THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (14 page)

‘Herman,’ she says, clasping his arm as she comes to his side. ‘Listen, I’ve had a lot of sadness. I lost my brother - it was a riding accident. He broke his neck. And both my parents are dying. They are dying, damn it! - of broken hearts. And I can’t do anything about it. I feel helpless.’

‘I see. Yes … that would upset you, wouldn’t it, being helpless?’ he murmurs, trying to give sympathy as he continues to go the rounds of the lamps, allowing each one to rise from its tiny red ember into a respectable glow. ‘But no one can do much about mortality, Marcia, not even you.’

‘Yes, yes, that’s right. I understand that, naturally,’ she whimpers as she pursues him about the room, and a tear or two has actually formed in the corners of her eyes - something he has never seen in all the years he has known her. ‘That’s what I mean,’ she continues taking recourse in the application of a finely embroidered handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘I need to talk, Herman. I need ... someone real to talk to. They said something at the funeral:
Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die it abideth alone.
What does that mean?’

‘I must get myself ready, Marcia,’ he says with a cold heart born of necessity, ignoring her attempts at the philosophical. Better to be up and away now, he tells himself. Better, at the very least to be packing his bags. His immediate purpose and goal is not here pampering to Marcia’s confused soul, but elsewhere - out there where other voices are calling him, literally calling him, and with far more extremity and need. Another hour of delay in his preparations would be a torment, a whole evening with Marcia listening to her bleeding heart would be like hell on earth.

And sensing his resolution, and that he is in no mood to take her hand or to proffer any crumb of consolation, Marcia gradually gathers herself, and with a look of absolute indifference now settled upon her beautiful impassive face, buttons up her coat, walks to the door and leaves the house in silence, taking her grief and her tedious little discovery of ancient wisdom with her.

So, what next? he asks himself, feeling guilty, yet overcome with an almost palpable sense of relief to be alone. There is surely no time to lose. Taking his Bradshaw’s from the shelf, he checks its well-thumbed pages for train times before hurrying upstairs to his bedroom to throw some items into a suitcase, trying to anticipate everything he might need. But to his surprise he discovers he can no longer think all that clearly - his mind wandering amid the past every bit as much as the immediate future - until all at once he finds himself downstairs again, brewing more tea and leafing through the old photo album in his study, lost in memories that he needs to experience once more. Feeling he cannot take another step outside the door until he has done so, he gazes upon all those old crinkle-edged images of the past - in sepia mostly - of family holidays by the sea; his parents, uncles and aunts. And he smiles, too, at the more recent glossy black-and-white stage pictures of his magical acts, there with Marcia as a much younger woman in the skimpiest of clothing, absurdly glamorous and thereby guaranteeing him at least some repeat bookings in the more male-dominated venues and clubs.

It is late, and an inevitable drowsiness comes upon him as he leans back in his armchair and closes his eyes, smiling still at all those recollections of his youth - striving to achieve so much; to become the brilliant scholar; the accomplished athlete; the cultivated soul set apart who would epitomise life in all its diversity. That was the idea, anyway; and to attest to his exclusive status he had dressed the part - flamboyant, eccentric - until, by the time he had reached Cambridge, he had already dedicated his life to pursuing the mysteries, to the teachings of all the great men and women of history who had brought salvation to humankind. All a little over the top, perhaps, yes. But why, he wonders, did he ever leave that path? He was never cut out for the commercial life, for providing the kind of notoriety Marcia wanted just so she might climb the social ladder as the wife of a celebrity called Manny Grace. There must be more.

Then, abruptly, it happens again - he hears another voice, one moreover that he has not experienced as yet. It is the voice of a young woman, or possibly even a child; he is not certain, but it is so clear:
‘Herman, there is not much time. You must follow the course that has been set before you. Leave alone what you cannot remedy. I am she who must return to the light. Bring me from the darkness that enslaves my body and torments my spirit.’

At which he sits up, bolt upright and alert as if propelled from the cannon’s mouth. The first light of day is filtering between the curtains. And in no time he has completed his packing; secured the locks, and within the hour is aboard the express train to Dover.

She adores Paris. It is a joy to be here at any time of the year, and today, moreover, an opportunity to catch up with old friends - and in particular the venerable Sylvia, her distinguished show business client and the very woman she was with in Bayreuth the day she learned of Poppy’s disappearance. Deborah, after taking the express train from Germany, has arranged to meet her for a working lunch. It is the perfect tonic, the perfect rendezvous, she feels, to be present in a city that despite the dreary onset of winter is barely able to contain its excitement over the forthcoming
Exposition Universelle,
a spectacular world trade fair to be held in just a few months’ time, and which will include a myriad of arts and cultural contributions alongside the presentation of marvels of industry and engineering from all over the world.
Formidable.
They are even constructing a new underground railway to coincide with it - and every billboard on every boulevard and street corner proclaims its coming, and that of the new century, in vivid colour and unsuppressable gaiety.

The two women have met here amid the tall leafy plants and ebonised interior of a beautiful modern restaurant - one which, by their mutual consent, is definitely
not
Maxim’s, because at Maxim’s neither of them would have a moment’s peace. This one is almost equally spectacular, however. Fitted out in the swirling and extravagant styles of
Art Nouveau,
it is a place to sample all the very latest innovations in café culture, and in particularly those tall chromium bar stools, an arrangement of seating that allows the sleek and fashionable lines of modern daywear to be displayed in all their glory. Perfect.

‘The Bavarian police have been next to useless,’ Deborah grumbles, endeavouring to maintain the other woman’s attention, which seems to be wandering everywhere amid the busy room and its exotic inhabitants as Deborah continues to relate in suitably embittered detail all of her unprofitable experiences so far during this most recent excursion abroad. ‘There’s a deliberate smokescreen, as far as I can make out - which is precisely why I have had to hire a private investigator - the one I told you about and who specialises in missing persons. Isn’t it wonderful, I had no idea such people even existed here on the Continent. If my child is alive - and I know she is - he will surely find her. Expensive, yes, but frankly money’s no object, Sylvia. You do understand, don’t you?’

At which she realises she has probably been talking for rather a long time, stirring her coffee in irritation throughout, and all the while being anything other than the usual blithe, merry and business-like person one is supposed to be in the company of clients. Sylvia’s uncommonly dejected countenance, downcast and vacant, confirms her suspicions. Poor Sylvia - perched there in her resplendent satin dress, a little too closely fitting for one of her shape and age - it is a visage that no amount of cosmetics, blond wigs or miracle diets could possibly rescue any longer - nor any of those discreet services offered by the private clinics of London or Berlin.

A gentleman approaches, an autograph hunter, handing Sylvia a menu and pen so she might sign it for him. ‘It’s for my daughter,’ the man explains, the time-honoured cliché every celebrity is well inured to. Why do men especially find it so difficult to confess their devotion to any female of prominence, Deborah wonders? Why must they pretend a souvenir is for someone other than themselves, someone more naïve? - the existence of a daughter being a favourite candidate, and one that falls especially hard on Deborah’s ears at the present time.

‘How nice … to have a daughter to hunt autographs for,’ she observes pleasantly, though neither the man, nor Sylvia pays her much heed. The celebrated actress herself is also certainly not concerned one bit by the man’s deceit. Smiling her most professional of smiles, she duly obliges by signing in a bold, magnificent hand as always.

‘Darling, are you sure all this is … well, facing up to reality?’ Sylvia remarks, as soon as they are alone once more and Deborah has returned, almost inadvertently, to the previous topic of conversation - despite her best efforts not to do so.

‘Yes, of course,’ Deborah protests and looks her companion up and down with something not unlike pity.
Really
- has the woman learned nothing of the arcane arts over all the years she has been with her, all those occasions she has sat and listened to her own readings? ‘This
is
facing reality,’ Deborah continues, more assertively now, an occult reality. ‘This is palmistry, tarot reading - all extraordinary tools of divination not normally available to those less fortunate than ourselves.’

But Sylvia appears far from impressed. ‘Yes. But Darling, this
occult,
as you call it - it’s all right for amusement, isn’t it - a bit of fun,’ she argues, her voice all treacly and cloying. ‘We all adore you when you make your predictions, and you have done very well by it, of course, financially. But what you are talking about … well, these are important matters, darling. Facts. And you simply cannot be so sure.’

‘But I’ve always been accurate for you, haven’t I?’ Deborah protests. ‘Those are the same psychic abilities, the same practitioner at work.’

But Sylvia turns away; pouts like a spoilt child and seems thereby to be brushing the matter aside. ‘Oh, well ... all these predictions of yours. I must say I am still waiting to meet my Mister Right. You promised I would, remember?’

‘Yes, but that was to be any time before Christmas - there’s weeks to go yet.’

‘Oh, I just don’t know,’ Sylvia grumbles, her shoulders all twitchy and irritable now the discussion is descending into an undignified squabble. ‘Maybe it just isn’t working any more like it used to.’

And at this, Deborah feels a chill run down her spine; because if
Sylvia
could reach such a damning conclusion, that she, Deborah Peters, Queen of the Cards, might have lost her magic touch, then the news would be all over Paris tomorrow, and all across the Atlantic in a few days time - in New York, Philadelphia - everywhere among all her best clients overseas as well as back home in England.

‘Anyway, do tell me, darling, how is that marvellous new book of yours progressing?’ Sylvia inquires with renewed sweetness, and changing the subject blatantly.

Deborah chokes back her anger, realising to her dismay that this is the same old question the woman invariably asks whenever they meet. The same old safe territory of conversation. ‘At present, I feel it’s a waste of my time, if you must know,’ she replies, feeling that the answer should perhaps be a little more truthful for once. ‘I’ve just this morning informed my New York publishers that the whole thing will have to wait - much to their annoyance, naturally. Well, it’s just too bad.’

Sylvia merely raises her eyebrows at this, her back stiffening. She disapproves, Deborah can tell. It’s not professional, the older woman’s vapid glances seem to imply. And being professional is important, vitally important. It is how one retains one’s independence as a woman.

Oh, but really, Deborah thinks to herself, how detestable it all seems, how superficial - skating on the surface of life like this, wasting yet more of her time with people like Sylvia. And all at once a feeling sweeps over her of acute restlessness, an overwhelming desire to be gone. She excuses herself, therefore, and with as much polite formality as possible and feigning an urgent appointment elsewhere, leaves the wretched woman to finish her lunch alone - all of which, she realises, would be taken as no small insult by the prominent socialite. But Deborah cares not a bit for any of it, not any more. There are far more important things to command her attention. She must find Poppy, and there is not a moment more to lose.

Herman has been two days in the charming town of Heidelberg, walking the snow-covered streets and squares, or strolling the wooded pathways high upon the edges of the valley - a quiet and enchanted place from where the visitor might look down on the spires and rooftops and the river with its barges and tugs and gracefully arched bridges spanning the waters. And as he trudges on through the fresh-falling snow, he occupies himself with mentally recapturing his lost schoolboy German, the wonderful romantic language of Goethe and Heine, going over phrases and vocabulary in his mind - and pleasantly surprised at just how much he remembers. It is certainly encouraging. Yet vying with this activity, impinging again and again on his consciousness, are those wretched internal voices of his continuing to interfere. It is happening more and more often lately, and always they speak of those same dark angels and of the lamps burning before the throne, of some kind of demon at its centre, and so on. The voices would also come to him in moments of repose or routine activity, or even in his dreams, and yet whenever and wherever they came, they were always most cogent, as if someone were beside him and whispering in his ear.

Knowing, therefore, that he is definitely on track, he has also not been idle since his arrival. Already he has acquainted himself with the famous old quarter of the town, looking into its
café
s and student dives - trying to unearth some clues that might lead him to Deborah - for he is aware that her daughter once studied here, and he continues to strongly suspect that Deborah herself would have returned to this place in the last several days. Indeed, there are reports of an elderly lady, (or so she would appear to the young students) seated alone in one or two of the
café
s. This was some days ago. She was well dressed, wearing a lot of black they said, and often asking questions, making inquiries. That would have been Deborah, almost for sure. But where might she be now? That is the question.

A good few years it has been since his last trip into Europe, and he is both surprised and disturbed over just how much the political landscape has altered. There is an unsettling air of belligerence now - Germany, this magnificent nation of unrivalled culture, of composers and poets, musicians and painters of genius, being led by the nose by the relentless ambitions of Kaiser Wilhelm - our very own Queen Victoria’s son-in-law, in fact, but not much liked in England, where the politicians and the press are forever sowing seeds of division, spoiling for some kind of a fight. The results are seen in the all too obvious soured relations between the countries at trade fairs and conferences, not to mention the increasingly unsavoury exchanges at the yachting regattas of Cowes and Kiel. ‘Where is it all leading?’ he wonders. And if all this were not enough, there is a noticeable rise in civil discontent - with bread riots in Italy; with the wretched and interminable Dreyfus affair that has split France in two; and, perhaps the worst and most disturbing outrage of all, the assassination of the beautiful Empress Elizabeth of Austria stabbed in public by a miserable anarchist with a crude homemade dagger during a lakeside visit to Geneva.

Hardly any of this, he realises, was ever noted in the popular English press, and the extent of it all comes as a shock to Herman. During his time here in Germany, his attentions have also been drawn to reports in the papers of a dreadful atrocity in the south of the country. A canister of lethal gas of some kind has been vented inside a public building. Several fatalities are reported, and scores of respiratory injuries from inhalation. The police say it could easily have been much worse. And despite no one having claimed responsibility as yet, the finger of blame must rest, they say, on one of the various anarchist groups that have sprung up in recent years all over the continent. Their
rational
- if one could call it that - is that because the world is due to come to an end shortly, anyway, or at the very least the demise of Western civilisation, any means possible should be employed to draw society’s attention to the error of its ways. It is almost as if a concerted, organised faction were behind it all, and the press are braying for some kind of action from the international community in which the police of all nations simply must put their heads together and track down the culprits. A tall order under present conditions.

Towards afternoon, and with his mind still full of such diverse and fitful meditations, the young Englishman returns to the streets below, and here wandering in search of somewhere to take lunch, he comes upon a market, a proliferation of brightly coloured awnings with its hawkers and traders in full cry, and one stall in particular that attracts his attention, with a garrulous gentleman selling bric-a-brac and various works of art - all pretty mediocre and uninspiring stuff - and the kind of place you would come to, if you were an artist, to plunder the frames around the paintings rather than for the works themselves. But something tells him to keep on browsing.