Free The Hellfire Conspiracy by Will Thomas Page A

believe—”
    “That man, from the time he is born is at heart selfish and any attempt at utopia shall fail miserably. Heaven shall not be attained on earth.”
    “But they are helping, sir, are they not? Isn’t Brother McClain over in Mile End Road helping?”
    “He is, but he is no socialist. His beliefs are above reproach.”
    I wanted to say that that meant they were in line with his. McClain was Barker’s sparring partner and friend. A former heavyweight champion, he now ran a mission in the East End that was known to have some success with alcohol and opium addicts.
    “But they do no harm, at least. The people are fed and cared for.”
    “I’ll grant you that, lad. Miss Hill has the command of a field marshal.” My employer took a meerschaum from his smoking cabinet and lit a vesta. “But back to Miacca. He’s a depraved monster.”
    “You think he is a monster, then.”
    “He is an aberration. He has abdicated all rights to be considered human. He should be hunted down like a mad dog and shot. I have feared something like this would happen. Society continues to grow more and more depraved.”
     
    There was a cold supper awaiting us when we arrived home. Mac had set out potted beef and slices of ham on the table, with a thick wedge of cheddar and a loaf of bread. He had brought up one of his small casks of homemade stout from the cellar. It was all perfectly acceptable food, but it was public house fare. After a hard day, I expected one of Etienne’s feasts, quails stuffed with pâté de foie gras or salmon in aspic.
    “What’s going on here?” I asked Mac, pointing at the table.
    Jacob Maccabee had been making a show of it, acting as if this were simply another night. He wilted under my questioning.
    “Mr. Dummolard has quit.”
    “Quit!”
    “Yes, sir. If I recall it correctly, he said henceforth he shall feed the rats of the city, who have a finer appreciation of cuisine than you two…er, gentlemen. He left something for you there.”
    Mac pointed to my plate. There was a spongy looking mass there, yellow speckled with black.
    “An omelet?” I asked, looking at it dubiously.
    “Yes, sir. It is the very one he made for you this morning, the one you left behind. Mr. Dummolard took it very hard, I’m afraid. He brought in the truffle specially. In fact, he made a great show of apologizing to it that it gave its life for such an undeserving wastrel. That’s close to what he said. My French isn’t good, and he was shouting most of it.”
    I was appalled, of course, but my employer merely sat down and began to help himself to the potted meat. Barker’s ward had come into the garden while Dummolard was preparing the omelet that morning, but I daren’t bring it up to him now. I wasn’t about to get involved in an argument between my employer and his cook. “Oh, do take this away, Mac. It’s disgusting.”
    “Etienne was long overdue for a blowup,” Barker said. “In fact, it was your fondness for his cooking that has kept him mollified all this time. He shall return eventually and act as if nothing happened.”
    “I could go to his restaurant to apologize,” I offered.
    “It would only make matters worse. He must explode every now and then. You merely gave him an excuse.”
    Mac cleared his throat discreetly. “Mr. Dummolard was also put out by the cavalier manner in which you consumed the rashers and eggs he made this morning, sir.”
    “Confound it,” Barker exclaimed. “I’m not going to be dictated to by my cook. I didn’t as captain of the Osprey and I don’t intend to now. Sit down and eat, Thomas. There’ll be no fancy Parisian cooking for you tonight.”
    We ate in silence with only the clinking of cutlery on china for company. In the middle of the meal, Barker evinced a hope that Harm was “getting on” up in Yorkshire. I took it for a rhetorical question and did not answer. Then a question occurred to me and I broke the silence again.
    “Shall you tell the DeVeres