Heathen/Nemesis (18 page)

Authors: Shaun Hutson

BOOK: Heathen/Nemesis

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‘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 nodded 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?

‘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.