THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (2 page)

‘Then I am honoured, ma'am,’ the maid responds, almost in a voice of surprise, ‘that the task of entertaining you for so many hours this night should have fallen to me.’

‘Enough of your cheek!’ the English lady responds brandishing the handle of a closed fan towards the face in the mirror, for she was certain she had detected a smile there.

‘My apologies, ma'am. It was not my intention to be sounding ungrateful,’ the maid responds as, clearly indifferent and unmoved by the reprimand, she returns to her occupation with the brush - and still always with the utmost care, her eyes intent on every lengthy stroke as if there were no other task in all the world more important or worthy of greater consideration.

‘Where do you come from?’ the English Lady asks, after studying the young woman’s face in the mirror again with renewed curiosity - for although there is a certain Slavic angularity to the cheekbones, the face itself is distinctly oval, almost oriental in form, and there is a delicacy to the eyes, which are soft and sensuous. She also has a high forehead, though much of this is obscured by her fringe. ‘What is your nationality?’

‘I have none, ma'am,’ the young woman answers crisply, almost with a lilt of amusement to her voice.

‘Oh, I see. I presume that means you’re Jewish? Well, don’t worry, my dear. I don’t happen to share in this noble city’s preoccupation with anti-Semitism. I shan’t …’

‘No, that neither, ma'am. As with gender, a person’s race or nationality is illusory.’

‘Oh, really? Well, perhaps you should try telling that to our generals and politicians who seem so intent on plunging us all into war. See if they agree that race and nationality are illusory.’

‘The generals and politicians?’ Kristina echoes, speaking slowly, as if thinking aloud. ‘I suspect they might not listen to me,’ she adds with her usual intensity.

‘You may well be right, my dear,’ the English Lady concurs. ‘Oh, don’t worry; I’ve known my fair share of generals in my time. Generals and field marshals and admirals and whatnot, and all the powerful men who make their weapons and ships for them. They are like schoolboys, most of them, playing at soldiers. And as for the politicians that serve them … well, I won’t even begin to tell you what I think of
them
. Um … Anyway, Kristina, on a more practical note, I shall need a bath to be drawn much earlier than usual. The day staff will arrive below stairs well before dawn. Go to them later, as soon as you hear them and make sure there is sufficient hot water. I shall require this before seven. Then, after dressing, I must ride out immediately - a carriage must be ready at 8.30 precisely to take me to the Imperial. I will need the services of a companion, of course. Let us hope someone is available at such an unseemly hour.’

‘Is m'lady referring to a footman or a maid?’ Kristina inquires.

But to this, the English lady recoils in shock. ‘
A footman!
Don’t be absurd. I have enough men in my life already, thank you, without adding another useless piece of baggage. No, wherever I go, I do so only with a female companion.’

‘Then I shall ride out with you, ma'am, yes?’

‘You?’
the English lady exclaims with a blend of surprise and embarrassment. ‘No, no sorry. I don’t mean to sound unkind, my dear, but I must have someone dressed appropriately.’

‘I have fine clothes, m'lady - far finer than those in which you see me. I am also competent in serving a lady in the capacity of chaperone or companion, and you will not feel ashamed that I should be accompanying you. Fair maid or handsome footman, or anything else in-between, I can meet all your requirements. It is merely a matter of costume for one such as myself, would you not agree?’

To which the English lady finds herself giggling - for the first time with genuine mirth, deciding at last that it really would not be at all disagreeable to spend the coming hours and even the morning, too, in the company of this amusing young lady, if that is indeed what she is. ‘Oh yes,’ she chuckles, ‘you could certainly pass for either, or anything in-between - of which, I should tell you, we have a good few notable examples in this City at present. Well then, so be it. It is a gamble for me, consenting to this. But if all else fails, there will certainly be some decent clothes we can fetch from the wardrobes.’

‘If it please you, ma'am I would be grateful if you would have faith in my promise,’ the young woman responds, her voice remaining gentle but also becoming distracted and even strangely exultant as she continues: ‘I shall make provision in good time,’ she declares, her eyes unfocussed, as if perceiving some remote and future time and place deep within her imagination, ‘I shall be beautiful for you, and worthy of your enterprise. I will be at your side or seated behind you as you ride to your conquest. I shall take your parasol or watch over your portmanteau. I shall support you at every turn and bring you good fortune and victory.’

‘Victory? Good God - you make it sound like a ruddy battle I’m going into!’ the English Lady exclaims, hoping that she does not appear unduly anxious. For the maid’s words are not far off the mark. A few moments later, however, and with the continued ministrations of the slow, rhythmic brushing, a sense of tranquillity overtakes the English Lady once again, a calmness mingled with the focussed pleasure that only complete attention to the senses can bring.

‘You touch me with one hand and comb my hair with the other,’ the English Lady observes in a voice that sounds surprised, aware now for some time that a soothing palm has been resting upon her shoulder. ‘You possess the secrets of a courtesan - the use of two hands even when only one is required. You make the circle.’

‘I do, ma'am. I have the understanding, but I am not a courtesan.’

‘What are you, then, my lovely
Geisha?
What else do you know at your tender age?’

‘I know everything.’

‘Everything?’

‘Yes. I know, for example, that it is not a journey of romance and intrigue you go to later today, but to one of vengeance and death. And that within the portmanteau that you carry there is not only the accessories of a silken fan or perfumed gloves but also a weapon of execution.’

Once again, the English lady is snapped out of her reverie.

‘What! How do you know that?’ she demands in a harsh whisper, feeling most disturbed again, more so than ever - and her heart beats fast, almost audibly in the silent room.

‘Because of your daughter, ma'am,’ the young woman answers with calm, ‘because of her.’

‘What he did to her … you know?’

‘Oh yes. And it is time, therefore, with your permission, m'lady, that I should reveal to you more of the circumstances that have brought you to this place.’

‘I’m sorry - what do you mean, my dear? I don’t understand,’ the English lady murmurs, her voice faltering in confusion as the young woman places the brush down and reaches slowly to one side to retrieve the newspaper that is invariably placed in readiness upon the sideboard - though it would be far too early to be anything other than yesterday’s edition.

‘Look, m'lady … you may read this and learn everything here,’ she murmurs, raising the broadsheet as if obliging her mistress to survey its full extent in the central glass of the mirror.

‘What kind of infernal paper is this?’ the English lady gasps - her voice imprisoned in her chest, so astonished is she as she gazes ahead to all the grey halftone pictures and column inches of inky text. ‘Since when could anyone read newsprint in reflection - or any kind of print, for that matter? Even in this light I can read every word. And this is not news, anyway. That is
my
picture there. And this article - all the articles: they are all about people I once knew.’

‘Yes, that is correct, m'lady. It is your history, and yet so much more. Look carefully. Here, also, are all those parts unseen by you at the time, all those moments you were unaware of. Do not be anxious. All is well. Allow me to turn the pages and to guide you.’

‘Mummy, wake up!’

Deborah hears the voice in her mind as if from a distance, but then a second later hears it again, this time much closer. ‘Wake up!’

It is her daughter’s voice - and for a moment she is shown a precious glimpse of the past, a morning in spring long ago when they had gone to the beehives and Poppy had tapped against the sides of the boxes and cried to the still-slumbering creatures inside to awake because the cold weather was over and the whole of nature was coming alive, beginning anew.

‘Wake up!’ the sound comes again, but this time with a voice that sounds smothered - horrible. And so, as the breeze ruffles her hair, Deborah opens her eyes to survey the faces of the other customers nearby at their tables - mostly fellow guests from the hotel and, like her, all endeavouring with the aid of parasols, hats or the over-arching shade of trees or pergolas to shelter from the heat of the afternoon. She must, she tells herself, try to stay alert, She is waiting for Sylvia, one of her most prestigious clients. And Sylvia is late.

The town of Bayreuth in southern Germany with its gabled rooftops and spires, its fashionable shops, hotels,
café
s and parks, is straining, as it usually does at the end of summer, under the weight of far too many tourists than is at all good for it. It is that time of the year when the festival of Richard Wagner’s music is staged. And here amid the hoards of sightseers and journalists in pursuit of fleeting glimpses of royalty or celebrity, one can observe the many faithful devotees of the composer himself - all those handsome gentlemen in top hat and black tie, the ladies in extravagant evening gowns, walking in broad daylight or transported in horse-drawn carriages from their hotels to the Festspielhaus - that hallowed building from where, carried on the dry, gritty wind, a fanfare of brass instruments can be heard announcing the commencement of each and every performance.

Determined not to doze again in the sunshine, she busies herself with a tiny mirror, examining her appearance. Her straw hat, with its silk band of red roses and lilac is set at a not too ostentatious slant. The waves of dark, slightly auburn hair visible beneath the broad brim is tidy enough; while the contours of the mouth with its polite, understated colour is in no urgent need of restoration. Only just the faintest dusting of fresh powder is required upon her nose and forehead; and this is swiftly accomplished with an instinctive movement taking no more than seconds before the tiny silver compact is snapped shut and replaced in her bag - and behold! - for anyone who cares to glance her way, the face that has become just a little more recognisable of late than she would have preferred - the increasingly public face of an increasingly public property: Deborah Peters - the one-time actress, society wife and now, liberated from all such encumbrances by a recent divorce, famed these days more as a gossip columnist and purveyor of clairvoyance at a suitably extravagant fee for those of wealth and discretion.

Upon the pavement, some dry leaves swirl in restless eddies of dust about her feet and Deborah, to her surprise, finds herself wishing she could be somewhere else, away from all the noise and congestion. It makes her aware that she is certainly no longer as young as she used to be, or as tolerant. Now, approaching her fortieth year, she finds herself, just like the society around her, travelling into the end of the century with a final flourish of decadent living but also a certain foreboding. For the world is ending, or so they say, the world of elegance, courtesy and style; everything becoming more hideous and mechanical, more vulgar, dirty and cheap - wanting only for an excuse of some great, final act of self-destruction to send
Valhalla
on its way. And she wonders if this is the reason she should feel quite so morbid of late - that the final act has already begun.

But there is no further time to dwell on the matter, because amid the crowds Sylvia has finally come into view, waving in her usual extravagant fashion, a vision of stunning opulence - all sparkling diamonds and flashing white teeth as she advances, and her hair, beneath a glorious, lavishly trimmed hat, a little too blond to be entirely real for one of her years.

‘Darling, is it really you - how marvellous!’ she declares fulsomely as she closes her parasol and bends forward to present Deborah with a rapid peck on each cheek - and in no time they are seated together in the dappled shade, sipping at coffee, devouring various pastries and cakes of rich cream and chocolate, and remarking in their customary way of how it is ‘all too much,’ ‘too rich,’ ‘too fattening,’ and so on.

‘I shall go on that new diet - the one they’re all talking about,’ Sylvia asserts in her lush, melodious Italian accent as she pushes the cup and saucer away. ‘I shall begin tomorrow.’

‘Do you really think they work, all these regimes of self-denial?’ Deborah observes, dubious from bitter experience, her eyes examining the lines of her companion’s extravagant dress of silk taffeta, speculating on its origin and upon the overall effect it has upon the ageing and increasingly rotund frame of its owner. With its elaborate motif of contrasting brown and grey stripes shot through with silver, it does tend to evoke the mutton-dressed-as-lamb category, she concludes. But no matter. Gorgeous, nevertheless. And no doubt obscenely expensive.

‘Darling,’ Sylvia responds, rolling her ‘r’s majestically, ‘let’s not despair over our vices. Let us talk about something more interesting. What about that marvellous new book of yours? Full of lots of juicy revelations, yes?’

‘No, not at all,’ Deborah replies. ‘It’s nothing to do with my gossip columns. It’s a serious book on the history of divination. Oh, they tried to persuade me to reveal names, but I declined. My discretion is not for sale, I told them. Anyway, there will be a tour - all the usual provincial stops, Edinburgh, Manchester. Oh, and I’ve been invited to feature at some private extravaganza - a party in London for Halloween. I shall be doing card readings for all the great and the good, perhaps even including the Prince of Wales. Well, we shall see.’

‘And how is your beautiful and talented daughter? Here in Germany still, yes?’

‘Oh, Poppy - yes, we are very proud of her. Into her second year of languages at Heidelberg - though the charming home I found for her there is no longer to her liking, apparently. She does not wish to appear elitist she says. Can you believe it! So she has taken an apartment in the
Altstadt
in the proximity of her fellow students and where she has also developed a love of painting. I do worry about her sometimes, of course. But she is twenty-one, after all - a grown woman. In any case, what she is doing is far more valuable than wasting her time in some ridiculous finishing school in Switzerland as her father would have preferred. What use is that to any modern woman!’

‘And have you reached any understanding with him yet - with your
ex
, I mean, regarding the settlement?’

Deborah’s reply is presented merely in the shape of a dismal shake of the head, allowing herself the luxury of a little petulance for once. ‘Hugh is still determined to keep me away from the home in Hampshire and from Craigmull in Scotland. And officially, he has custody of our daughter, I regret to say. But yes, I do expect to do well out of the settlement - eventually.’

‘Marvellous. And his business - the newspapers, the publishers? They all continue to flourish, yes?’

‘They do. And this is the irony of it all - that Hugh is still my publisher, and we simply have to keep in touch even if only through our solicitors. Anyway, the racing stables are coming good at last, apparently, and there is every likelihood of triumph at Epsom next year. So the answer, Sylvia, is yes, the scoundrel is doing quite nicely thank you.’

Sylvia dismisses all these dubious achievements with a wave of one plump and sensuous hand (funny how hands can never lie). ‘Darling, I know nothing about newspapers,’ she declares, ‘and even less about horse racing, except that the English and French are forever flocking to see it, and everyone loses all their money at something called the Bookies.’

Deborah laughs. She likes Sylvia - though judging by the increasingly vapid tone of her voice it is probably time to get down to business - and to this end, opening the leather document wallet she carries with her on such occasions, she removes from its recesses a folder of dark green manila.

‘The coming year, then. Here is your forecast drawn exclusively from my cards and meditations,’ Deborah announces, sliding out the ends of some of the pages to reveal briefly the pronouncements themselves, conveyed in the time-honoured tradition via a series of somewhat cryptic verses. And the face of Sylvia, with its slightly strained temples blended with a certain twitchy joviality, is all attention.

‘December onwards is likely to be a particularly interesting period,’ Deborah continues and, once assured no prying eyes are observing her, taking the other woman’s hand - already ungloved in readiness - and making a show of examining the palm for additional evidence. Even though it is unlikely anything so specific could be detected there, it does lend a certain intrigue to the procedure. ‘And you can, of course, telegraph me if you need more details. You’ll be very much in demand, I would hazard - with some particularly interesting offers coming along before Christmas.’

‘Business-wise, or romance?’ Sylvia inquires.

Deborah looks up from the table where her finely manicured index finger is in the process of tracing the lines upon her client’s palm, to meet the other, much-older woman’s eyes with a blend of wonder and amusement that she hopes will not be too obvious. Dear Sylvia. Three husbands dispatched already, and countless lovers abandoned, and a legend of a kind within theatrical circles. Yet in the end, no matter who you are, or how old you are, it seems your aspirations would continue to revolve around the same old things: romance, money, sexual excitement and intrigue.

‘I do recall the vision I had of pink roses against a blue sky - which would certainly indicate the presence of youth, someone of effervescence and charm,’ Deborah responds with a tactful reassurance that seems to meet with the other woman’s approval - and which is probably true enough, anyway. For dear Sylvia, and although she would annihilate with a glance anyone brazen enough to remind her of the fact, has several delightful young grandchildren, and surely one day soon she will be able to find more time, and a little less vanity in her life, to enjoy their society.

And so, with their business for the afternoon concluded, and with Deborah having been presented with her cheque, enclosed tastefully as ever in a pink, perfumed envelope, the two women sit for a while in contented silence, sipping their coffee and examining the street life with eyes that can distinguish at thirty paces the precise origin and value of every item and accessory of dress; every glove or shoe, handbag, parasol or hat - until, out of the corner of her eye, Deborah notices with pleasure the familiar face of her hotel concierge, a handsome young man from the reception desk. His alert gaze searches for a moment before settling upon their table, and towards which he then advances with an obvious sense of urgency. He is brandishing an envelope. It looks important.

‘Telegram for Mrs Peters,’ he announces in English.

‘Oh dear - talk of the Devil,’ she whispers to Sylvia as she takes the document. ‘I suspect this is from my once dearly beloved Hugh - or his solicitor, at any rate.’

Silvia examines her nails as she absorbs this observation without much of a reaction. There have been, she knows, numerous dramatic messages, telegrams and letters flying back and forth between Deborah and her ex-husband’s solicitor in recent times, and always plenty of guarded threats, demands, claims and counter-claims winging their way across the wires from country to country, continent to continent. Hatred and bitterness conducted at a distance.

‘Yes, it’s from his private secretary, the ever-faithful Mr Beezley,’ Deborah states as she opens the envelope and reads the typically stunted telegraphic lines. Not wishing to conceal from her friend anything that would be so mundane or tedious, she even reads the message aloud: ‘Request you remain at hotel. Arriving this afternoon. Clarification grave news. Beezley.’

With a shrug of the shoulders, Deborah makes a show of indifference and throws the item aside. Whatever could it mean? But then - most extraordinary - as Deborah glances up, and as if the message has somehow conjured up the spectre, there behind Sylvia’s shoulder stands the very man himself, her ex-husband’s private secretary, solicitor and general dogsbody, Joseph Beezley - a dapper little fellow with his clipped grey moustache and pince-nez spectacles, but at the moment looking unusually hot and agitated, as one certainly would after a railway journey in this heat. It occurs to her she has never seen him outdoors, and it makes her smile, the oddity of it.