THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (12 page)

‘You’ve been up there? When?’ she demands.

‘Oh, not me: the auctioneers, my dear,’ Hugh replies, the unbecoming grin that has been a fixture on his face for the past several minutes broadening all the while. ‘Rachael here popped up to show them around a few weeks ago. So I wouldn’t recommend you trying to salvage anything. The locks are all changed, including the main gates. All the staff have strict orders to prohibit your entrance.’

‘But the paintings - the Gainsboroughs, the Rossettis - they’re mine,’ Deborah challenges him, but her voice is faltering - as a shake of the head from her former husband confirms the horrid truth: that all of the artworks were either once purchased through the company or are in fact owned by her husband, anyway. The same formula, he explains, applies to all the furniture and antiques at the cottage in Hampshire, too - all tied in with the P.A.P Conference Centre or Study Foundation or any other number of clever tax write-offs that the company accountants foster with such diligence. Even the carpets she once bought with such care, the Waterford crystal, the Meissen porcelain, even her gowns and jewellery for entertaining - everything gone under the hammer - until, to her surprise, she is forced to acknowledge that she probably has nothing much more left to her name other than a leasehold apartment in Knightsbridge and the clothes she stands up in.

‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she pleads, her words dropping into a cavernous silence she knows no one really needs to respond to, not least Hugh. And feeling tearful and so angry at her own frailty, she takes the handkerchief to her streaming eyes. ‘Why ..?’

‘Why?’ he repeats, if anything even more assertive now and getting to his feet again as if he would leap up and devour her. ‘Because of that grave - the grave over at Highgate. Because of the child that lies buried there. Our daughter - my dearest Penny. That’s why!’

‘You blame me?’

‘My God! You could not be more culpable than if you had put her there with your own hands. All her life long - your spooks and fairy tales. What chance did Penny have with a mother like you!’

‘Don’t call her Penny - that awful name,’ Deborah whines, most distraught, her head spinning as she clutches her hands to her temples. How she hates it, that detestable name he always insisted on calling her - naming their child after a unit of currency. ‘Our daughter’s name is Penelope!’ she screams. ‘My beautiful Poppy.’

‘Poppy!’
he retorts, with a sideways look of embarrassment towards Rachael, as if he suspects he might be sounding increasingly petty in his squabble. ‘Oh yes, that was always your preference, wasn’t it - Poppy - a bloody flower! You’re stuck in the past, you are. Life isn’t like that, Deborah - like some poetic idyll. The poor kid. She never wanted anything to do with all your weird stuff. She always hated fairy stories.’

‘Yes, thanks to you!’ Deborah retorts, drawing herself up from her seat now, and no longer feeling quite so depleted of energy. ‘Perhaps that’s why I felt she needed them most of all.’

‘Don’t talk rubbish!’ he cries - the whole conversation by this stage having descended into some awful matrimonial shouting match. ‘You just wanted to shape her in your own grotesque image - turn her into the great diva you never became yourself. She could have been brilliant, our daughter - intelligent, clever. And you turned her into a degenerate.’

‘Shut up!’ Deborah screams, advancing on him once again, losing control.

But he only laughs now, seeing her close up and yet so defeated, so helpless, her tear-stained face streaked with some kind of obnoxious paint she puts round her eyes and which he has always detested. He grasps her wrists, squeezing painfully for one awful moment to keep her at arms length before releasing her with a vicious shake.

‘You’re finished, Deborah. You know that, don’t you?’ he states coldly. And she feels the strength in her legs giving way, almost stumbling on her heels. ‘You will never get anything in print again - never. And those swanky dinner parties at fifty guineas a shot? There’ll be no more of those, either - not after your little performance the other night at the Savoy. Oh yes, that’s right, it’s all over town - the way you made a fool of yourself, throwing a tantrum and running out like that. As a matter of fact, we’re going to do a big feature on it in the Sunday Chronicle, this weekend. We have none other than Bob Small on the case - and you know what that means. Watch this space, Deborah - because he’ll be dealing very thoroughly, I understand, in his own inimitable way with what’s left of your reputation. In fact, our editor assures me he already has very large bucket of filth sitting on his desk right now, courtesy of Bob Small. And in a few days time he’s going to pour the whole lot all over you.’

Deborah feels slightly delirious, her head pounding. ‘I don’t care - I don’t need you. I don’t need any of you!’ she screams in fury as she turns from them both, from all their hatred and treachery. Storming out the office, ignoring the security men in the corridor, she kicks the sides of the elevator upon entering to make as much noise as possible until she reaches the ground floor where, with futile indignation, she swings her handbag at the plate glass of the revolving doors as she leaves.

She has rarely if ever felt so distressed, so desperate - suspecting, also, that she is behaving most oddly again, muttering to herself, cursing under her breath as she hurries along the street. People are staring at her. Bystanders, in alarm, step out of the way as she advances. Sometimes, others shout after her because she has collided with them. That can’t be right, she thinks. So to steady herself, she pops into the saloon bar of a pub and orders a brandy, indifferent to the puzzled faces of the other customers, for it is unusual, she knows, for one dressed as finely as she to be seated alone in such a place - but she is not bothered. She even picks up a small bottle of port nearby at the off-licence and sequesters it in her coat pocket - a little something for later, perhaps.

Oh, how she hates the man. Whatever could she have ever seen in him, to have married such a
fiend?
And with the revelation of his affair with Rachael and the awful feeling of betrayal clawing at her insides, all of her surroundings start to appear red to Deborah, literally red, in colour and in essence. In an all-consuming haze of redness, she walks in the middle of the street until a cab is forced to draw up for her, a hansom, and from which she orders the driver above to ride out to Highgate cemetery. It’s not a short journey, not by any means, and there is ample time, therefore, to sample the port, straight from the bottle in the privacy of the vehicle. How good it feels, the warm, oak-flavoured liquid at the back of her throat, burning slightly with its stored up heat - matching her mood perfectly. Along the leafy lane the cabman takes her, the rickety two-wheeled vehicle drawn by its solitary horse making good time. Upon arrival at the cemetery she pays the man quickly, not waiting for any change or receipt and, leaping down, hurries through the still-open gates.

It is becoming dark, the early, smoky darkness of a November afternoon, and she anticipates being quite alone in the sprawling avenues of granite crosses, statues and mausoleums. As the temperature begins to fall, and with only a halo or two of gaslight nearby, the fog begins to settle around the tombstones, weaving beneath the branches of the yews and across the dank earth. But the shortage of light is no discouragement to her. She needs to get to that grave, and is confident of being able to distinguish it. Yes, there it is, looming out of the darkness, that hideous, stark-white marble slab, without even a smudge of moss or lichen having yet graced its cold, pristine surface: so much at variance with everything else around it - with not a cross, not an angel, not even a place for flowers - Hugh’s conception from start to finish in all its crass modernity, and not a single suggestion of her own having been adopted. She has not returned here since the funeral, so vile and loathsome a place has it already become to her. Why it was even vile and loathsome on the day itself, she recalls. But here again this evening, staring down at it in all its ugly mendaciousness, it looks so much worse.

Perhaps it is all the accumulated agonies of the past weeks, but something inside her seems to snap then. She begins kicking at the headstone. She hears the heel of her shoe crack before it falls away - but she keeps on kicking - again and again. ‘It’s actually a lot easier to kick without a heel,’ she thinks in one strange moment of lucidity, and finding herself wondering just how many kicks might it take to topple a headstone? How deep in the ground do they bury the damn things, anyway? So strong - so immovable. And so she tries hammering upon the slab with her fists as well. The injuries she is inflicting on herself - for they are injuries, she knows - are worsening. She notices tiny trickles of blood running down her hands, visible even through her kid gloves, all in shreds by now - her sleeves bloody, too, just like her thoughts. She knows she is hysterical, but really: why should she care? It’s not Poppy there beneath the stone. It’s an impostor.

Voices, she is sure, are all about her by this time - voices which she suspects are not real but just dreadful recollections, memories buzzing in her head - voices of Hugh and Rachael, the voice of her solicitor Mr Levine - all laughing at her. Yet still, in one way or another, she continues to attack the grave, to molest its hateful presence in whatever way her frail body will allow, trying to push it over. And eventually it does start to rock a bit - by which time there are even more voices to be heard - and these not inside her head any more. These seem more real, shouting somewhere in the distance. And then there is the noise of people running - running towards her on the gravel paths, harsh, loud noises mingled with cries of protest and outrage - men in uniform among them, carrying lanterns. Hands clutch at her as she protests and struggles free, but only for a moment. They are trying to take her arms, trying to remonstrate with her, but she cannot understand what they are saying - so she strikes out: someone’s chin, someone’s chest. Then something smelling very strong and repugnant is held beneath her nostrils and it makes her dizzy. There is even greater darkness then; deep impenetrable darkness; and she remembers no more.

‘Observe, Herman, there are twelve angels not of good but of evil,’ the voice whispers. ‘And at their feet are lamps not of light but of darkness and these stand before the throne of one who is the destroyer of light. In his left hand is a sceptre of violence and falsehood, and in his right the skull of many nations, their sons and their daughters.’

Extraordinary. It has happened again - that voice. He can hear it so plainly. And this time here in his own study, at home. An elusive whisper from some hidden realm of nature - what could it be? Normally he would ignore it, filter such intrusions from his mind. This one, though, he has to admit, is different, especially cogent and even slightly messianic in tone. Surely, too, it would be related in some way to that unfortunate woman, Deborah Peters - it being so very similar to the one he had heard that evening at the Savoy. And so he rises from his armchair and goes quickly to the bureau to make a note of it, lest it be forgotten - the exact words if he can, if for no other reason than it was so very strong and unsettling.

It is a beautiful morning, unseasonably warm for the time of year. And with the river at the foot of his garden shimmering in the sunshine tempting him to stroll, it is not long before he has donned his old Norfolk jacket and sallied forth through the gateway of his villa for his customary morning ‘constitutional’ - keeping to the old towpath as it meets with various locks and bridges along the way.

The mighty and illustrious river Thames, that most evocative and historic of waterways - it is always an honour to meet with it wherever he goes. Here, however, it is not the Thames of commercial London, or the Thames of the busy dockyards to the East End, or even the Thames of wide estuaries and salt marsh as it flows to the sea. Instead it is the tranquil and beguiling Thames of the Home Counties, gently flowing, bordered by clumps of willow leaning out across the water, populated with kingfishers and swans; while upon its sloping banks the spectre of great stately buildings and even the occasional palace can be seen in all its pomp, set amid swathes of perfectly mown lawns or the gardens and paddocks that surround them. A walk along its shores is therefore a journey through history, as well. With each step he feels connected to the past in a way which is never quite equalled anywhere else. And that is important to him.

Yet this morning he cannot relax and absorb it. Instead, his thoughts keep returning to Deborah Peters. He simply cannot dismiss her from his mind. Why, he wonders, had she not got in touch with him? She had said she would telegraph him, but this she has manifestly failed to do. And as for himself - fool! - why had he not insisted on having some details of hers that evening after the show - an address, a place of work - anything? There is simply no possibility of being able to correspond with her. The link is broken.

Returning home a few minutes before noon, he picks up the mail from the gate and then retires once again to his study where he often takes a light luncheon and reads the papers. He always has two newspapers delivered: the austere Times, in which not one photographic image would ever sully its front-page of closely spaced columns, plus a more popular ‘lowbrow’ alternative, the News Chronicle, a veritable picture-book of a paper by contrast and which keeps him up to date with all the gossip from the world of stage and entertainment. In the hallway, on his way in, he waves a greeting to his housekeeper, a lady whom he has come to address fondly over the few months she has been in his service simply as ‘Mrs H,’ and then, taking a seat in the study, he pours tea from the pot she has set in readiness for him and settles down to read.

‘Finest
Assam
brewed this morning for Mr Grace,’ she announces through the doorway, popping her face around to address him in her usual forthright manner. ‘And a good bit of scandal in the papers, an' all,’ she adds with a fruity smile.

‘Oh really? Good-oh!’ he responds, trying not to sound too disinterested.

Dear Mrs H. - not young by any means but exceedingly capable and well organised. He rather suspects she watches for his appearance at a distance along the towpath as he walks back, for she usually manages to anticipate his return and to arrange the tea with unerring accuracy. He has to admit, it is most reassuring to have another living being moving about the place. And although she is not resident, she does have a key and her occasional presence in the otherwise large and empty building has been his salvation in many respects since the parting of the ways with his former fiancée. And so, thus reassured, and sipping at his tea, he turns his attention to the papers - at which abruptly everything changes, and he can scarcely believe what he sees, because the News Chronicle’s shocking front page banner headline this morning is all about Deborah.

‘Gossip Queen Arrested at Grave-Smashing Spree,’ it proclaims with brazen audacity. Turning quickly to the other paper for confirmation, he notices that even the more sedately worded Times gives it a mention inside. Hardly top international news, he reflects with dismay, but the Chronicle has gone overboard. Being the paper Deborah’s husband manages, naturally it would jump on this incident with glee - a lengthy article, accompanied by a harrowing image of Deborah herself stumbling from the doorway of a police station in North London, endeavouring to hold onto a railing with one hand and to cover her face with the other, but obviously caught in the barrage of the latest flash technology that the News Chronicle, in particular, has pioneered in recent times. It is a most unflattering image - her dreadfully altered, gaunt and haggard features laid bare for all to see, and probably all the worse, he imagines, for a night in custody. And if it is true, as they say, that the camera never lies, then he is astounded at the change in her appearance that has taken place in so short a space of time. Letting forth an inevitable sigh, he reads on:

‘Deborah Peters being discharged this morning after being detained at Highgate cemetery where her daughter is buried. It is understood that a head stone was damaged and several bystanders assaulted, including a police officer and a verger. When asked by reporters where exactly he was during the incident, the verger replied, “on my backside, sir, because she struck me.” Deborah Peters has not been far from the headlines in recent months, since the tragic demise of her daughter, Penelope, 21, in an anarchist cult suicide in Kaiser Bill’s Germany.’

How very unpleasant - for them to have made so much of what is surely an unfortunate misunderstanding. Just like the unfavourable treatment in the English papers lately of anything remotely German (
Kaiser Bill
being a favourite topic), Deborah this morning also appears to have become the target of an insidious process of character assassination. They even have a doctor’s report next.

‘According to brain expert, professor Brendon McPherson who specialises in the new science of psychiatry coming from Vienna, Deborah Peters is clearly suffering from what is termed a
neurosis
due to her inability to come to terms with the loss of her daughter. This can happen, says McPherson, in cases of sudden bereavement and especially in instances where the grieving parent, in this case the mother, identifies so closely with her lost child that it is impossible to believe the one to be dead while the other is living. It is a bond of such an intense nature that it overcomes rationality and can lead to mental instability of varying degrees when broken.’

This is becoming worse by the minute, Herman reflects as he shakes his head in disbelief. A neurologist’s verdict - whatever will this do to the unfortunate woman’s career and reputation! At which the article concludes with a summary of exactly how long Deborah had been in custody and a line or two of futile speculation over where she might be at present. There will be charges pressed. And a statement, issued by a senior source on behalf of Peters Associated Publishing, confirms that reparations will be sought from the accused, not only for criminal damage, but also the level of distress caused to Mr Peters himself by such a ‘wanton act of vandalism.’

Herman casts the paper to one side. He really has had more than enough, he feels. How dreadful! Poor woman. Once such an admired and prominent figure but now simply one of ridicule - her mental stability being questioned and analysed in the pages of the gutter press. It is awful, degrading - and would foster only one idea in the mind of Joe public: that Deborah Peters has taken leave of her senses. He only hopes the unfortunate woman herself has not been reading the same papers this morning - though the coverage will, of course, reach her eventually.

By what strange command or fate he does not fully understand, but he feels even more anxious than ever to speak with her. Only how? In desperation he dresses for town, resolving to journey to the offices of Peters Associated Publishing at once where he will ask for assistance in locating her. A mailing address; a telegraph destination, anything will do. They might refuse. They probably will. But he knows he must at least try. And with this resolution he takes his hat and umbrella and hurries along the road to the station and the earliest train into Paddington.

‘Sorry,’ the receptionist replies as Herman leans across the counter in the foyer of the prestigious building in Fleet Street, examining the features of the stern faced gentleman on duty for any sign of concord. ‘Mrs Peters no longer has any significant connection with the company. Her weekly column in the Chronicle has been terminated, and we only publish one or two of her former titles through a subsidiary - and that is not based here in London.’

At which the man casts his eyes disdainfully down once again to his desk. He has one of those shirts with epaulettes at the shoulders, very officious.

‘But surely you must have some means of conveying a message to her?’ Herman protests.

‘You can try writing to the New York publishers of her books,’ the man suggests at length, looking up with an expression of immense fortitude as he hands Herman a card, ‘since it is just possible she will remain in touch with them. But here we have no instructions to forward any more fan-mail …’

‘I am not a fan,’ Herman insists, an assertion met only with a sceptical raising of an eyebrow.

‘We - er - do tend to hear that rather a lot, sir,’ the fellow states at length, ‘especially from the gentlemen,’ he adds, making Herman feel like some kind of sinister prowler. And with that, he suspects, it is definitely time to go.

In complete contrast to the brightness of the morning, it is already overcast by the time he leaves the building. Feeling somewhat deflated and
gauche
at his attempt at tracing the famous woman, and with the rain beginning to fall, he walks briskly down the street to Ludgate Circus and to the café where he hopes to at least revive his spirits if not necessarily his fortunes with a decent cup of tea.

Built partly into the walls and pillars of the railway viaduct, it is a place where the very tables and chairs sometimes vibrate in sympathy with the almost constant thunder of the Farrington railway above. But is no less popular because of that. Many of the denizens of Fleet Street, the printers, editors and journalists, all the ‘inkies’ and ‘hacks’ and any number of other slightly self-derisory terms used by the fraternity to describe themselves, congregate here - in other words, all those closest to the source of the news, if not, sometimes, the makers of it themselves. There is always the chance of picking up on some valuable gossip, therefore. And it is, indeed, the incident at Highgate that seems to be the topic on everyone’s lips; the matter of the attractive society lady fallen from grace being naturally something the men here would be fascinated by - and with the added spice that the lady herself has apparently
gone off 'er 'ead,
as he hears someone say. Irresistible fare over tea and biscuits. It is then, as he sips at his own cuppa, and continues to contemplate the sorry affair, that he overhears one particularly illuminating line:

‘Probably left the country already, I shouldn’t wonder,’ one of the men speculates. ‘Mitchell from the Mercury reckons he saw her on the platform at Victoria - Dover Express.’

At which Herman is delivered of the most persuasive conviction. Yes - of course. With nothing but vexation and ridicule to contend with here at home, and surely more determined than ever to find the answer to her daughter’s disappearance, Deborah would surely have left the country by now. She would be en route to Germany - somewhere like Heidelberg or Munich, perhaps, searching in earnest for clues as to her daughter’s whereabouts among all those places where the young woman had lived and studied. It is not exactly a disincarnate voice that has told him this, nothing quite as exotic this time, but rather a fellow in a bowler hat eating his sandwiches on the neighbouring table. But it will do.