“Should I take the rifle?” I asked, glad for something to hold onto.
“No,” he replied. “No guns.” He seized it and swung it against the wall of the entrance, shattering the stock. “This has slowed us down. Come.”
There was a marble, hexagonal building nearby and we headed toward it. As we approached, I saw that it was a large, open mausoleum for the Dashwood ancestors. This, too, was deserted, but after we passed it, we saw a well-lit building a few hundred yards away, and my ear caught the sound of music and raucous laughter. This was where the satyrs were having their party.
“They are having their unholy revels in a church!” Barker growled. He tossed his lantern to the ground and began to run, with me in pursuit.
Two men stood in the entrance of the old church, and when the Guv entered, he thrust their heads hard against the old wood. As they slid to the floor, I jumped over their sprawling limbs.
Inside, it was a scene from Hogarth. Most of the men were clad in garments from the previous century, breeches, long coats, and tricorns, their faces covered by half masks of black silk. As for the women, they too had their faces covered, but precious little else. They looked like Georgian strumpets, with elaborate wigs and tight bodices and pantaloons. Bottles of whiskey and goblets of wine littered the tables; and the pews had been replaced with banqueting tables, long couches, and chairs. In one corner, a small orchestra sat, wearing powdered wigs and blindfolds, churning out a merry air. But that was not the worst of it.
In the center of the room, a man was just laying a young girl down upon a marble altar. She wore a heavy cape, but it was half open, exposing her bare flesh. I recognized Ona Bellovich. The man wore a similar cape down to his feet, but his face was hidden by an elaborate goat mask, with large horns and a pentagram painted on the forehead.
“This is a raid!” Barker bellowed. “Everyone, stay where you are!”
In fact, they did just the opposite. His demand caused pandemonium. Old roues parted from the women with whom they caroused and grabbed for their breeches. Women screamed and the music trailed off. Some of the men ran for the door, while others turned to stop us. I kicked one in his paunch, and he went down easily. Barker lashed out, catching one in the jaw and stomach who, for all we knew, might be a cabinet minister or judge. From a nearby table, he lifted a cat-o’-nine-tails, whose reason for being there I didn’t want to consider, and began to flail at the legs of the men and women running by.
“Out!” he cried. “Get out!”
In the tumult, I lost sight of Ona Bellovich.
Barker continued to thrash at the escaping crowd, while I pushed my way forward. The man in the goat mask had disappeared, nor could I see his captive. I saw the crowd for what they were: portly bankers and merchants and politicians consorting with low women from Sal’s bawdy house hired for the evening’s frivolity. But what of the sacrifice? Was the girl really meant to be killed on the altar, raped, and strangled in front of all these people?
The room rapidly cleared. The orchestra members tried to carry their precious instruments through the fleeing crowd. I was suddenly seized from behind, and I did not hesitate, giving the fellow a sharp blow to the stomach with my elbow, then stamping on his instep with my heel. I wrapped my arm around the fellow’s neck and was about to smash my fist into his nose when I recognized him. Swanson of the Criminal Investigation Department had materialized in the midst of this raucous crowd.
“Inspector!” I cried, but what was done could not be undone.
“Assaulting an officer of the law!” Swanson sputtered above the din, thrusting me into the waiting arms of two of his constables. “And, Cyrus Barker, you are under arrest!”
My employer swung around.
“On what charge?” he asked.
Swanson came close, and they stood nose to nose. The inspector ticked off points on his fingers. “Trespassing. Assault. Destruction of property. That’s just to start. No doubt you are responsible for the unconscious man back there with the sharpened coins sticking out of him.”
A group of men approached, still clad in Georgian costumes, without their wigs and masks. Lord Hesketh stepped forward, followed by a man whom I assumed was Baron le Despencer himself.
“Get these men out of here!” the latter cried. “I demand that they be punished to the fullest extent of the law!”
“Yes, your lordship,” Swanson replied. “I was just in the process of arresting them, thank you very much.”
“How dare you interrupt my party and chase away my guests,” the baron demanded of Barker. “I shall see that you do time for this.”
“And I, your lordship, shall see that every villager knows exactly what sort of orgy has been going on in this church.”
“There is nothing wrong with a harmless function on my private estate with my friends.”
“There is when young women are being outraged and murdered!”
“That is slander, and I am a witness!” Lord Hesketh spoke up.
“Arrest him. Both of them!” the baron ordered. “I want them both in chains!”
Barker raised the cat-o’-nine-tails, and the man ducked and winced. Instead, my employer offered it to the noble.
“Your property, I believe, your lordship.”
Whether it belonged to him or not, he took it. Then Barker held out his wrists for Inspector Swanson’s darbies.
“You always push,” the inspector complained. “You won’t let anything alone. You cannot let other men decide what is right.”
“Do you mean those men consorting with fallen women here tonight, the MPs disporting themselves, the aldermen and aristocrats observing a satanic ritual that murders innocent maidens? No, I will not let that alone.” He held up his chained hands. “Do you know the difference between you and me, Donald? Your wrists have been chained since the very beginning.”
“That’s it. Get him out of here,” Swanson said, thrusting Barker toward one of the constables.
Reluctantly, I held out my own wrists. The cold steel of the Hiatt darbies closed about them. I was going to a jail cell, something I had sworn to myself would never happen again.
The constables marched us past the mausoleum to the dock. It had been quiet when we passed here earlier, but all was chaos now. The steam launch that had brought the party was gone, leaving a dozen or more carousers and their female companions stranded. At least the gentlemen had the manners to lend their old-fashioned coats to the partly clad women. It was chilly on the river, with a fog settling in.
Our plans were set at naught. Who knew where Ona Bellovich had been taken, or if Miacca had been the man in the cape and goat mask. There was no opportunity for us to save her now. As we were loaded onto the police launch, I thought any chance of this case ending well was over.
“Hello, gentlemen,” a man said, as we were thrust into a seat. He came forward and gave us a slight smile under his impossibly black mustache. It was Inspector Dunham of the Thames Police.
30
We were on our way back to London in A police launch destined for a jail cell or the interrogation room in Scotland Yard. The darbies around my wrists were cold, and the fog had spread over the surface of the Thames like icing on a cake. We had punted here slowly, but were speeding back, thanks to the powerful boiler on the police steam launch. I was about as wretched as a man could be, knowing I would be in a cell soon. So why, I wondered, did Cyrus Barker seem so cheerful?
“If your constables are going to arrest a fellow,” he said over the thrumming of the engine, “they would do well to check his pockets.”
So saying, he reached inside his coat as both constables lunged at him. However, he came up with nothing more dangerous than his sealskin tobacco pouch.