Heathen/Nemesis

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?

‘Richard 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.