The Dublin Hellfire Club
Chapter One
County Dublin – Winter 2025
Ghost
If you take the easy path up Montpelier Hill, you will reach the top in half an hour. Perhaps you will be brave and choose the steeper road. It is twice as quick. You fight your way up, heart pounding – you are not as fit as you once were. As you clamber from rock to rock, cheerful walkers going downhill check up on you.
‘I’m fine,’ you pant.
Frazzled hair sticks to your wet face, and you pull the strands out of your mouth. If only you had worn hiking boots, instead of your flimsy plimsolls. You slip on the damp leaves and, clutching wildly at an old tree root, just managing to stop yourself from falling.
In the end, it only takes fifteen heart-palpitating minutes.
As you reach the summit, pushing through the overgrown bushes, you are panting. There is a gentle slope to the top of the mound, so you can catch your breath. At the peak, you find a ruined building with a broken cenotaph standing nearby, its jagged point piercing the lowering clouds. The two wings of the stone house resemble arms spreading out to embrace the wet earth.
The hysterical laughter of children bubbles through the gaping windows, and their waiting parents tell garbled stories about the place.
‘Then the traveller looked down, and he saw the forked tail under the table,’ one man says, who wears an angry red windbreaker. ‘And what do you know?’ He pauses, letting the drama build. ‘He was playing cards with the devil himself.’
Some of the parents laugh, but others shudder and glance anxiously over to the ruin.
You go inside the house – into the darkness.
Torches flicker over the stairwell, shining from mobile phones held by children on the floor above. Standing in the mildewed hall, where moss creeps over the grey stone walls, you try to imagine what the place would have been like. You walk over and climb into one of the niches in the wall, like one of the gargoyles. The stone feels icy against the bare skin of your shoulder, and smudges of slime cling to your black dress.
Flashes of that other world dance around you: a screaming girl flying down the stairs, a bloodied shirt, and a man with flint eyes and a saturnine smile. The old hunting lodge, the place they call The Hellfire Club, although it had another name once, holds many secrets. Not all are remembered.
If you look up, you might see me at the top of the stairs, all dressed in grey. I am waiting for you, holding a bloodied dagger in my hand.
Chapter Two
Dublin – Winter 1739
Ada
It started to drizzle as I crossed the bridge over the River Liffey, hurrying towards The Eagle Tavern. Cork Hill was a grimy part of town with rickety houses bunched together and, when it rained, which it so often did, the streets let off a festering stench.
I feared, by now, I might be nearly as noxious from pelting across town, but it could not be helped. A woman on Greek Street had supplied me with a new crystal ball, after Perry had gambled away my other one, so the trip was worth it.
Last night, my brother had lost at piquet. First, he dropped one hand, and after that he appeared to lose confidence in himself. He kept on losing, until the money ran out, and he started to cast our meagre possessions onto the pile. My crystal ball had been the last to go. As he plucked it from my reluctant fingers, hot tears stung my eyes. I blinked them away, raising my chin, and I kept my mouth pressed in a thin line. Anything to stop the torrent of angry words from bubbling over. It was better he took my crystal ball than to let him know about the shillings I had secretly sewn into the hem of my dress.
If I had asked, I expect Perry would have hurried across town for me today to fetch the crystal ball. He was usually penitent after his nights of drinking. But he had started his early shift at The Eagle, which would pay for our rooms, such as they were. We had the use of a dingy attic above the inn, where wisps of straw were spread thinly over the bare boards, and, in the darkness, I could hear tiny feet skittering across the floor. Last night, I woke to find the bright eyes of a rat peering back at me from my pillow.
I had not been able to sleep again after that.
The pub was not a pleasant place, but the rooms were inexpensive and the landlord was kind. Perry and I had stayed in worse places in London, where paying for lodgings, even in two bare rooms at the top of a grimy house in Bow, cost us most of my earnings.
As I neared The Eagle, I spotted Shan and Lachlan standing outside the tavern, engaged in an earnest discussion. They were both well over six-foot, and muscular, which they had to be to perform their acrobatic displays. Lachlan was red headed and Shan had dark hair and eyes, and a pointed beard.
Shan beckoned me over. ‘All this rain,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘The stables are flooded. I doubt we’ll be going on.’ The Eagle had a courtyard at the back, where the Strong Men gave their performances: wrestling matches, acrobatic feats, and mock battles with wooden swords.
The deluge would mean another day’s earnings lost. Poor Shan. I was fond of the whole group, but Shan was my favourite. His warm brown eyes were full of kindness.
‘Could you try doing some of the acts inside?’ I felt I had to suggest something, as they were looking so disheartened.
‘We’d be in your way,’ Shan said, but hope brightened his face.
‘Never mind that,’ I insisted, pushing away the fear that Perry might complain. There wasn’t a huge amount of room inside The Eagle for cartwheels or wrestling, but it was better than nothing. ‘I’ll speak to Michael about it.’
I nodded to them and ducked under the low lintel of the doorway of the tavern. Inside, it was oppressively warm with condensation dripping down the windows. The ceiling was low, with heavy beams. Behind the oak bar was a large mirror and rows upon rows of bottles – mostly gin. On bright days, the bottles sparkled in the sunshine, making rainbows on the floor, but today, no glimmers brightened the gloomy afternoon.
The bar was nearly empty. Only a few ancient regulars, Conor and Seán, sat by the far window, nursing pints of ale. I nodded a curt greeting to them. Of the two, Conor was the less appealing. He would drink steadily throughout the day, only to speed up at closing time. Then he would start being overly familiar with any woman in the place, and Michael would have to turf him out. Conor would return again the next day, sidling in as if nothing had happened. He was not red-faced and pot-bellied like Seán, but pale and wiry, and he moved as softly as a cat. If he crept up to the attic where I slept, no one would hear him moving on the stairs. I could imagine waking to find Conor’s gaunt face peering down at me, just as I had found the rat last night.
A shiver ran over my skin.
Conor glanced up, his pale blue eyes meeting mine. In the depths of his gaze flashed an expression of pure lust.
I beat a hasty retreat to my brother’s side.
Perry stood behind the bar, casting dice, with a tankard of beer by his right hand. His eyes were bloodshot; he must be weary from the night before. My heart went out to my brother. No matter how ridiculous his behaviour was, he was still the only family I had, and he was the only person who could remember our mother with me. Some nights, if he was in a good mood, he would drown out the noise of the scampering rats with stories of the time we lived in Kent, in a little cottage where our mother kept chickens, and we were happy. It felt like a lifetime ago, even though it was only two years since we had lost her.
I missed my mother with a dull ache that was stayed with me from morning to evening.
‘Where did you get to?’ Perry said. ‘I was worried.’
‘I had errands to run,’ I said, unwilling to get into a meandering explanation about the crystal ball, which was hanging heavily in the material pocket inside my dress.
‘Aren’t you supposed to tell me where you’re going?’ His voice took on a querulous tone, which made me suspect he had drunk too much beer. But it was so early in the day, I hoped I was wrong. ‘You can’t go wandering about on your own. What happens if you get abducted? I would be blamed.’ He raised his voice, addressing the room. ‘Don’t you all agree? It’s not safe for her to be gadding about–’
‘Oh, stick your head in a water bucket!’ I interrupted, shaking his arm. ‘I needed to collect a few things for tonight. Is Michael around?’
‘He’s out the back,’ Perry muttered. He picked up the dice and threw them, scowling at his low scores.
‘Still no sixes?’ I put my hand over the dice, quietening his hands. ‘Not too much play this evening, please, Perry? They have deep pockets these Dubliners.’
Perry flushed. He snatched up the dice. ‘Stop fussing over me.’ He threw again and again, cursing under his breath after each cast.
I bit my lip, watching him for a moment, trying to ignore the curious stares from Conor and Seán from across the room, then I turned and walked through the damp hallway and out into the courtyard.
The stench emanating from the stables was overpowering. Straw and refuse streamed in rivulets through the square. Michael was shovelling stones, trying to stop the water from filling the stables of his two favourite horses – Ginger, a bright-eyed mare, and Rapscallion, a black stallion. He stopped when he saw me, leaning his hand on the shovel. Ginger put her head out of the stable door, watching us.
‘Ada,’ Michael said. ‘That brother of yours lost five shillings to me over his shift. If he keeps it up there will be no point in me paying him.’ I cursed inwardly. Money ran through Perry’s fingers like water. ‘I hope you’ll be putting on a show tonight. You’ll be needing to count your shillings.’
‘Of course,’ I said, a shiver running up my spine. The Eagle got rowdy so quickly. It was often hard to make myself heard over the noise of the drinkers – let alone hold an audience’s attention. Things had been so different in London. With a few evenings performing each week at the Theatre Royal, I had a steady income, but that had been before the crackdown. Pamphlets left at the stage door had called my performance Blasphemy. But that was not right at all. I was trying to help people. On the night the pamphlets appeared, I had helped a grieving mother speak to her son one last time. Soon after that, any shows that were not approved by the government were closed, and we had to flee to Ireland.
If only we might be safe in Dublin, at least for a short time.
I looked back over at the landlord, who had returned to his shovelling, his tongue caught between his teeth. I had promised Shan I would say something about his act.
‘With all this rain, do you think the Strong Men can come inside tonight?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘I’m not in favour of it. It’s busy enough as it is without them jumping about.’
‘Please, Michael,’ I begged. ‘I’ll keep out of the way when they’re on.’
Wiping some sweat away with an old rag, Michael sighed. ‘We’ll see, we’ll see. Don’t worry me now. I have Ginger to see to.’ He moved into her stall, whispering lovingly to the horse, who whickered in response.
My mood brightened; Michael had not said no.
Dusk was falling and I needed to dress. I picked my way back across the effluent courtyard and ran up the rickety flights of stairs to the attic.
My outfit for the evening, a grey silk gown and a diaphanous shawl, was hanging on a hook by the window to air. I never touched either one during the day. In the daylight, I wore homespun gowns, like the barmaids and cook did. By night thought, I was an ashen ghost in enveloped in shimmering fabric.
Perry had also encouraged me to whiten my skin with greasepaint. As I opened the jar, the harsh metallic smell made me cough. I smeared some of it onto my fingers and dabbed it across my face. Too much and I would look ridiculous at close quarters. Some of the drinkers at The Eagle got a little too friendly. A few nights ago, a man – not a gentleman, but one of the travelling salesmen that had stopped at The Eagle to drink cheek by jowl with lords and ladies – had grabbed me and forced me onto his knee. He stroked my face, perhaps trying to work if I was, in truth, a ghost. I elbowed him and sent him sprawling, but not before Perry spotted what was happening. Half drunk, Perry chased the man around the bar. It was not until Michael threw the man out that I could get Perry to calm down. Even then, he brooded on the insult, bursting out with sudden rage, firing curses at anyone who would listen. I was almost relieved when my brother settled down to dicing with the regulars once more.
When my face was suitably painted, I wrapped the soft shawl around my shoulders. I held my candle-stub high to light my way down the staircase. The chill brushed my skin, sending a shudder through me, but I would soon warm up in the crush of people in the bar. As I neared the bottom of the stairs, the murmur of voices increased to a roar.
I paused for a moment.
Part of me wanted to run back upstairs, curl up in my bed and ignore the clamours from the crowd. They would be happy drinking. Perry would hardly miss me, when he had his dice to keep him occupied. My candle-stub fluttered its last, then it went out.
The smoke curled above me into the darkness.
I took a deep breath and pushed open the door. As I entered the bar, the gossamer fabric of my dress whispered behind me.
I wended my way through the mismatched tables, nodding to the regulars. After a few months dining in The Eagle, I knew many of the customers by sight, although I tried to avoid getting too friendly – it made it harder to preserve an air of mystery for my performances.
My brother, on the other hand, had no such concerns.
Perry was leaning against the bar and in full flow of conversation. Empty glasses littered the bar near them. He was three sheets to the wind. If only he was not setting up a game for later on in the evening. We had only my secret shillings left.
‘There you are,’ Perry shouted, waving an arm wildly. ‘Ada, come here. Mi’lord is keen to see your magic.’
I hurried over to Perry. His companion was leaning against the bar, in quite my brother’s own fashion. The man’s wig, lightly powdered, was a little askew.
He turned to me and bowed deeply, one hand held out stiffly behind him. ‘Lord Worsdale,’ he said. When he straightened, his navy eyes raked over me. I regarded him unsmilingly, not choosing to curtsey. ‘I hear you are able to speak to the dead.’
‘Sometimes,’ I replied.
It was hard to discern from his blank expression whether Lord Worsdale was sceptical about my statement or not.
‘You must meet Lord Rosse,’ he said eventually. ‘He has been searching for someone with your particular abilities.’
I had never heard of Lord Worsdale, but everyone from London to Dublin knew Lord Rosse by reputation, for he was gossiped about in taverns, and on street corners: Lord Rosse had a fearsome temper; Lord Rosse had killed five men in duels last year; Lord Rosse was the leader of The Hellfire Club, and he danced with the devil on midsummer night.
Before I could reply, the Strong Men, appeared from the stables to begin their routine: two sets of tumbles, ending in a pyramid. In such a confined space, it would be hard to land the pyramid. If one of the tumblers made a mistake, they would upset the nearest tables. There might be a riot.
My heart pounded, and I wrapped my shawl more closely around me.
When the smallest man flew to the top of the pyramid, balancing perfectly, I let out the breath I had been holding. They were going to be all right.
Under the cover of the rapturous applause, I turned to Perry. ‘Why are you gossiping about me?’
My brother looked down at me, his eyes squinting. ‘I wasn’t. I was telling him about your act. He asked. He was interested.’
‘Be careful,’ I said, glancing at the drinkers milling around us. ‘You never know who might be listening.’
It was instinct that made me say it, but when I glanced up to check the faces of the people around us, I found Lord Worsdale watching me with a dangerously proprietorial look in his eye.
