and guests were encouraged to move freely between them. At one turn of the musical chairs Catherine was introduced to Lord
Everton.


The rotund, slightly perspiring figure took her hand gently in his own podgy fingers and stooped to kiss it. ‘Mrs Lacy, I’ve
so looked forward to meeting you.’ He drew up a chair which creaked as he lowered himself onto it.


‘Oh yeah! My Lord, I know flattery when I hear it.’

‘No, I assure you – and please call me ‘Teddy’. Now, let me prove to you that I’m not what the youngsters call “handing out
a line of chat”. I really do know quite a lot about you. You live in a charming house in Wiltshire from which your husband
runs his highly successful security business and you operate an art gallery and educational arts centre. You have very rapidly
established a reputation as a discoverer of new talent. Now, when Catherine Lacy puts on an exhibition the art world sits
up and takes notice. There, how’s that?’ He beamed at her and Catherine felt herself falling under the spell of his charm.


She said, ‘You’ve obviously done your homework. Unfortunately, I can’t claim to be as well briefed about you. Tell me about
yourself.’


He shrugged. ‘Oh, what’s to tell? My time is largely taken up with charity work. I hope you’ve heard of the Downham Homes?’

Catherine had. Most people were aware that the Downham centres for disturbed children and juvenile offenders were remarkably
successful private enterprise contributions towards the solving of a growing social problem. She said, ‘Yes, indeed. They’re
doing a great job.’


‘Thank you, Catherine, thank you. I’ll accept that compliment on behalf of my staff. They are a splendid, highly-trained team.
And I try to make sure they keep up-to-date with all the latest developments in youth care worldwide. Of course, all that
costs money and we receive miserly government support.’ He broke off, smiling broadly again. ‘You will have spotted a sales
pitch coming. And you are right. I’m always looking for ways to raise funds and I’ve just been struck with a marvellous idea.
Every summer we hold an arts festival on behalf of the homes. It’s at Chipping Sneddon in the Cotswolds. Please say you’ve
heard of it. You have? Excellent. Well, I was wondering whether you might consider mounting an exhibition there. The festival’s
really becoming quite famous. Every year we attract some wonderful top performers. Janos Vanic is coming as our guest conductor
this year. It would be a splendid showplace for some of your protégés and, of course, a tremendous boost for the festival.
Do say you’ll think about it.’


‘Well, I …’ Catherine found herself saying, against her better judgement. ‘OK, I’ll think about it.’

‘Excellent!’ Lord Teddy jumped to his feet with surprising alacrity. ‘I’ll be in touch. What is it you Americans say? “Count
on it.”’ Then he was gone, sidling crabwise to the next table.


After circulating for half an hour or so, the Lacys eventually came together.

Tim smiled at his wife. ‘You seemed to be having a good time over dinner with your old flame.’

Catherine grimaced. ‘I got an earful of campus gossip. How about you?’

‘Stuck between an Oxford bluestocking and a don’s wife obsessed with ladies’ golf.’

‘Did you get to talk to Lord Everton? Strange man. I’ve just been propositioned by him. I need to check him out. According
to Stuart, Masquerier is cultivating him like crazy. Apparently—’


Tim coughed and frowned a warning as the Master of St Mary’s House appeared behind Catherine’s chair.

‘Mr and Mrs Lacy, how lovely to find you together. We haven’t had a proper chat yet. Young Longton has told me quite a bit
about you. Not that I needed to be told about Lacy Security.’ He seated himself. ‘Viscount Stonor is a very good friend of
mine. He was telling me how delighted he was with the job your people did at his Leicestershire place. He said he was thinking
of renaming the house Fort Knox.’


Tim smiled. ‘There’s no such thing as perfect security but we get as close to it as we can.’

Catherine said, ‘Thank you very much for inviting us, Sir Evelyn. We were very surprised to be asked.’ She raised an enquiring
eyebrow.


Masquerier did not respond. ‘We’re delighted to welcome you here. Have you had a chance to look round the college?’

‘Not yet. Perhaps tomorrow morning …’

‘That’s right. Get Longton to give you a guided tour. At least I can show you the master’s lodge. You’re coming over for a
nightcap a bit later, aren’t you?’


Tim glanced at him sharply. ‘Are we?’

Masquerier was caught momentarily off guard. ‘Er, yes … At least, I asked Stuart to be sure to bring you across. I hope that’s
all right.’


Catherine nodded. ‘It will be a lovely way to round off a delightful evening.’

‘Good, good. More port?’ He refilled Tim’s glass from the decanter. Catherine shook her head.

Tim said. ‘That tragedy last term must have shaken you all up rather badly.’

‘Poor Charles Vare? Yes, it was a great shock.’

Catherine looked up quizzically. ‘What was that? I don’t think I heard about it.’

Masquerier drained his glass and set it down on the table with elaborate care. ‘Our late Dean regrettably – and inexplicably
– committed suicide just before the end of full term.’


He was on the point of changing the subject but Tim pursued it. ‘According to the rather brief account in the press it was
all very bizarre. I suppose that was the usual journalistic exaggeration?’


The Master covered his annoyance with a studied courtesy. ‘The college was very fortunate that its domestic tragedy coincided
with the Downing Street scandal and the Indian earthquake. Those events kept the tabloids occupied and we were able to put
the incident firmly behind us.’ He rose. ‘I see that some of our guests are leaving. Will you excuse me for now?’


Catherine watched as he crossed the room briskly. ‘You touched a raw nerve.’

‘So it seems.’

‘What were you up to?’

Tim rubbed a finger up and down the bridge of his nose. ‘I don’t know. Kicking out, I suppose.’

“You wouldn’t care to elaborate?’

‘I don’t like being an appro.’

‘You mean not knowing why we’re here?’

‘It’s not just that. We’ve been under scrutiny all evening. Haven’t you sensed it? Strange looks. Veiled remarks. Probing
questions. We’re being secretly vetted by a bunch of rather superior people, and I don’t care for it much.’


‘Perhaps all will be revealed when we go for our nightcap in the master’s lodge.’

‘Damn well better be!’

Half an hour later the Lacys were walking across the moonlit fellows’ garden escorted by Stuart Longton. There was a light
frost and the gravel path before them intersected neat rectangles of silvered lawn. Their guide had fallen uncharacteristically
silent and it was Tim who spoke first.


‘Were you very friendly with Dr Vare?’

‘Charles? No. He not only ignored Dr Johnson’s advice about keeping his friendships in constant repair, he actually went out
of his way to damage them. He had too sharp a tongue. Anyone who got close to him felt the edge of it sooner or later.’


‘Do you think his final act was calculated as a gigantic snub to the world in general and the college in particular?’

Catherine’s frustration exploded. ‘Would somebody mind telling me exactly what happened to the late Dean? I’ve been hearing whispered comments and half explanations all evening.’


Stuart pushed open an iron gate in the high wall and ushered his guests through into the grounds of the Master’s Lodge. ‘Then,
since you press me to be as brief as woman’s love, Charles Vare dosed himself up with sleeping tablets, donned his cassock
and surplice, went to the chapel and there, to make assurance doubly sure, he severed the veins in both wrists.’


Catherine shivered and wished she had not asked.

Tim said, ‘If that’s what really happened it certainly looks as though he wanted his passing to cause the maximum distress
and embarrassment to the college. There was no doubt that it was suicide?’


Not according to the doctor who reported to the inquest. And not according to the police, who made mercifully discreet inquiries.
Their evidence satisfied the coroner.’


‘But not you?’

‘When one is presented with the choice between two unthinkable thoughts, does it really matter which one entertains?’

They had reached the front of the lodge – a square Queen Anne house. Stuart went ahead up the short flight of steps and pressed
the bell. It was opened immediately by an au pair and they entered a wide hallway. Stuart led the way up a curving staircase
to the first floor, tapped briefly on an imposing double door and ushered Tim and Catherine inside.


It was a long room which, judging by the marble fireplaces at each end, had once been two. A fired burned in the one on the
right and the room’s three occupants were seated around it.


Masquerier rose to greet them. Tall, spare and well-groomed, he looked very fit for his age. ‘Mr and Mrs Lacy, thank you so
much for coming over. You met my wife and Joe Zangster earlier, I’m sure.’


Tim and Catherine went through the formalities of refusing drinks and accepting coffee, followed by the formalities of small
talk. After about ten minutes Tim saw the Master and Longton exchange glances.


Masquerier cleared his throat. ‘Actually, Mr Lacy, there is a small matter of business we’d like to discuss with you, if we
may. Would you mind? It will only take a few minutes.’


Tim thought, ‘About bloody time.’ He said, ‘So I have to sing for my supper, do I?’

‘Oh, nothing like that. It’s just … Well, look, shall we go to my study?’ Masquerier stood up. He smiled at his wife. ‘Would
you excuse us, darling? I’m sure Mrs Lacy would like to see the pictures. She’s quite an expert.’


Their host led Tim and Stuart across the landing to a smaller room fitted out with expensive, modern, executive furniture.
When they were seated in unyielding leather armchairs the Master explained.


‘Mr Lacy, we’d be very grateful if you could undertake a professional commission for St Mary’s.’

Tim crossed his legs and pinched the crease in his dress trousers. ‘I’ll be happy to consider it. But why all this elaborate
build-up? A letter or a phone call …’


‘I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple. We’re in a situation that calls for absolute discretion. We had to know that you were
the sort of man who could undertake the task for us in complete secrecy.’


The two fellows looked at Tim as though expecting him to reassure them. All he said was, ‘What do you want done?’

Masquerier fingered the gold fob of the watch chain stretched across his waistcoat. ‘At the risk of sounding melodramatic,
Mr Lacy, I must ask you not to reveal anything about this conversation – whether you decide to help us or not.’


Tim struggled to control his exasperation. ‘Sir Evelyn, point number one: security is my business. That means lots of people
– important people – trust me with their secrets. Point number two: it’s getting very late and if these preliminaries are
going to drag on much longer I doubt whether my patience will be equal to the strain.’


Masquerier nodded. ‘Very well, we will give you the details. When you’ve heard them I think you’ll understand how important
this matter is to us and why we have to be so very cautious. In a nutshell, we would like you to go to Australia for us and
bring back some papers that are the property of the college.’


‘They must be very valuable if you’re prepared to go to the expense of sending a special courier halfway round the world.’

The Master sighed and shook his head. ‘They may be. Then again, they may not. Stuart, I think you’re better placed to go over the salient points.’


Longton took up the story. ‘A couple of months ago an old member of the college died in Sydney. His name was Sir Peregrine
Whitehead-Dyer. Does the name mean anything to you?’


Tim shook his head.

‘Well, I suppose there’s no reason why it should. He had quite a distinguished career in the diplomatic service, most of it
in the Far East, and a few years ago retired to live in Australia. Shortly before his death we had a letter from his solicitors
to inform us that he would be leaving to St Mary’s House an important collection of documents that had been in his family
for several generations.’


‘What’s so special about these documents?’

‘Have you heard of the Monks of Medmenham Abbey?’

Tim looked blank.

‘How about the name they’re popularly, though erroneously, known by – the members of the Hellfire Club?’

‘You mean that bunch of eighteenth-century bucks who indulged in orgies and shocking goings-on around High Wycombe?’

Stuart removed his glasses and polished them methodically with the handkerchief from his breast pocket. ‘The very same. Sir
Francis Dashwood and several leading members of English society are supposed to have met frequently in Medmenham Abbey to
carry out satanic rituals in the period 1745-1763. They were notorious. All sorts of stories were circulated about their activities
but no one outside the Dashwood circle really knew exactly what went on at their nocturnal gatherings. One of Dashwood’s hangers-on
was a reprobate and poetaster by the name of Paul Whitehead. He was one of the destructive worms that wriggled in and out
of London society, gnawing away at its fabric with satire and scandal-mongering. It was wholly fitting that he should end
up in the service of Francis Dashwood. Among his other jobs he was made secretary of the “Franciscans” of Medmenham. He recorded
their rites, kept a journal of their activities and, if the stories are true, made sketches of the members, their buxom guests
and some of their lusty activities.’


‘And these are the documents which are now sitting in a Sydney. . .