THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (10 page)

For Herman, there is nothing to hear now, nothing to see in the darkness as he gets to work immediately on the cuffs - which, with the aid of a tiny key he has sequestered in his mouth, are discarded in a matter of seconds. Good. A few moments later, he has manipulated the side panel and slid silently out onto the floor - at which he hears with approval a frisson of unease already beginning to percolate through the audience - the muttering, the sighs, and even a muffled scream from a lady nearby. Someone in the orchestra is performing a suspenseful tremolo on a violin, soon to be joined by a drumroll to add to the suspense. Excellent.

Quickly, and with the lid now unfastened, he climbs back in. And here he stays, waiting in readiness, pacifying his breathing. He hopes that George will have swished away the curtain again as per instructions to reveal the unopened casket once more, and shortly afterwards, any moment now in fact, he will emerge - push away the lid and burst forth in triumph. But then, without warning and to his utter surprise, there comes a voice into his head - a voice of absolute clarity:
‘Herman, listen. The woman must be helped. You can help her.’

Herman tries to ignore it. Often in his meditations he has caught the occasional sibilance of a voice, usually just a faint sound on the periphery of his consciousness - but nothing at all like this, so cogent, as if someone were actually whispering in the darkness at his side. Had he not been encased in his coffin, he might well have believed it. Then the voice comes again, repeating:
‘Herman! Her daughter is alive. You must speak to her. Let her know!’

This is annoying. But then, worse, he is aware of the sounds of the curtain being swished back once more and of someone advancing on the coffin - George probably, with the axe. He can hear some cries of consternation among the audience - time to do it. Now! With one almighty thrust, he pushes away the lid above his head, then with one leap from his place of confinement quickly stands and jumps out - propelled upwards like a cork from a champagne bottle. With a loud clash of the cymbals, the orchestra, pipes up with renewed vigour to celebrate his survival and, as George lets the axe fall, applause and cheers of genuine appreciation ring out all around.

‘Amazing!’ ‘Fantastic!’ he hears them cry as he bows in acknowledgement. It has all gone far better than he could have anticipated - apart, that is, from those odd voices. He continues to feel somewhat shaken by those as he retreats to the room behind and accepts a welcome mugful of hot tea. Dubois is here too, he notices, preparing for his own performance and discussing his musical accompaniment with the pianist before - and it seems most out of character, Herman thinks - being summoned over to the door for a tête-à-tête with someone who has just appeared there. Dressed in a shabby raincoat and Trilby hat the newcomer looks awkward and out of place, like a reporter or journalist of some kind, yet seems to have an important message to impart. Curious, Herman sidles over closer, but all he can hear are vague statements to the effect of fulfilling a task of some kind, as if taking instructions from somebody important. Most strange.

With a porter commissioned with the removal of his equipment, Herman takes the opportunity to mingle among the guests in the ballroom. They are not remarking on the brilliance of his act, however, but are instead excited by the appearance of a man of exceptionally large girth and with an almost equally formidable beard who, cloaked and masked, has just entered with a small and distinguished party - and to which people are already whispering that this must surely be the Prince of Wales. Not only this, but Dubois himself has finally taken to the stage, as if he had been delaying his own performance until precisely the moment of the Prince’s arrival. He is to sing them one of his newest songs, he declares with gusto - though this, as the jaunty piano accompaniment strikes up, gives every impression of being nothing greater than a few lines of verse - more spoken, than sung - and tripping off the tongue in the refined and somewhat affected accent of an Oxbridge don:

I dreamt I spoke with the Grim Reaper chap,

I said when I die, do you think I’ll need a map?

No, no, old boy, he replied, don’t get in a flap,

The vicars and priests have made a dreadful mishap.

The landscape is empty, the lights are all gone.

The choir is all silent, not even a song,

At the end of your days, don’t trouble your head,

Because that’s all there is when your dead.

With ne’er a care for the person I’ve been,

I elected therefore for the crass and obscene,

A vocation in life of a blithe libertine,

Pursuing my pleasure wherever it’s seen.

To nowhere and nothing!

To a pyre and a coffin!

I no longer feel I’m misled,

Because that’s all there is when you’re dead.

No laws disobeyed you must keep,

No contests with goats and with sheep,

No sins to be punished, no angels to weep,

Not even a whimper, not even a bleat.

There’s nothing to fear,

No Devil comes near,

And when all of your worries have fled,

That’s all that there is when you’re dead.

So, I say, you should drink and be free!

Delight in the senses, and go on a spree.

Debauch, my dear friends, exactly like me,

Or you’ll come to regret it, you see.

For that’s all there is to it,

Don’t think you just blew it,

There’s no need to quiver or dread,

Because that’s all there is when you’re dead.

The pianist hurries through a final flourish, and loud applause breaks out as Dubois, leaning to one side with a hand clutching his chest in theatrical fashion as if about to expire, finally bows as the curtain falls - and straight away descends into the crowd of devoted acolytes who immediately trail at his heels, his strident voice to be heard in animated conversation, basking in the adoration as he goes.

There is now, Herman senses, a more inebriated atmosphere than earlier - the rich when at play being often so much more reckless and noisy than anyone else. It does not fill him with any sense of satisfaction, observing them like this - all these arbiters of good taste getting drunk. For here at the end of the year, at the close of the century, with a Queen of eighty years on the throne for as long as most people can remember; when every other poem that appears in print is of doom and nostalgia, and every other painting hung in the Royal Academy is of some reclining odalisque in a languid swoon of intoxication, it really does feel like a slightly heavy-hearted dance macabre that is taking place here, a final fling before the very end of days. And even more strange: no one really seems to care - the world he has known and adored for so long is vanishing beneath his nose, a world crushed beneath the weight of a collective lassitude that must make that ending all the more inevitable.

Still with his gaze fixed upon the indefatigable Dubois, Herman watches as he approaches the table at which Deborah Peters is seated in company with a few associates or admirers of her own. Glancing up from beneath the broad brim of her hat to meet the eyes of the man, she seems for a moment strangely disturbed. There is an intriguing vulnerability to her face, he thinks, even from what he can discern of it through the lace of her veil - a profound intelligence combined with a certain pathos and suffering. And then it happens:

‘Ah 'tis the Goddess of the cards and the starry sky!’ Dubois is heard to exclaim, followed by a ripple of dutiful laughter from the acolytes. ‘I trust my modest little refrain did not cause offence, my dear, because of course, you have had your own share of personal misfortune of late, isn’t that so?’ he continues - and all at once you can hear a pin drop in the vast ballroom.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Deborah responds with a questioning gaze, raising her chin and challenging him to elaborate - and upon which the Wit becomes all sweet and cloying, his brows puckering with utmost sympathy and compassion.

‘Oh, I am so dreadfully sorry, Debbie. It’s just that we are all so curious, my dear - I mean - whether you had any presentiment at all of the profound tragedy that was about to befall you?’

Scarcely a ripple of laughter is to be detected this time, unless it is the somewhat embarrassed kind of laughter that signals someone having overstepped the mark - his attack upon this poor woman as part of some self-styled mission to rescue civilization from the evils of superstition having, in this instance, gone down like a lead balloon.

‘I’m sorry, I think, I would like to leave now,’ Deborah can be heard to say as she responds not to her vexatious friend, but rather to the few anxious faces turning her way from around the table - and at which she rises and, with a hasty assembling of her handbag and gloves, her moist eyes searching for anyone who might come to her aid, but finding none, she quickly sets off - though not without a passing shot,
‘You bastard,’
mouthed silently to Dubois himself as she hurries past and up the broad array of stairs towards the foyer.

The Prince of Wales, meanwhile, if indeed this is who it is behind the mask, and who has observed it all in stony silence, promptly turns his back on Dubois to converse with his companions. He is not amused. The whole room notices and follows suit, leaving Dubois standing alone and clearly isolated as the general hubbub of frivolity rises and the orchestra strikes up once more.

It is a faux pas from which the fellow is unlikely to recover. But Herman is no longer concerned with any of it. He is already at the foyer and, dragging his topcoat quickly over his shoulders, hurries in pursuit of the poor woman who has just fled.

‘Mrs Peters, wait, please!’ Herman cries as he overtakes Deborah at the main exit, and where she is currently occupied struggling with the fastenings of her long-hemmed coat. No one has bothered to come to her aid or to offer the least word of consolation.

Ignoring him, she continues past and out between the already opened doors. ‘Whoever you are, don’t try to persuade me to return to that oaf in there,’ she states as he follows her outside. It is raining heavily and the doorman holds an umbrella aloft for her as she descends the steps. ‘I haven’t come here to be insulted by your friend Mr Dubois.’

‘Indeed, no, for I am nothing to do with that gentleman,’ Herman insists, politely handing her his card, which she takes but does not bother to examine. ‘Forgive my boldness, but I think I can help you discover what has happened to your daughter.’

And for an instant, standing there, hat in hand, in the pouring rain, this assertion sounds as bizarre to him as, he suspects, it probably does to her.

‘What! Are you mad?’ Deborah blasts back at him with renewed venom.

Her impatience over the absence of a cab at the door, urges her to head off alone down the street, and here, trembling with rage and already at a distance from the solicitous doorman, she struggles to unfurl her own umbrella. ‘My daughter is dead. Isn’t this what everyone keeps telling me?’ she states, still struggling just as Herman approaches her once again - and upon which she turns, sighs heavily and, hitching up the hem of her coat and skirt, walks on regardless, her elegant heels clattering upon the wet pavement.

‘I don’t believe that,’ Herman calls after her, still following.

Walking briskly, she reaches the busy thoroughfare of the Embankment before pausing beneath a street lamp, searching for any sign of a cab along the length of the road but, discovering none, is compelled to regard her pursuer with some modest degree of attention at last. The wide brim of her hat throws much of her face into shadow until she lifts her chin in defiance. ‘You’re Herman Grace, aren’t you?’ she asks, her voice harsh, almost as if voicing an accusation. ‘I was unable to see your act from where I was placed, though a friend did tell me it was not particularly original.’

She seems surprised, then, that he does not take offence - in fact he agrees. ‘You’re friend was absolutely right,’ he states. But please, Mrs Peters, will you grant me just a few minutes in which we might discuss this more calmly?’ he adds, taking the failed umbrella and, having succeeded in disentangling it, holding it aloft in most gallant fashion while urging her to walk once more, keeping her close that they might both stay dry. ‘A cup of tea somewhere and a bite to eat perhaps? Anywhere away from all this traffic and rain. I can explain then.’

At which, to his relief, she does not decline. At least not right away.

‘A cup of tea and a bite to eat?’ she echoes in a voice where amusement and despair combine in equal measure, and compelled by their close proximity to take his arm as they walk. ‘Your proposal is certainly made without any pretence at sophistication, Mr Grace. But don’t you think it might all seem rather an anticlimax for one having just fled the
haute cuisine
of the Savoy?’

‘I am sure it would,’ he agrees.

‘Anyway, Twinings will be shut at this hour,’ she states, ‘and I’m certainly in no mood to go down to some filthy cafe in Fleet Street to sit with the newspaper hacks, if that’s what you have in mind.’

Again, he can only agree. That really would be most inappropriate. He doesn’t want to take her to a common pub, either, yet he simply must speak with her somewhere quiet. The mighty steam engines puffing and grinding their way across Waterloo Bridge behind them add to the din as he ponders the dilemma. ‘There’s always Gordon’s,’ he announces in a moment of inspiration. ‘Finest wine, and just round the corner - Villiers Street.’

‘Never heard of it!’ she snaps back as they continue through the rain - which if anything is becoming even heavier.

He wonders for one awful moment whether he really has made an error in being so forthright in seeking to make her acquaintance like this, a terrible breach of etiquette, in any case without any kind of formal introduction. But, at length, she does agree.

And so it is here, at Gordon’s, down a short flight of steps, in the candlelit cellars and vaults of a building once lived in by Pepys, and surrounded by all the various curios and conversation pieces that furnish such places with a certain brave refinement, that they settle down opposite each other at a half-partitioned table covered in beer mats and ashtrays. It is dingy, smoky, slightly dank, but the Bordeaux he chooses for them is superb, and here in the seclusion and relative privacy of their surroundings where all the other customers seem intent on likewise minding their own business, they have at last an opportunity to discuss the subject at leisure. It is even warm enough in the proximity of a coal fire to remove their coats and to dry out.

‘I do hope you did not feel intimidated by those people,’ he remarks, placing his top hat aside on a neighbouring shelf and looking into her face with an obvious concern.

‘Don’t worry, I’m used to that sort of tripe from fools like Dubois,’ she replies. ‘He’s pathetic, anyway - a poor imitation of his betters. Most of the gentlemen there, in fact, are perfectly charming - and the women quite tolerable, providing one confines one’s conversation to horses and tennis.’

To which he smiles and they both sip their wine in silence for what seems like an inordinately long while.

‘I heard a voice this evening,’ Herman explains, sensing her impatience. ‘It told me your daughter is alive.’

‘And do you often hear voices, Mr Grace?’ Deborah inquires with more than a trace of sarcasm, he thinks.

‘Yes, as a matter fact I do,’ he replies, not altogether accurately and watching her as she attends to her make-up with the aid of a little mirror, making good all those places where rain and tears have run. ‘I have guides, spiritual guides. I rather suspect we all do, really. And sometimes it is by this means they reach us. That is my belief, anyway - though I don’t usually reveal this kind of thing, of course. A private matter, you understand.’

‘Yes, I’m sure it would be,’ Deborah answers, still a little unkindly, he thinks, as she snaps closed her compact and replaces it in her purse.

For all her cynicism, there is much about her he finds agreeable. Could it be the actress, her former profession; the entertainer in her that he sees? She has an engaging habit of raising her chin as she speaks, as if addressing some imaginary audience - that, or else looking around, observing without turning her head hardly at all, so the whites of her eyes often become unusually bright and dramatic as she examines the dimly lit room and its inhabitants. It is a most intriguing combination of refinement and sensuality that, for one absurd and overblown moment, he cannot help thinking makes the business of being a man worthwhile.

Then, as she returns to settle her gaze once more upon his face, she seems at long last to acquiesce, to relinquish her misgivings. ‘I really must apologise for my rudeness, Mr Grace,’ she says, her entire aspect becoming all at once far less severe. ‘I do appreciate that you are only trying to be kind. And because I have so seldom been the recipient of such an honour of late, its unfamiliarity has made me far too defensive. The fact is, and although I consider myself to be clairvoyant, I have always been mistrustful of voices, and of those who profess to hear them. But that is really of no consequence, since most of those in this room at the moment, if you were to ask them, would dismiss us both as being completely barmy, anyway. But what you have told me … well, I do believe it. I have to, because I have heard my daughter’s voice myself, quite recently - on the day I learned of her disappearance, in fact - as well as on at least one occasion since.’

At which she seems for a moment almost remorseful, smiling at her own candour - that she should confide in a stranger so readily and so much. Emboldened by it, he elaborates by explaining more of his beliefs, especially those associated with his profession - of how ‘magic’ must surely take many forms, from lowly stage trickery to the higher magic between people and their destinies, perhaps even including the influences of beings who might inhabit dimensions beyond the sensory plane. Usually, he is only vaguely aware of such possibilities, but this evening the voices that came to him, and which referred to her plight specifically, had been more convincing than he had ever known; and so he simply had to act, had to approach her as he did, and share the experience.

She continues to listen, just occasionally surrendering to a look of pity, as if anxious for the poor creature’s sanity - but listening nonetheless - for, after all, has her own work not been based on similar convictions? So, yes, in her heart, she really does understand. Drawing on her intuitive faculty, she looks into his eyes, trying to allow the future that he might represent to come towards her, to reveal itself. And, reassuringly, her inner vision seems to fill with light. ‘Voices are all well and good, Mr Grace. But do you sincerely believe, as I do, that my daughter is alive?’ she asks him outright, a question softly spoken but insistent, drawing him to her and not allowing him to look away or to elude her gaze.

‘Oh, absolutely, yes,’ he answers, feigning nonchalance as, with her permission, he sets upon the comforting ritual of opening a tobacco pouch and filling his pipe, his favoured Calabash with its amber stem - realizing all the while he has no rational justification for conveying such an optimistic outlook - apart, that is, from a few odd goings-on in his head. What if all of this is really just one gigantic error on his part, a shared delusion with someone who is willing to clutch at any straw of consolation in her grief? Yes, he has been told he may help. And he must believe it is true. But how?

‘May I ask: what is your daughter like?’ he inquires as he strikes the match. ‘I mean, her appearance, her character. I know hardly anything about any of this, you see.’

‘Poppy - oh, she is a very rare and lovely young woman,’ Deborah replies, more affable by this time and glancing down with appreciation as he, with care, reaches across to replenish her wine glass. ‘Though I suppose I would say that, wouldn’t I? She has dark brown hair, like mine used to be, only far more lustrous, and she has remarkably large brown eyes. She is not especially tall, but she is slender and elegant, and also loves fashion and beautiful clothes. Oh, and yes, she plays the piano beautifully, as well. We did, at one stage, have hopes of her becoming a concert pianist, so blessed was she with musical talent. But when the moment came, when her schooling finished, she elected to further her education in languages instead.’

‘Was this why she went to Germany?’

‘Yes, that’s correct. Ancient languages - as well as German, naturally. Nothing if not ambitious. “One day I am going to understand Sanskrit, and I shall translate all the wonderful works of the past into English,” she once told me when she was very young. For some reason, I can’t explain, she always adored all the stories and fables of the East. It had always seemed a kind of destiny she was aware of - and apparently German scholarship is far ahead of us in this respect, embracing the mystical and the occult and drawing these subjects into the academic arena.’

‘Yes, that’s true,’ Herman concurs, much to her surprise, as she raises her brows in a questioning glance. ‘Oh, sorry - let me explain: it’s just that I’ve studied those kinds of things myself. Comparative religion, mythologies and such like. Anyway, that’s all jolly encouraging, what you just said - I mean concerning the strength of your daughter’s character. It would help in doing a spot of psychometry - that is, picking up information, certain emanations one can detect from personal objects.’

‘Emanations?’

‘Yes. What I mean is if you could let me borrow an item, something that was close to your daughter, like a watch or a ring - something she would have held in her hands often - then we might be able to make a connection in discovering what might have happened to her. There might be some clues, some sort of resonance.’

Despite her pretence at ignorance, she does know what he is referring to. Psychometry - the psychic skill in which one might pick up information from the handling of personal objects. She has tried it herself in the past, and failed dismally. He seems sincere, and no doubt is. He might well be a genius at it. But does she really wish to allow this curious stranger into her confidence to such a degree, delving into her affairs so intimately even to the extent of actually taking possession of items her daughter once owned and cherished?