THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (11 page)

Still undecided, she continues to regard his face in silence for a moment: this well-mannered young dilettante. She observes his slightly unruly waves of blond hair; his rakish, upturned moustache - and a style of tailoring that certainly inclines more to the ‘shabby genteel’ than anything overly formal or smart. And she can well imagine the kind of life he would lead: idealistic and utterly impractical. The brass skull motif on his cane is also far from acceptable in terms of good taste. Yet, that apart, there is much that is strangely reassuring about him, something serene, almost ageless about his demeanour and his soft, dark eyes that seem to have the wisdom of centuries behind them. Above all, he does give the impression of being a gentleman. And that is perhaps more important than anything.

‘I certainly feel it’s worth a try, anyway,’ he adds with enthusiasm, wanting to break the silence and to urge her towards a decision. ‘Oh, and by the way, you can call me Manny if you wish - Manny Grace. Most folks do these days.’

To which she decides to inspect for the first time the card he had presented her with earlier, the one proclaiming his business credentials. There is a drawing of an upturned top hat and a magic wand in its centre and, indeed, the words ‘Manny Magic’ in a half-circle above - all rather vulgar she thinks as she twirls it between finger and thumb for a moment, pondering again the wisdom of associating with someone who, at bottom, deals in trickery and illusion for a living. There is something of the stage and greasepaint about him; the false glare of the footlights and the murky world of smoke and mirrors. All slightly disconcerting. Nonetheless, she does find herself confiding in him more and more as the minutes follow - telling him all about the meeting with the police in Munich, about the obstructive attitude of her former husband.

It is possibly quite foolish, she tell herself again, to give away so much. Yet a part of her dearly wants to do so. No matter how unrealistic, no matter how weird or simply daft it might seem, she wants to trust him. She wants so much to be able to trust
someone.

‘I’ll telegraph you later in the week,’ she states abruptly, as if arriving at a decision, ‘and I can send you something of Poppy’s in the post - for your psychometry,’ she adds, reaching for her hat.

‘Splendid!’ he responds, getting to his feet with obvious satisfaction as he helps her into her coat. ‘I promise you I will do all I can.’

And with that they climb the stairs, away from the comfort of the warm cellar and, taking cabs, go their separate ways - at least in body, though they do remain in one another’s thoughts that night, and even, if they care to admit it, in their dreams and meditations a little, as well.

A mounting pile of unanswered mail awaits Deborah on her office table, a pile that seems to be increasing exponentially - and including today, among those few she bothers to open, an officious letter from the bank, warning her of being overdrawn. And there are also a good few notes from jilted clients, grumbling over her neglect. Why hasn’t she sent her readings on time? Why hasn’t she wired back to confirm this or that appointment or interview?

‘Oh what nonsense!’ she tells herself as she continues, with irritation, to open a few more envelopes - only to hurl the bulk of their contents straight into the wastepaper basket. She feels she is fast coming to despair of it all - surfeit of perpetually scraping to these awful spoilt and idle prima donnas. All they ever wanted to talk about was sex and money. How much? How often? Who with? The important work of divination, the quest for the inner spirit, it all counted for naught with them. And what of all those plans she once had for herself, for all those important research projects she had wanted to undertake, the amazing individuals, the seers and philosophers and eminent teachers she had intended to meet - all placed into a permanent state of postponement, and precisely because of this sort of nonsense - her dreams and aspirations smothered by the hopeless charade of her professional life and its web of demands and entanglements.

Wielding her paper knife as a petulant dagger, she resolves to open just one more and which, to her dismay, contains a letter from her ex-husband’s private secretary, Joseph Beezley, detailing - and it comes as a blow to Deborah - the official seizure of her share of the family homes in Scotland and Hampshire. It had been a threat for a long while, but now it is accomplished. Hugh has succeeded at last in taking full possession of both, claiming them as assets of Peters Associated Publishing.

In anger, and after a couple of stiff gin and tonics, and feeling she can no longer tolerate being indoors or having to wear black a moment longer, she takes from the wardrobe her much neglected maroon overcoat and a brightly trimmed hat. She then avails herself of a stole and muff of most flamboyant fox-fur and with these luxurious and brightly coloured accessories for all the world to see, and caring not one bit for the consequences, she storms out of the building.

Still in a state of disbelief, she walks around Hyde Park, tearful much of the time though trying hard not to let it show. The afternoon is grey and drizzling, but somehow quite appropriately beautiful, she feels, as if the whole world is weeping for her; and the cool air upon her face is a welcome relief, too. Then, the most peculiar thing ... a young woman, an itinerant flower seller approaches, replete with a trayful of bouquets and
tussie mussies
slung from her shoulders.

‘Flowers, flowers - who’ll buy my pretty flowers?’ she cries, as surely as she would have cried a thousand times already this day. She is directly in front of Deborah, and looking alarmed for some reason, Deborah thinks, so that she wonders whether she has been staring unduly. It’s just that her young face and melodious voice remind her so much of Poppy. ‘Pretty flowers. Flowers for celebration, flowers for a happy day, flowers for remembrance.’

‘What?’ Deborah hears herself demand, and in a voice which doesn’t quite seem to belong to her.

‘Flowers, ma'am. Flowers for celebration and remembrance, flowers for …’

‘The devil take your flowers. She’s not dead, I tell you!’ Deborah screams and, advancing on the young woman, discovers then that she has somehow collided with her - and, clearly not conscious of her own strength, has managed to topple her over. The entire tray goes skywards as she falls, scattering the pretty bouquets everywhere upon the ground. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry,’ Deborah whimpers, offering to help her up from the harsh gravel walkway, but the girl cowers from her and scrambles to her feet unaided, a look of fear upon her face as she turns to behold her assailant.

‘Please … listen to me: I’m so sorry,’ Deborah repeats.

But the poor girl, endeavouring to disengage herself from Deborah’s touch, and flinching in the proximity of the vast brim of her hat, only reacts to this by breaking into tears, great loud sobs. People are staring, mesmerised by the ugly scene she is creating - so she turns away, abandons the girl and hurries off, her steps quickening all the while and wondering how on earth she could have done such a thing? But there again, she is feeling most strange. So strange, in fact, she realises she almost certainly needs another drink - and so she pops quickly into the Carlton for a brandy prior to taking a cab across town to Fleet Street. It is all a bit of a haze, the journey - but it only takes around fifteen minutes, and in no time she finds herself in the foyer of Peters Associated Publishing where her ex-husband’s newspaper, the News Chronicle, is also housed. Being a familiar face, at least to the old gentleman on duty behind the desk today, she meets with hardly any surprise or resistance upon her arrival, and soon, already emerging from the lift to the top floor she almost straight away encounters her husband’s typist and secretary, her friend and ally, Rachael, looking very fetching and business-like in her high lace collar and puffed sleeves. Thank heaven. But to her astonishment, Rachael, her face etched with tiny lines of concern, tries to dissuade her from entering.

‘Debbie, sweetie - Hugh is at a meeting, you can’t ...’

‘Nonsense!’ Deborah declares and brushes her friend aside - robustly, as it happens, feeling certain there would be no such meeting at this time of the afternoon. And, indeed, as she thrusts apart the double doors to his office suite, her judgement is confirmed. There he is, alone - in shirtsleeves and braces, seated at his desk - that vast mahogany desk of his from which, with a swivel of his chair, he might gaze out over the skyline of London as if from the heavens themselves. But just at this moment he is staring at
her
, and clearly startled by her arrival.

‘What the hell …?’ he begins.

‘Oh, hello my love,’ she hears herself say in a voice that sounds like a bark and, again, not at all like it should normally sound.

Her husband, meanwhile, has leapt to his feet, the sweat on his forehead making the margins of his black hair even more sleek and glossy than ever; his long, skeletal fingers already pressing furiously at a rank of buttons on his desk that will summon people to his aid. ‘Rachael, how the hell did this mad bitch get in here?’ he demands of the other woman, who is in fact wringing her hands in some consternation at the doorway behind.

‘How dare you take away my home!’ Deborah yells, pursuing her husband around the desk in her rage.

‘
Your
home?’ he responds, gaining composure all the while, yet still backtracking from her as she advances. ‘Did you say
your
home? Oh I don’t think that claim is entirely accurate, Deborah, not if you’re referring to Craigmull or the cottage - not any longer.’ At which, seeing Deborah halted by the obstruction of a chair between them, he folds his arms smugly across his chest. ‘Our accountants, in fact, are entirely clear about the ownership of those properties. The shareholders of Peters Associated Publishing own them. And it remains my responsibility to realise our assets.’

‘Your assets be damned!’ Deborah cries, dashing the chair aside and feeling the urge to dig in her nails and to tear flesh.

But just then the doors that Rachael has so quietly closed behind her swing open violently again and two men in uniform burst through, security officers from downstairs - neither of whom have succeeded in preventing Deborah’s intrusion in the first place, and so they look embarrassed as well as angry.

‘Wait outside!’ Peters bellows, and they do - exiting as rapidly as they had come in. ‘No - not you, Rachael,’ Peters calls after his typist, his voice more subdued.

To which Rachael, dithering already half way inside the door, and looking as if she would have preferred to accompany the men to safety, obediently slides back in. She is looking unusually sheepish, Deborah thinks, not at all like the Rachael she is familiar with - though she does feel glad to have her in the room, and hopes she has not frightened her or hurt her in her initial enthusiasm upon entering, because the poor woman is rubbing her arm as if in pain.

‘No, that’s right, don’t go Rachael,’ Hugh repeats with an abrupt and surprising tenderness. ‘Come here please. After all, I think it’s only fair Deborah meets the
future
Mrs Peters, don’t you?’

Scarcely able to believe what she is hearing, Deborah can only turn to stare in open-mouthed amazement at her friend, as Hugh saunters slowly towards her and takes Rachael by the hand, rather forcefully, and draws her to his side in a gesture of victory - her closest friend, her ally: the sleek, ever-tidy, ever-sophisticated and now, it would seem, utterly treacherous Rachael in his arms. Her eyes with their long dark lashes are cast down, no doubt feeling ashamed - as well she might, the mystery of her reticence in responding to any of Deborah’s letters or messages of late fully explained now, painfully so.

‘Once all these tedious details with the properties are settled - and that shouldn’t take long now,’ Hugh announces, perching himself on the edge of his desk, ‘Rachael and I will tie the knot. A ceremony at Craigmull, in fact, your
former
home.’

It takes Deborah a while until she can respond - the words simply will not come out. ‘How very nice for you both,’ she eventually murmurs as she slumps down into the long couch close to the door, feeling suddenly so tired - as Rachael, already becoming more brazen and gaining in confidence, leans closer against her lover’s side, surveying her vanquished predecessor with merely a mild curiosity now she is seated and exhausted of her venom. And as she meets her eyes, it seems to Deborah she is not ashamed at all, but more relieved than anything else that everything is out in the open. She no longer has to pretend; no longer has to lie.

‘It’s not like you think, Debbie,’ she finally murmurs with hesitation, still rubbing her sore arm and perhaps wondering if she dare say anything at all. ‘It was only after the divorce. Only after he became available that we …’

‘Oh, really?’ Deborah interrupts, taking her handkerchief and twisting it between her hands in a gesture of distaste. ‘Well … that’s all right then, isn’t it,’ she remarks, feigning indifference and with an irony wasted on her former friend.

‘By the way Deborah, I understand you failed to deliver that manuscript, the other day,’ Peters reminds her, intervening abruptly to change the subject, and speaking with an altogether bewildering nonchalance considering the gravity of the situation as he releases Rachael from his grasp and retakes his seat. ‘You remember, I’m sure - that pamphlet of yours; that measly collection of pages you call
a book
, and due over a month ago at the publishers in New York. Remember?’

At which, more settled in his mastery of the situation, he leans back in his chair, interlaces his fingers and smiles, while Rachael, for her part, continues to dither, looking less confident once again now he has disengaged himself from her arm.

‘Well - so what!’ Deborah snaps back at her foe, pleased that this, her recent negligence has at least caused a minor inconvenience to the company and its various subsidiaries. ‘I don’t care. In fact I’m glad.’

‘Now, now, Deborah - steady on,’ Hugh warns her, pointing a finger, and with a most unbecoming sneer spreading across his face. ‘Remember what they say: when you find yourself in a hole, stop digging. May I remind you, that you are already way in breach of contract, having put your arts column in jeopardy by failing to review on several recent plays and exhibitions. In fact, it could well be that your services will no longer be required at the Sunday Chronicle precisely because of this.’

‘Too bad - you’ll just have to find some other drudge,’ she snaps back at him. ‘The pay is derisory, anyway.’

‘Oh, do not concern yourself over that, Deborah. There will be no need to replace you. Your sort of garbage is not anything we will be handling any longer at P.A.P - not here in the UK or across the Pond. My firm deals with reality these days, hard news and facts, not with all your kind of tittle-tattle. Oh, and by the way: the company will most likely be suing you, as well. Just thought I would warn you of this in advance. Something in the thousands, probably if you wish to settle out of court. Though I can’t imagine, to be frank, where you are going to find that kind of money. Oh and don’t think you’ll be able to pay it off with any of your antiques or paintings at Craigmull. They’ve already gone under the hammer - last week.’