Damnation and Hellfire - Chapter Seven
It astounded Jules to discover that he'd accumulated over three pounds in tips in less than a half-hour's time. His immediate job, or so he'd been informed by a footman of his own age - William - who'd taken a position at the club only a few days before, was to take the key given to him by the head footman. With that in hand, he was to assist the club member and his companion to the correct room, unlock the door, hand over the key, take graciously whatever tip was offered, and return to the line until he should be assigned to escort another member. Something had also been said about surrendering a percentage of his tips to the head footman, but he hadn't caught all of that. This was certainly something he'd have to discuss with Passepartout.
His feelings about the situation were mixed. Although the maids - or footmen, in at least one case - didn't seem unwilling to accompany club members to the private rooms to which he'd escorted them, he'd been passed by at least one other escort who carried a protesting woman over his shoulder and another whose burden seemed either completely drunk or insensate. Both times he'd stepped forward to intervene, and both times an older footman placed a hand on his shoulder and dragged him back into line. At the first instance he'd been told to, "Keep your mouth shut and do as you're told." The second occurrence had merited him no warning, but a stern glare. William had murmured something about "behaving" and "keeping your name off the list," but couldn't be encouraged to say more on the matter.
There was, however, at least one other piece of advice from William that saved him no end of trouble. "If they ask yer, tell 'em yer otherwise engaged shortly but pra'haps later," his new friend had warned. It had made little sense until the first time he was approached by a club member who'd arrived without a companion on his arm. The man had walked the line of footmen, paused in front of Jules, and asked, "Young man, are you free?"
Jules had barely stammered the phrase William had given him, unable to stop the blush that rose to his cheeks. The club member had smiled and caught his gloved hand. Pressing a coin into it, he'd whispered, "Perhaps later, then."
He'd been stunned by the exchange and hadn't thought to be indignant until well after the man had wandered off with another footman. "Let's see?" asked William, prying at his fingers, and Jules had not only shown him the gold half crown, but had made a gift to him of it as well. He couldn't bring himself to add it to the other coins he'd collected in his waistcoat pocket and quickly learned to find a reason to leave the line of footmen at the first sign of an unaccompanied club member.
Jules would have left the club at once, but he'd promised Rebecca and Passepartout he'd see what information he could gather for at least an hour. He settled for keeping an eye on the grandfather clock on the second floor landing, silently urging it to move just a little bit faster. The club might be unsavory, resembling what he suspected an elite brothel might be like, but he'd seen no sign of any criminal activity or the evil machinations that heralded the involvement of the League of Darkness. For Fogg to want to spend his time in a place like this was contrary to everything Jules knew about his friend. And yet - he was forced to remind himself - there were aspects to Fogg's nature that he might never understand.
He was at the point of excusing himself for a call of nature and slipping out to the rendezvous at the rear of the kitchen, when he became aware of a disturbance on the lower level. Jules joined several of the other footmen at the stair railing, arriving just in time to hear the sound of applause as a man turned and bowed on the stairway, a woman slung over his shoulder.
Recognizing Fogg wasn't difficult - Jules had seen him dressed earlier that evening - but it was the arrogance and ease of the bow that decided him. Nor could he help but determine Fogg's companion was Rebecca due to the color of her hair. His throat tight, he hurried to the desk and asked, "Key for the gentleman on the stairs?"
The head footman eyed him for a long moment, then lifted a brass key off a peg from a board and handed it to Jules. Somehow the half crown in Jules' palm disappeared even as he received the key.
Jules stood to one side as Fogg approached the desk. He drew in a breath, confirming that the woman in question was Rebecca. She recognized him as well, surreptitiously lifting a finger to her lips to caution him to silence. But Jules looked away, ignoring her instruction - he had a plan.
"The name is 'Fogg'."
"Here, sir," said Jules. He held the key to the room aloft between his gloved fingers and glared at Fogg. He hadn't known what condition his friend might be in, but he seemed none-the-worse for drink and quite sober. If anything, his eyes held annoyance and perhaps anger.
"Carry on."
The instructions were plain - with the other footmen around, Jules realized his options were limited. He led Fogg down the corridor, turned at the intersection, and passed three more rooms before stopping at the door indicated by the number incised upon the key. Not certain if there was anyone else around, he followed the procedure he'd used for the past hour by unlocking the door, pushing it open, then holding the key for Fogg to take from him. "Do you need--?"
"No, thank you. I can handle the wench on my own."
Something flew at him from Fogg's hand - in ducking, he missed his chance of slipping into the room before the door closed. He grabbed for the knob, but it refused to turn; Fogg had already placed the key in the lock on the opposite site of the door.
"Merde!" Jules placed his ear against the door, but it was too solid to hear what was going on inside the room. He couldn't stand out there in the hall - it would attract attention. Perhaps the head footman would have another key that he could use? If he claimed Fogg had dropped something in the hall . . . ?
His foot touched something as he shifted - the coin Fogg had thrown at him. Gritting his teeth, he bent down to retrieve it.
"You! Come here."
He straightened and saw the head footman and three junior footmen in the adjoining corridor. The head footman beckoned to him. Tucking the coin in his waistcoat pocket absently, Jules approached the man.
"Come with me," said the head footman.
Jules turned and gestured back toward the corridor he'd just left, "But the gentleman--?"
"Can be handled by someone else. Come with me."
The time to meet Rebecca and Passepartout at the kitchen door had passed. He knew where Rebecca was - she wasn't leaving immediately. And as angry as he might be at Fogg for any number of reasons, he was certain that Fogg wouldn't harm Rebecca. Rebecca herself had cautioned him to silence, so perhaps there was more to this than he knew?
With a shrug, Jules fell in behind the other footmen. They went farther down the gas-lit hallway than he'd been before, climbed the backstairs to the third floor, and then another flight of stairs to the fourth. They paused at a formidable-looking door just beyond the top of the stairs - it was banded and fitted with iron. The footman took a ring of keys from his belt, placed one in the lock, and turned it.
A full moon shone through the dormer - the only light in the room. The head footman paused inside the door, lit a candle, and then handed it to one of the junior footmen. Even as the footman began to light the candles in the four holders, Jules was handed two opened wine bottles.
"Fill all the goblets," instructed the head footman. "And mind you, no spills!"
The room took on definition as the candles were lit; a lectern stood at the center of the room and three sets of seats, in groups of four, resembling gothic wood choir stalls stood against the walls. The carved wooden seats were heavy and dark, so that their red velvet cushions and padding stood out in stark relief. Small stools or tables were set before each seat and it was there that Jules spotted the goblets he'd been instructed to fill - twelve, one for each of the seats, and then one more on the center lectern.
Jules filled the goblet on the lectern first, overly conscious of the other footmen as they moved around the room. The slightest sound seemed to fill the enclosed space - the hiss of the candle wicks as they were set alight, the wine being poured into each goblet, and the whisper of a footman's whisk as he dusted the cushions on the seats. Shadows conflicted with one another even with the candles lit, creating deep pools of darkness in the corners beneath the low-hanging tie beams.
He continued with the goblets near the door, noticing how the moonlight from the dormer window pooled around the lectern and small kneeler beside it. This was a place of secrets and darkness, as if light were forbidden. The head footman unlocked a compartment at the base of the lectern and removed a large book. This was set on a holder beside the lectern with no small amount of care. The silence persisted, only the whispers of their movements accompanying their actions. The junior footmen came and went on small errands - the clink of metal announced the arrival of small incense burners that were attached to the candles, an imperfection on the lectern was pointed out by the head footman and attended to with a cloth, the small tables were adjusted, seats were smoothed . . . .
Having reached the last of the goblets, Jules realized that he was completely hidden in the corner shadow of the room. A glance upward confirmed that the tie beams were low enough to reach with a little effort. He set the two wine bottles and his shoes down in the corner and stood upon the arm of one of the choir stalls - he could always claim to have spotted a cobweb if seen. When there was no cry of protest, he grabbed hold of the beam, edged his way up the back of the heavy wood frame of the choir stall, and hauled himself upon the flat length of wood. The beam was wide enough for him to rest safely upon it, the black breeches and frock coat blending into the shadows. Pulling off his powdered wig, he rested it on the beam behind him, not wanting it to catch the light.
The rafter support was directly before him, obscuring his view, but also providing cover from anyone casting a casual glance upward from the other side of the room. By tilting his head, he could see most of the room below from his ceiling perch.
The head footman clapped his hands together sharply. Jules peered out from behind the support beam and saw there were only two junior footmen left in the room - they moved quickly toward the doorway at the head footman's wordless command - knowing that if his absence were to be discovered, now would be the time.
Pausing at the doorway, the head footman turned to look back across the room. Jules held his breath and ducked behind the support beam, certain that he'd been spotted - but there was no call or cry of discovery. When he peered out again he saw the head footman brushing a spot on the lectern with his coat sleeve, frowning. The offending smudge having been removed, the servant glanced once more around the room, then nodded in satisfaction before leaving.
Jules released his breath only after the door had closed behind the head footman. He was more than a little tempted to drop from his perch and investigate the book, but if the door opened there'd be no place for him to hide. That the room had been prepared with such care meant that something of import was going to happen, and it was likely to be just the sort of thing they'd come to the club to discover. He rested his head on his forearm and resigned himself to an indefinite wait.
Thankfully, the sound of the door being opened occurred sooner rather than later. Jules leaned cautiously from cover to see hooded figures entering, clad in maroon robes and wearing matching satin eye masks and gloves. They filed in silently as if in some pre-determined order - he counted and found that eleven of the twelve spaces were filled, one left empty at the center before the lectern. The robed figures stood before their chairs.
A twelfth man - also hooded, his robes and mask black - entered the room and stepped directly to the lectern. A wave of his hand signaled the others to assume their seats, the barest of whispers accompanying the movement of their robes.
The door had been closed, the head footman standing beside it. The black robed figure pointed toward the door. "A new acolyte petitions to join us. Will you give him a hearing, brothers?"
Jules caught hold of the beam, startled when the assembly tapped against the wood armrests, giving their assent.
"Then let him enter."
The footman bowed, opened the door and stepped aside. The man who entered wore the same maroon robes as the others, but his hood wasn't drawn over his head, his mask resting by its ties around his neck. Jules barely noticed the exit of the head footman, his attention centered utterly on the newcomer --
Phileas Fogg.
"Have you accepted this acolyte's tithe, brothers?' asked the man at the lectern.
Again the seated figures struck the wooden arms of their chairs, the sound echoing even through the beam on which Jules had positioned himself.
"Very well." The leader held out a hand to Fogg. "Are you prepared to declare your worthiness to join this assembly?"
"I am," said Fogg, the arrogant tilt of his head stating in no uncertain terms that his approval could be considered little more than a formality. When he was gestured toward the padded bench at the foot of the lectern, he knelt upon it.
The figure in black lifted the leather-bound book that Jules had seen earlier from the holder and opened it to a marked place. He then held it before Fogg. "Announce your sins to your brethren."
There was only the briefest pause before Fogg began to read. "On the fifteenth of March, 1859, I, Phileas Fogg, did engage one Lowell Carson of Manchester in multiple games of chance and through manipulation of the cards did fraudulently take fifteen thousand pounds in wager from him. When Carson accused me of cheating, I challenged him to a duel by pistols, to be satisfied at dawn the following morning. Carson's daughter - unmarried and a virgin - approached me that night to offer her apology on her father's behalf. When I would not accept, she offered me her body in discharge of the obligation. She surrendered herself to me without complaint. The following--"
The assembly tapped their hands against the chair arms again, as if in applause, a muttered, "Hear, hear!" and "Well done!" adding to the dim. Fogg inclined his head as if in polite acceptance of the compliments.
Jules lowered his own head on his arm and closed his eyes, a knot forming in the pit of his stomach at the recitation. Phileas Fogg was a man of honor - he was certain of it. Had anyone repeated those charges to him, he would have denied them vehemently. But to hear Fogg deliver the words in such a calm voice, to admit not only to cheating a man out of money and taking advantage of a woman, but then to accept congratulations for the act?
It was beyond his comprehension.
"Brothers!"
Taking a breath, Jules forced himself to watch the proceedings. The figure in the black robe held up his gloved hand until quiet was restored, then gestured toward Fogg. "Proceed, Mr. Fogg."
"The following dawn, I left Miss Carson abed to meet her father on the field of honor. We proceeded without seconds. My first shot took him through the heart - he was dead before he struck the ground. I then took leave to visit Mr. Carson's widow and brother. I accepted from them a settlement of his gambling debt, as well as a further thousand pounds in exchange for my testimony that no accusation had been made, no duel had been fought, and that Lowell Carson had died of heart failure in my presence. So I do swear."
Again, the thumping applause and accolades. Jules swallowed hard, whispering, "No," against his clenched fist. True, Fogg could seem irrational at times with his temper on hair trigger, as had happened in the townhouse this evening. There was also a place within his heart where Jules acknowledged that Fogg's service as an agent for his government must have led him to desperate acts of violence, but he felt he didn't have the right to sit judgment on the man for such things. As for what he'd just heard - Fogg could never do that. This was not the man he knew.
"Are you prepared to sign your statement?"
"I am."
Fogg's certitude sent a shiver through Jules. He leaned out from his perch again to see that the glove had been removed from Fogg's left hand, which was being offered to the man at the lectern, palm up. The black-robed figure drew a small knife from his robes. Holding Fogg's hand steady, he slashed lightly across the pad of the thumb.
Jules covered his mouth with his hands, muffling his gasp of surprise. The bleeding thumb was held over a small, black ceramic bowl. After a few seconds, the black-robed figure wrapped a strip of cloth bandage around Fogg's cut finger. The book was placed flat upon the lectern. The black-robed man handed Fogg a quill pen and stepped back, allowing him access to the book.
The pen scratched against the paper, Fogg forced to dip into the bowl frequently to collect the blood that had pooled there. It could not have been the best of inks, for it took some time, and yet there was no cough or mutter among the membership. Finally, Fogg finished and laid the pen to rest atop the book.
"Gentlemen," said the black-robed man, grabbing hold of Fogg's left hand and holding it in the air. "Raise your glasses to toast Phileas Fogg, reborn this night as Balberith, our Master of Arms, our sword of vengeance. To the Hellfire Club!"
"The Hellfire Club!" came the ringing response, the members grabbing hold of the goblets he'd filled earlier, rising to their feet and toasting Fogg. Some took small sips, others drained the cups, but every man among them threw back his hood, slipped the mask from his face, and stepped forward to take Fogg's hand.
Jules lay prone on the beam, listening to murmured introductions and words of congratulations with a faint heart. He pushed his brain to come up with some rational reason for Fogg to act in this manner, to say these things. This sort of a gathering would demand more proof than a mere sworn statement - the facts would have been verified. Which meant that what was said had been proven to be true.
This could easily have been some plan in which Rebecca and the Secret Service was involved, but . . . no. Her discussions with him at the townhouse, in the cab, and even after they arrived here assured him that she knew nothing of this and that her concern was only for Fogg and his well being.
The answer that he reached - Fogg had committed the acts he'd sworn to and had joined this group of his own will - was untenable. He needed more information.
Jules also needed to move - his left foot had fallen asleep and a cramp was going to develop in that same leg if he didn't get a chance to stretch it soon.
"Brothers, I think it's time for us to remove our robes and adjourn to the main salon for the general festivities. Please remember that we'll complete the initiation after midnight in the lower chambers - Brother Ressier, you will be expected to be sober this time?"
A cadence of rough laughter rang through the room. Jules heard the door open and remained where he was, grateful that he'd no longer be stranded in the air. He remembered the location of the room in which he'd last seen Rebecca - he'd try there, first. If he couldn't get her out, he'd collect Passepartout and together they might be able to figure out what--
". . . Certainly . . . ."
Fogg's voice.
Having to settle for doing little more than bending his knee to relieve the impending cramp, Jules again peered out from his hiding place. The other members were leaving, again pulling their hoods and masks into place as they exited the room. The man in black, however, had drawn Fogg, to one side - they were obviously waiting for the others to leave. Only after the footman had left, closing the door behind him, did the leader of the group speak.
"You found . . . to keep you entertained this evening, I trust?"
Fogg was smiling and turned away slightly. "I apologize for the scene in the salon--"
"No apology necessary. Such things . . . cachet to the club - it's good . . . general membership."
The men were on the other side of the room from him - as long as they faced the door, he couldn't hear them properly. Wrapping one arm around the far side of the beam, Jules leaned lower, hoping that he could pick up more of the conversation. Simultaneously, he inched his body further along the beam and closer to the support. He might be high enough so that he could make his way around it without being seen . . . .
A sliver of wood slipped through his glove and tore into the skin of his left hand. It was an instinctive reaction to release the beam, but he was leaning too far over the other side for the grip of his right hand to compensate. Jules managed to reach up with his right hand long enough to change his position, so he dropped to the carpet feet first and sprawled on his back, instead of landing on his head.
Before he could do more than scramble to his feet, they were on him. Fogg grabbed the back collar of his frock coat with his left hand, holding him in place.
Swallowing, Jules stared at the man in the black robes, then back at Fogg. His friend's expression was cold, his eyes distant - he might easily have been looking at a stranger. "Fogg?" he asked, unable to keep the uncertainty from his voice. "What's going on?"
The man in the black robes drew in a breath and frowned. "You know this man?"
"Yes," said Fogg, the word cold with disdain. "Unfortunately, I do."
The man again withdrew the small knife from his robes; Jules could see flecks of Fogg's blood remained on the blade. "It seems almost indecent to press you into service so quickly." He held out the knife to Fogg, handle first. "Consider this your first undertaking in your new position. Finish him."
Fogg took the knife from the other man without any sign of hesitation. Jules ducked from his friend's grasp and tried to run, but Fogg went with the movement, tripping him and pushing his shoulder. It was a nightmare in slow motion, a sequence of desperate movements that ended up with him on the floor, his back against the flat side of the lectern and Fogg pinning his left shoulder against the wood.
But Jules didn't really believe it was truly happening until he felt the cold, sharp edge of the blade against the skin of his throat.
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End of Chapter 7
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