THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (36 page)

‘So if no one has sent you, why else would you have come here?’ she asked. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Dear Poppy. Do you not know even now?’ he answered softly, raising her face to his. ‘I have come here to bring you your mother’s kiss.’

And before Poppy could even finish her gasp of astonishment, he did just that - softly, his lips upon hers, lingering, without any obvious demonstration of male passion, but for a time.

The cold night and the darkness vanished then as they entered their private space of pleasure and amazement - because to his surprise there seemed no end to the depth such a kiss might draw them into, should they allow it to continue. It was blissful until, all at once, her fears gaining the ascendancy, she disengaged herself, got to her feet and left the tower, not looking back. It had all happened so fast, he had no opportunity to protest or to pursue her. Poppy had vanished like some tantalising dream that no amount of will power could ever restore.

And so it is, with these poignant and yet immensely encouraging recollections playing upon his mind, that Herman’s attention is forced very much back to the here and now once again and the imminent conclusion of his journey. He alights at the village inn, deliberately some distance from his destination, and from here, after a little refreshment, takes himself on foot along to the gatehouse at the top of the lane, which would, according to his map, lead him down to the loch and to Craigmull.

It is almost completely dark by the time he approaches the sprawling Neo-Gothic edifice with its towering gables, mullion windows and ivy-clad walls - a bleak exterior, to be sure, with hardly a light showing anywhere - so that once again he finds himself wondering whether he has really taken leave of his senses coming here at all and at such an hour. No matter - Peters will either be prepared to aid him in his endeavours to bring Poppy home, or he will simply hand Herman over to the police - in which case he is prepared to tell all, anyway: to assist with a full inquiry. Either way, the whole thing will be resolved, and the poor man’s unfortunate daughter brought back from her dreadful predicament.

‘Have you practised your exercises this evening, Penelope?’ her tutor and mistress of meditation, Frau Weiss, inquires prior to retiring for the night, adamant as always that the young woman in her charge should succeed in everything required of her.

‘I have, Frau Weiss, thank you,’ Poppy replies, though without much enthusiasm.

‘Excellent. And are you making progress with the marble egg, manipulating it as instructed?’ the woman inquires further, taking a seat on the floor by her pupil’s side. ‘Remember, the honour of initiation into the sisterhood of the Temple Maidens means you must become greater than any mere mortal woman: a creature of grace, of strength and perfect co-ordination. As a mistress of the Tantric arts, you must also develop the muscles of the vaginal wall. You must learn to exert complete control over them. The egg is extremely important at this stage of your development, therefore, as is cultivating flexibility and rotation of the pelvis. These are the skills, the essential qualities of any devotee to the living god Rascham. You understand this, yes?’

Poppy nods her compliance. Although not entirely unpleasant at moments, the internal manipulation of the marble egg is one of the more tedious of the exercises she is compelled to undertake as part of her daily disciplines. ‘Is it really
that
important, though - to be able to hold this thing inside for hours at a time?’ Poppy asks as, emboldened by her position and rank - the senior neophyte at the present time, after all - she tosses the tiny polished stone into the air and catches it in her palm - just one of many frivolous gestures and manners of speech of late that are evidently much to the displeasure of her mentor.

‘Of course,’ the woman snaps back, endeavouring to speak patiently, as might a teacher to a particularly dull pupil, but failing, as she often does, to moderate her temper. ‘Remember, we are practising the genuine disciplines here - not just talking about them. We are schooled in the arts of the ancients and their knowledge of cultivating sexual pleasure - far more pleasure than you will ever have thought possible, I promise you. This, you will understand one day. But even then, it will not be for you as an individual to enjoy. You will dedicate your pleasure to Rascham. And when you are wedded to him, your moments of ecstasy are given to strengthen him and his purpose. This is your sacrifice, your good karma.’

‘Oh well … yes. I do understand, I suppose,’ Poppy replies vaguely, her voice betraying her doubts even after all these weeks of study. ‘It’s just that it all seems so terribly dreary at times, that’s all,’ she concludes with a long and somewhat exaggerated sigh of exhaustion.

‘Poppy, tell me,’ the woman asks after a suitable pause of silent umbrage - her voice seems furtive, probing - ‘when you meditate and reach to your inner self, does your spirit not feel satisfied?’

‘Yes ... yes, it does,’ Poppy answers slowly, enjoying as she often does these sessions of discourse with the older woman, since they remind her, no matter how imperfectly, of her conversations long ago with her mother when they would sit together and discuss their experiences in all manner of things - though not, to be sure, ever anything quite as outlandish as she has been obliged to study here at Schloss Lethe!

‘Good. I am pleased,’ the woman replies in her typically robust yet persuasive voice - as if every word she might utter would naturally be imbued with immense significance. ‘But tell me also,’ she continues, ‘do you - er - sometimes feel a time might come when the inner experience might prove to be more vital, even more valuable to you than those perceived with your eyes?’

Poppy thinks about this for a while. ‘Are the visual senses really so very important?’ she asks herself - and this not for the first time. After all, Rascham has become great without the light of the day to illuminate his world. Such a paradox had often been mentioned in her tutorials. And this evening, therefore, in response to what she feels is wanted of her, she nods her assent - an assent not without a certain reticence, however, because she wonders why the teachings of her mentor are becoming increasingly focused of late on the limitations of the organs of perception - parts she had already been taught to overrule in any case through the use of meditation.

‘Excellent,’ Frau Weiss confirms with further satisfaction. ‘I must say, young lady, your reactions are meeting more and more with my approval these days. I feel the time is almost upon us when we can perform the opening of your third eye, yes?’ she adds dropping her words softly into this acquiescent silence, almost as if bestowing a blessing: a reward.

Poppy gazes with a mixture of gratitude and disquiet at the other woman. It is a statement of recognition, naturally; confirming that she has already progressed so far. Yet she is just a little fearful of it, too. What did this opening of the so-called third eye, the psychic vision latent in us all involve? Emboldened by this rare moment of openness between herself and the older woman, she inquires directly.

‘Oh, really, it is only a minor operation,’ Frau Weiss replies with a casual wave of the hand, almost dismissive of the technicalities. ‘A few minutes of elementary surgery under anaesthetic - nothing more - and you won’t be cognisant of anything until you awake. Something similar has been performed for centuries in Tibet. An incision is made in the brow - where your sixth chakra wheel is located. This is why you will be given the anaesthetic. It will awaken your inner vision fully.’

‘Has this inner vision already been awoken in you, then?’ Poppy inquires, not without a certain degree of cynicism, and which appears to aggravate the other woman as she rises and prepares to leave.

‘You may not ask me such questions,’ the indomitable Frau Weiss answers curtly. ‘I have not been chosen by Rascham.’

Poppy wants to ask why not. But suspects she will get nowhere with such an interrogation. To complain in such a faithless way concerning the wisdom that is hidden, and must, they say, always be withheld from the uninitiated, is more than sufficient to have you propelled back down the ranks, to have to do penance and lose everything you have worked for. Her moment of enlightenment, she is always assured, will come in the fullness of time, and she must be content, to wait with patience until all of its secrets are disclosed.

‘Continue with your meditations, and your exercises a while longer before you retire, and no more of these shallow misgivings,’ the woman orders her, indicating just sufficient displeasure in the shape of a wagging finger in her pupil’s direction as she leaves. And Poppy, surrendering once more to the essential silence that comprises always so much of her daily routine in this secluded and isolated part of the castle, duly obeys.

But it is not easy, not this time. In the darkness of the vast, secluded chamber that has been allocated to her these past several weeks, the night has a distinct chill - a chill against which even the substantial log fire in the chimney cannot have any influence, because it is really a coldness of the spirit she feels now as much as anything else, an emptiness inside. Tiny, rasping taps of sleet fly across the windows above her, punctuating the winds that whistle and cry through all the eaves and courtyards of the building - a choir of swirling, disparate voices: the multitudes of the world calling to her - coarse, undisciplined and crude - and yet surely also among those voices many of goodness and charity, as well? Yes. And so she finds herself wondering, and not for the first time, just why she should be forbidden all contact with the outside? The millennium has come and gone. It is the year 1900, and the Earth and its occupants have survived the transition - so that somewhere, out there, back in the society she once knew, there would be good people at large, just as ever - people like her English gentleman who, though she has been acquainted with him only a short while, has already filled her heart with feelings of delight; he who had brought with him her mother’s kiss - a kiss reminding her so much of her precious past. How silly of her it had been at that moment to have run away from him as she did - for it had, indeed, been the most sweet and sincere of kisses.

And abruptly she realises: yes, surely her mother’s voice is out there too, amid that swirling cacophony. Perhaps a crying voice, a voice of sorrow - for would she not wonder over her daughter’s vanishment? And so it comes upon her then, the dreadful revelation of all the suffering she must have caused. All at once, she can imagine what it must be like to lose somebody so close, so loved and cherished. The mystery and unanswered questions of her disappearance must haunt her poor mother. And that dear man had brought her not only her mother’s kiss, but all the longing and anguish of her despair as well. And here in her solitary room as she sits alone at her meditations, tears of remorse trickle down her face; and she weeps with all the relentless desolation of winter and night weighing down upon her tender spirit.

Reaching the end of the driveway at Craigmull, Herman’s advance is halted by the arrival of an unoccupied carriage trundling round from the side of the building to the portico, most likely to collect someone from inside - guests coming and going all the while, no doubt, he thinks as, sequestered from view amid some trees, he stands wondering just how to introduce himself presently to whoever will answer that door; just how he might gain access to Peters, even if he is there, and how the man himself might react. But he remains confident that the spirit of the voice that fills his consciousness will guide him and not prove false - a conviction born out instantly by the appearance outside of what is surely Mrs Peters, a tall, handsome woman in a long coat and fur stole and who together with a small bevy of female friends can be seen scrambling into the carriage followed by a solicitous footman stationed to the rear - clearly going out for the evening. Her absence would make things far less complicated, of course; and once the departing carriage has drawn away to the top of the drive along which, only a moment earlier, Herman had descended, he strolls calmly towards the broad entrance doors beneath the portico and pulls the bell.

Almost straightaway, there is a stirring of activity accompanied by a waxing radiance of a hand-held lamp playing upon the glass tracery of the doors inside. Then, to Herman’s surprise, as one of the doors swings open it is to reveal the face not of a butler but of Hugh Peters himself - Herman recognises him instantly by his photographs - puffing somewhat from his exertions and clearly embarrassed that no one else is available to perform such a menial task as answering the door. It occurs to Herman he may well have been expecting someone, anyway, because dressed formally in a dark suit and tie, he seems unaccountably gratified to see him and shows him in straight away - it being some length of time until he finally perceives the look of uncertainty on his visitor’s face as, once Herman has relinquished his coat and hat, the two find themselves standing facing each other in the hallway, each a little lost for words.

‘You - er -
are
from London, I take it? News Chronicle?’ Peters inquires.

‘Actually no,’ Herman laughs and thrust his hands into his pockets rather diffidently. ‘I am not connected to the Chronicle, or any other paper, for that matter. But I do have something of importance to speak to you about, Mr Peters, if you will allow me to introduce myself. My name is Herman Grace, and I would appreciate a moment of your time in which I might explain my reasons for being here.’

‘You mean you don’t have an appointment?’ Peters inquires with incredulity, as if not to have an appointment must be the greatest impudence.

‘No. Forgive me. There was no time to arrange such a courtesy,’ Herman replies, handing over his card.

Mistrustful, but with an obvious curiosity in the presence of this well-mannered stranger, Peters nods in acquiescence and continues to show his visitor through - a journey that takes them along dimly lit passageways lined with trophies and portraits of bygone residents, then down a short flight of stairs until they arrive at Peters’s grand and spacious study, replete with an extensive library and desk and lit by several elaborate candelabrum whose reflections just behind the windows of an adjacent conservatory can be seen dancing upon the cold, inky waters of the loch outside. Save for the two of them, the whole building really does seem to be unoccupied. And again, Herman can only wonder at the power and accuracy of the forces that have brought him here this evening, shepherding him to the exact place, the correct doorway, the very man he needs to speak to, all without the slightest difficulty.

‘Mr Peters,’ Herman begins once they have seated themselves in armchairs close to the fire, and with each a glass of vintage port, ‘I have at various moments during the past couple of months been assisting your former wife, Deborah, in her search for your missing daughter.’

‘Why, Yes ... I thought I recognised your name - and your face, come to think of it,’ Peters declares getting to his feet again, his features animated with a mixture of surprise and irritation, while Herman with a subtle touch of finger and thumb to his own stubbly upper lip realises that a suggestion of a returning moustache is already beginning to render him a little more identifiable once again. ‘You’ve got a nerve, coming here,’ Peters continues. ‘What the hell do you think ...’

‘Mr Peters, please. Allow me a moment to explain. If afterwards you still wish me to leave, I promise you I shall trouble you no further.’

Peters compressing his lips into silence, appears to struggle with indecision for a moment. But then gradually he mellows and settles down once again into his armchair - from which vantage he fixes Herman with a narrow-eyed scrutinizing gaze as he takes a cigarette from a case. Without offering one to his guest, he lights up and, with a gesture of an open palm in grudging assent, finally allows his visitor to have his say.

‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ Herman begins. ‘Your daughter Penelope is alive - no, please let me finish. Despite what you’ve been given to believe, and you have had every reason to be sceptical, I understand that, she really is alive and well. I was speaking with her just a few days ago. The whereabouts of her dear mother, the former Mrs Peters, remains unknown, alas, and a matter of the greatest concern to me. But your daughter, I am delighted to inform you, is alive.’

‘Have you come here to blackmail me, is that it?’ Peters demands - a most curious and surprising reaction.

‘Why, no, not at all,’ Herman replies quietly, shocked and puzzled but trying to find some sympathy in his heart for the man before him who seems confused now and somewhat disturbed. ‘But I suppose I am in need of your assistance,’ Herman continues patiently, ‘because, you see, the only way I have been able to gain access to those who are holding her - they are a clandestine group of occultists - has been by misleading them over my status. Only by keeping up a pretence of being rich have I been able to gain their confidence so rapidly, which has in turn allowed me to locate your daughter. In order to persuade her to leave of her own accord will require just a bit more time, but I believe there is every possibility of success. Then perhaps we might bring these wicked scoundrels to justice.’

‘So you
do
require money?’ Peters insists with a certain sarcasm and still seeming not in the least bit moved or relieved by what Herman had imagined would have been the happiest news any man in his position could possibly have wished for: to learn that his only daughter, believed dead these past several months is in fact alive and well.

‘I have a small amount of money of my own available,’ Herman continues, a little perplexed himself by this stage, ‘but nowhere near enough to impress these devils. And so yes, I suppose some temporary credit would be useful - a bank reference for them to examine, perhaps. Unfortunately they know me only by an assumed name, so it would probably need to be a numbered Swiss account. A loan, therefore, would be sufficient. I would not need to draw on a penny of it.’

But at this Peters merely slumps back in his chair, grits his teeth and laughs as he stubs out his cigarette - and a most peculiar laugh it is: without mirth, almost one of despair. He then rises slowly, his gait unsteady as Herman watches him go to the tall French doors where he stands for a moment to gaze out into what would really be no more than his own reflection. It is as if he is examining himself in a mirror, Herman thinks, and wonders, too, as he sips at his port in silence, just what it could be that makes a man like this tick. Probably the demands of his business, his work, his wealth, his celebrity status. Not it seems the normal concerns of any mortal man of flesh and blood for the welfare of a cherished daughter. How very odd it all seems. And the fellow’s next words leave Herman in no doubt of it.

‘So Penny is alive, you tell me? That’s good. Very good. Though I must tell you, young man, I am already aware of this fact, and have been for some time.’

‘What!’ Herman exclaims, scarcely able to believe what he is hearing and finding himself gripping the arms of his chair with the shock of it. ‘What do you mean? How long ...?’

‘How long? Oh, some weeks now.’

‘Weeks!
’

‘Oh yes. Tell me, is it so very bad, then, where she is?’

‘Bad!’ Herman cries, though it is more of a gasp, this time, escaping his throat. ‘Don’t you understand? These wretches have abducted your daughter and are tantamount to holding her prisoner. They have already destroyed any number of other young lives like hers in the most abominable way. Your daughter will become the next victim of their cruelty - for they are cruel, most horribly cruel. And there’s more …’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Peters interrupts, holding forth a cautionary palm as he finally turns from the windows to confront Herman once again, by this time also on his feet and staring aghast, astounded by his host’s utter indifference. ‘I think I understand the aspirations of these people on the Continent even better than you do, Mr Grace. And in any case, in reply to your earlier request: I am afraid there is no money available. Whatever funds I might have once had for applying to this matter are already allocated, I regret to say.’

‘What do you mean?’ Herman demands. ‘Sir, please explain yourself. This is intolerable to me, this confusion.’

‘Yes … yes, I shall explain,’ the older man responds with a bitter smile, and as he wanders to the French windows of the conservatory once again, it is to open them this time, and Herman can discern the figure of a seated man just inside, his legs crossed in a position of ease. ‘I think you had better come in now?’ Peters calls to him, summoning the person into the room, though the man himself is already rising. And within seconds, the doorway fills with the spectre of the last person on earth Herman had expected to have encountered here this evening: Hanno.

The slovenly young man with his short-cropped hair and scruffy clothing draws to a halt, equally surprised it would seem at the presence of Herman so many hundreds of miles away from where he had last seen him. But quickly he pulls his wonted sneer across his narrow, gaunt features, a sneer that, to Herman’s horror, rapidly grows into a horrible, victorious grin of comprehension.

‘Yes, do come in, won’t you,’ Peters continues, standing aside, and maintaining decorum only with considerable strain before turning back to address Herman once more: ‘I regret to say I cannot introduce you, since the young gentleman you see here has so far neglected to honour me with his name. But what this means is that although your sentiments might well be noble, Mr Grace, I’m afraid you have come far too late. You are asking for money to help release my daughter from her Hungarian castle. My other guest here has for some time been demanding payment for keeping her there, or rather for keeping the news of her position from the world. And I am inclined to favour his suit more than yours, expensive as it is undoubtedly proving.’

At which Peters concludes with a hesitant kind of glance to his side, a look of utter hatred and yet helplessness directed towards the other man.

‘But why?’ Herman demands, still breathless with astonishment, his eyes darting from face to face.

‘Why?’ Peters repeats laconically. ‘Oh, that’s simple, Mr Grace. I mean, you wouldn’t expect me to destroy myself and my reputation by restoring Penelope to life after so long, would you? - not after the kind of stance I have taken. I would be a laughing stock. The value of the firm’s shares would plummet. Advertising revenues would evaporate and many of my employees would lose their jobs. I would be ruined - financially as well as morally. It is, I’m afraid, just too high a penalty for anyone in my position to ever consider.’

There follows a deep silence, in which even the reprehensible Hanno appears to surrender to some feelings of disgust - mingled with a burgeoning interest in the revelation of Herman’s real name - for there is no going back from it now: Peters has just addressed him as Mr Grace.

‘You cad!’ Herman declares, allowing himself a rare outburst of petulance towards the older man.

‘Yes, yes, that’s right,’ Peters admits with a distracted kind of groan as, his legs having apparently failed him all of a sudden, and aided by an outstretched hand, he descends once more into his armchair. And here, after a moment of twisting and squirming in anguish, and ignoring the others entirely, he holds his head in his hands and begin to sob. At first it is an almost silent sobbing, but gradually he appears to give way and the sounds turn into terrible, muffled cries of humiliation and shame. ‘What could I have done? What else could I have possibly done?’ he eventually whines, and when he raises his face, his eyes are red and swimming in tears. ‘By the time I found out what had really happened, it was too late. Already, I had done so much, said so much, published so much. I had apportioned blame where none was due, and all so publicly. And so when he told me I thought ... yes, if only for a short while, until the dust settles, that’s all, until people have forgotten, why not keep her there, just a bit longer?’