When they pulled onto the grounds of the manor, Van noticed the family’s coat of arms. The words Post tot naufragia portum (“a haven after so many shipwrecks”) served as the family motto.
Once inside the majestic home, my father was struck by the smell – a mustiness that had seeped for centuries into every crack and crevice of the dwelling. Immense portraits lining walls, elaborate draperies, exquisite furnishings, scented candelabras – nothing could overcome that first impression. Van sniffed and covered his nose.
“My American friend,” Victor Montagu said when he greeted Van as he emerged from a shadowy hallway. “How was your trip?”
“It was good, Sir Montagu,” Van said, looking up at the man approaching him.
At forty-six years of age, the viscount was a striking figure – tall, with broad shoulders and a slender build. “Welcome to my family’s home,” he said, instructing the manservant to show Van to his room.
Over the next few weeks, Van received a thorough education in English history and politics as he and the viscount alternated their time between Hinchingbrooke and London. Victor Montagu had become very involved in politics as a young man and had a wealth of knowledge to bestow upon his guest. He had served as the private secretary to Stanley Baldwin, a well-respected lord president of the council, and had written several books by the time Van met him. He had also served in World War II before being elected to Parliament. Van absorbed every word the viscount said, storing each new bit of information in his memory, to be revisited later with William, especially the fact that Queen Elizabeth and King James I had slept within these walls.
But Van had trouble sleeping within those walls. Each night, he listened intently to the sounds of old boards creaking, cracking, as if someone or something was walking the halls. The sounds would get closer and closer, louder and louder, until Van huddled under a blanket in the corner of his room. Watching.
Waiting.
For hours.
And then morning would dawn and the sun would cast its reassuring light across the room. Van would finally close his eyes and sleep until breakfast was served, where he usually ate only a piece of bacon or two with his tea.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Victor asked as he wolfed down baked beans, sausage, bacon, eggs, and fried bread.
“Mother rarely cooks breakfast, so I’m not used to eating a lot in the morning.”
“Americans,” Victor said, laughing. “You don’t know what you’re missing. Well, at least the tea will keep you going.”
Van nodded. He liked English tea, if for no other reason than that it was part of the culture he so desperately wanted to adopt.
“I’ve got something special in store for you,” Victor announced. “We’re going to London for the queen’s coronation.”
Van was delighted. The Montagu family, through its royal connections, fed his Anglophile appetite and emboldened him to model the walk, talk, and style of dress of his blue-blooded hosts. And on June 2, 1953, my father stood in Trafalgar Square, amid the throngs of fawning people who had gathered to watch Elizabeth II ride by in the spectacular horse-drawn coach that would take her to Westminster Abbey, where she was crowned in the coronation theater in the same chair in which kings had been crowned since Edward, in 1274. For Van, this was the thrill of a lifetime, but he would later express his displeasure to William that he had been stuck outside with the commoners instead of seated with the viscount’s family. After all, he was related, he insisted.
Upon their return to Hinchingbrooke House the following month, Montagu resumed his tutelage of his American friend.
“I need to sort through some of the old letters and documents that my father stored away. Would you like to help?”
“Yes, sir,” Van said. “I’d love to.”
Van followed the viscount into an office furnished with heavy wooden desks and bookshelves lining the walls. He reverently searched the titles, drawn to the bound leather covers and the parchment paper inside.
“You can touch them,” Victor said, noticing Van’s expression.
Van pulled one from a shelf. Carefully, he opened it, letting his fingers run across the texture of the pages. He noticed everything – the print, the binding, the yellowing. Victor let Van browse while he placed stacks of letters on a desk and began looking through them. “Look at this,” he said.
Van walked over and took the letter Victor handed him. It was written by Captain James Cook and addressed to John Montagu.
“John was the fourth Earl of Sandwich. You know, they named the sandwich after him,” Victor said, with a laugh. “He was a nefarious fellow, but it was his sponsorship of Captain Cook’s explorations that brought him the most notoriety. Do you know there are islands named after this house and John Montagu off the Australian coast?”
Van nodded. He had read everything he could about the family before he arrived.
“Was he really a member of the Hellfire Club?” Van ventured, turning the conversation to the subject he most wanted to discuss. He had come across this tidbit in his readings.
Sensing Van’s interest and enjoying his fascinated audience, Victor stood up and closed the door. He and Van talked for hours, discussing the club’s history and the rumors that had swirled around its members. “No one really knows what is true and what is not,” Victor said.
Over the next two months, Van learned everything he could about the club, and grew excited about sharing his newfound knowledge with William when he returned home. He quizzed the viscount relentlessly, tucking away each detail to be savored later. Amused, Montagu fed Van’s fantasies, unwittingly inspiring in his young friend a greater interest in the occult. The club allegedly comprised eighteenth-century English gentlemen who made sacrifices to Venus and Bacchus, animals, and sometimes nymphs. Van loved the rumors of orgies, debauchery, and sacrifices by noblemen such as Sir Francis Dashwood and the fourth Earl of Sandwich. Their motto, Fais ce que tu voudras (“Do what you will”), meant nothing was off-limits. Everything Van heard was the antithesis of his father’s teachings, and Van knew that Earl would have been none too pleased had he known how his son was utilizing his time in England.
The days passed by rapidly, and Van hated the thought of returning to the United States.
But then one night, as Van lay in his bed, unable to sleep once again, he listened to whispers of the past echoing through his room. Chilled by the damp air that pervaded the house and fearful of spirits that he was sure lurked nearby, he pulled his blanket tightly around him. When he heard the ominous sound of boards creaking in the hallway, he tensed. It sounded louder this time, more defined. He jumped from his bed and ran into the corner of the room. Using his blanket as a shield, he sank to the floor, hoping the sound would stop.
It did. Right outside his door.
Van watched in terror as the door opened slowly. An eerie orange glow from the lantern on the wall in the hallway spread into the room, illuminating a shadowy figure.
The next morning, he abruptly decided to cut his trip short and return home.
Before he left, Victor showed Van his family’s collection of ancient weaponry. He presented Van with a bronze mace, shaped like the head of a bull. Its mouth opened into a menacing grimace, and Van detected a pungent odor when he tried to look inside. My father politely thanked the viscount for the unusual gift and for inviting him to stay at Hinchingbrooke, but he couldn’t wait to get away from