I leaned forward and supplied the secret word: “Mitten.”
The coach again continued on its journey up the path.
Matilda said, “Do they not open the door? How do they know who is inside?”
“That is precisely the point; nobody is to know who is riding in any given carriage. This precaution is taken to ensure anonymity; nobody will actually see your face until you are safely within the confines of the club. The same secrecy holds true when you leave. Many visitors rent hansom cabs rather than take their own coaches to ensure they are not identified through association with specific vehicles.”
Matilda furrowed her brow. “Are these men hiding in the bushes or are there little guard posts along the way?”
I shrugged. “I’ve been told it’s forbidden to look, so I don’t look.”
“Boys play the most peculiar games,” Matilda said, peeking out from behind the curtain covering the window.
As the coach achieved the summit, I felt us round the building and come to rest at the side entrance. I reached for the door handle. “Come, now.”
Stepping down from the carriage, I offered my hand to Matilda to guide her down the steps.
Bram glanced around the small enclosure. “The secrecy continues.”
He was right, of course. The side entrance of the Hellfire Club was outfitted with walls and a roof which butted up directly against the coach with heavy curtains sealing out the outside world and defining a path from coach to the interior of the club, which curious eyes could not see in or out.
“The location of the club is a closely guarded secret, and this side entrance allows members to ferry guests in without revealing its address. Come, this way.”
Once inside, I led them through a short tunnel illuminated by gas lamps set in the stone walls on either side. Ahead, voices filled the air, a dozen or more. I always found it difficult to tell how many I was hearing due to the way sound bounced off the walls.
As we entered the main hall on the first floor, eyes fell upon us, mostly on Matilda and Bram, for I was recognized by a number of familiar faces. No verbal greetings were exchanged, for that was not the members’ custom. At most, there was a slight nod of one’s head.
“Is that . . .” Matilda said softly.
I followed her gaze to a rather attractive man standing amongst a group of four others engaged in what appeared to be a heated discussion. I could not make out his words, but judging by the redness of his face, the topic was not a pleasant one. “Yes, that is Arthur Guinness. The man he is addressing is William Wilde, Willie and Oscar’s father. This will be interesting.”
“Oh, blast,” Bram muttered behind me.
I turned to him. “What is it?”
“The man over in the corner there, with the cigar, that is Sheridan Le Fanu.”
“The owner of the Evening Mail?”
Bram nodded. “He is also its editor. Probably best that he does not see me here. I still owe him a review.”
I took Bram and Matilda by the arms and led them through the crowd, granting wide berth to Le Fanu as we passed on our way to the staircase at the back of the room. A hefty man in a black bowler hat stood at the foot of the stair, blocking our path to the second floor. He eyed all three of us curiously, his gaze lingering just a bit too long on my sister. Like his eyebrows, his mustache was thick, black, and bushy. His attempts to tame it with wax caused the hairs to jut out randomly in protest. His hand kept attending to it, endeavoring to smooth out the wild mess, but his efforts made matters worse. “Only select members are permitted upstairs,” he finally intoned in a rich Irish brogue.
“We’re here to speak with Arminius Vambéry,” I told him. “He’s expecting us.”
The man considered this request for a moment. “Wait here.”
He climbed the stairs, favoring his right leg with a pronounced limp.
“Did you get word to Vambéry? How is