THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (40 page)

BOOK: THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque
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At which Poppy, without anyone to turn to for solace in the vastness of the great empty chamber, simply obeys - for in the private observance of her mantra there is at least some peace and privacy; and into this beckoning solitude she plunges herself with the instinct of a cornered animal curled up in the very extremity of fear.

 

 

Deborah has taken herself out from the city centre to the
Prater
, the wondrous estate of meadows, woods and parks, once an imperial hunting ground but these days aspiring to nothing more grandiose than the pursuit of popular entertainment and all the bustling enterprise of a noisy joyous fairground - and home, moreover, to the famous
Riesenrad,
that giant Ferris Wheel with its rickety wooden cabins rising and creaking into the air. ‘What an astonishing sight,’ Deborah thinks as she gazes up, the dominance of it in the landscape - far higher than even the oldest chestnut trees that line the glorious avenues and walks of the park.

It should lift her mood, coming here, or so she had hoped; but if anything it makes her feel even more isolated. She cannot afford to ride in the big wheel, and her eccentric and dishevelled appearance renders her at best a figure of curiosity, at worst, one of ridicule or outright hostility. Anything goes at the fairground, of course, even here in this city of such formality and decorum, and she really should not feel surprised at their laughter and jibes, especially those of the young. She manages to ignore them most of the time. And it is then, by contrast, that she notices one person in particular, one who is certainly not likely to be prone to any outburst of wasteful levity: a young woman, seated alone close to the main gates and busking on an accordion, a hatful of coins at her feet as she runs through a selection of popular folk melodies. And very well she plays, too, for one who, by the assertion of a small weather-stained placard at her side, is totally without sight.


Dankeschön
,’ the girl calls out, raising her face and sensing Deborah’s presence at her side; anticipating a coin or two to be added to those already in the hat.

‘I have no money for you,’ Deborah states, resolving to take a seat on a bench close by, almost at the girl’s side. ‘If you could see me you would understand. I am as poor as you, my dear. Though I shall not complain.’

‘Nor should you,’ the girls states, ceasing her melody for a moment, ‘since you have eyes to see? That is the finest of treasures. What is money compared to the priceless miracle of sight.’

Deborah waits until the girl has completed another short piece, the inevitable question the dear child will no doubt have been asked so many times already shaping itself upon her lips: ‘How? How did you lose …’

‘I do not remember how,’ the girl replies, as she lets the accordion rest in her lap. Her eyes, which are blue and exquisite, are lifted now in Deborah’s direction - albeit without focus - and as she speaks, one hand clutches intermittently at a cane by her side. She would be no more than about twenty-five years of age, and is clearly desperately hard up - humble in her dark skirts and jacket of calico, her untrimmed bonnet of simple velvet. ‘Do not feel sad, that you cannot give me money,’ she adds. ‘I am sure there is kindness in your heart, that you have stopped to speak to me.’

‘Where do you come from?’ Deborah asks, aware that this is probably the first time in days that anyone has returned her conversation or responded to her with anything like civility.

‘I am no longer sure,’ the young woman replies. ‘My memory is very bad. I recall only that I was kept somewhere unwholesome; that I was treated with wickedness, and that I ran away from it. It was, I believe, a great castle in the mountains.’

‘Oh, I would never run away from a great castle in the mountains,’ Deborah volunteers, somewhat frivolously, she realises.

‘You would … from
this
one,’ the young woman replies, ‘for I believe I would have died had I stayed,’ and at which she hoists up her instrument to her breast and begins to play once more - as play she must, because conversation does not bring in the pennies.

With a heavy sigh, Deborah gets to her feet.

‘Goodbye, dear,’ she says, though her voice would surely not be heard, she suspects, as she leaves the unfortunate young woman to her desperate vocation - her head lowered again and unaware as she continues to play of Deborah drawing off a glove and of the lavish jet and diamond ring she takes from her finger and slips discreetly beneath the coins for the young woman’s discovery by-and-by.

‘How tragic. Why, the poor girl was probably not a lot older than her own dear Poppy,’ Deborah reflects as she walks away, realising only vaguely that she has just relinquished her final item of jewellery, the piece she had intended to pawn later today as a means of keeping body and soul together. And if it is true, how all things are prophetic if only we have the perception to read the signs, then here this afternoon Deborah feels she has surely found just such a sign. And she feels elated.

‘Yes … Poppy my dear. You must not close your eyes to me,’ she mutters to herself, oblivious to those who are staring and laughing at her as she shuffles along in her broken shoes. ‘That will never do. You must let me come and bless you in your darkness, wherever they are keeping you, whatever evil has encircled you. I am closer than ever now. I know this. I know it with all my heart.’

 

 

It is evening, overcast, and consequently the darkness comes early as Poppy, having taken a little food for herself, and having changed into the loose, unshapely robes of practice once more as instructed, ventures to return only with the greatest trepidation through the doorway into the adjacent auditorium of the old theatre. The recollection of the violence inflicted on her earlier today makes her tremble for a second, and her face feels swollen and bruised as a result of the blows inflicted upon her. But at least she is alone, and likely to remain so, with no Frau Weiss to bully and coerce her. And so, feeling an overwhelming desire to vary her activities for once, since she has already had quite enough of all the solemn rituals and chanting she is normally obliged to adhere to, she places a candle in front of her prayer mat and, sitting again in her accustomed position, gazes into its comforting yellow flame and opens herself to the sinful luxury (or so they have always described it) of allowing her thoughts to wander spontaneously whither they will go.

She wonders why she had felt this desire, to go back to the kind of daydreaming she had once enjoyed as a young girl. But it had been her mother who had taught her candle meditation; and it just feels so comforting to be able to slip back into that routine this evening. The very process of setting it up, of choosing the colour and fragrance of the candle, was always such a pleasure, and one she had almost forgotten of late. It is a precious link to the past. And as she gazes into its light and listens, noting the faintest popping and crackling of its flame, she is almost certain she can hear voices once again - voices mingled with the groaning and whistling of the wind outside and which so often penetrates the passageways and chambers of the building on evenings such as this - her mother’s voice among them, perhaps, and becoming so clear for a moment, it is almost as if she were here in the room with her.

‘Poppy, focus your mind upon the candle and gaze into its dancing flame,’ the tender voice within her murmurs, just like in the past. ‘It’s a little game, remember, like we used to play. Do it now, dear one. Look into the gentle flame, try not to blink or divert your gaze, then close your eyes and look into what remains of the light - there within your mind, see! How long can you make it last? Then try again - open your eyes and look into the flame, then return to your own inner light. Does it last longer this time? Now, try to step through the light. Go through it. What do you see now you are over the threshold? Do you see me waiting for you, ready to take you in my arms?’

‘Yes ... yes, I do,’ Poppy intones the words silently, filled with wondrous memories, for she really does fancy she perceives an image of her mother’s kindly face. ‘Only I cannot be sure whether it is real what I am seeing, or a dream … something of my own making.’

‘And nor do I know whether the voice I am hearing is yours or a part of my own delusions,’ the voice replies. ‘So we are together, at least in our doubts and in our loneliness.’

‘When I doubt, though … then I cannot see you so well,’ Poppy says, intoning the words inwardly still, without sound.

‘That is true, Poppy,’ the voice answers again. ‘Yet, when my doubts are cast aside and I have faith, I can almost reach out and kiss your brow. And so you must have faith too. Look, can you remember when we walked together through the meadows, down to the beehives? The grass was so long, and the wild pink campion so high, your little body was almost lost in their midst?’

‘Yes, I can recall. And I feel so warm and happy inside, and my feet are carrying me there - running - so fast, so excited!’

‘Fill your thoughts with those recollections, Poppy. Let them inspire you and guide you in every decision you must make. Fill your thoughts with the colours of spring. See how all of nature rejoices. Look - where the earth puts on its mantle of a thousand flowers. This is where you will find me, my dearest, fairest child. Here I will wait for you.’

Slowly the vision fades. And Poppy, powerless to retrieve it, opens her eyes just in time to see the candle flicker down and die, its melted wax upon the stone floor nearby - and not a sound to accompany its passing, only the dark chamber with its tall vaulted ceiling of stone and the cold wind blowing outside in the empty night.

 

Chapter 38

 

 

 

 

The next few minutes, he suspects, will prove decisive, but there have been many miles travelled in order to be in such a position, returned now to the mighty walls of Schloss Lethe for what Herman suspects is to be the most crucial and decisive phase of his mission.

Following his brush with death in Scotland, he had spent the remainder of the night in a hotel in Carlisle, hoping and praying he would somehow avoid being implicated in the demise of those whose bodies lie at the bottom of the dark waters of Craigmull. Still with not much more than the clothes he stood up in, but fired with a sense of urgency greater than ever, he had journeyed the next day back to London and briefly to his home in Richmond where, aided by the redoubtable Mrs H he had recovered his strength and replenished his suitcase with fresh clothing before setting out on the long return railway journey, taking him across three countries once more and then, finally, perched upon the back of a humble mule, upwards along the mountain path to the gates of Schloss Lethe itself and where, this afternoon, fully refreshed by a further decent night’s sleep, he is seated in the treasurer’s office, deep in discussion with Herr Walter von Spiegler.

The journey had been an interesting one, not least due to the appearance in the weekend editions of the News Chronicle, and subsequently in many a newspaper across the continent, of the unfolding story relating to Hubert Peters. Although his body had not been found, there could be no doubt that his disappearance was due to the man having taken his own life, since he had left precise instructions that a self-penned obituary and farewell to the world be published in his own newspaper. It was widely reproduced overseas, too: a mealy-mouthed, mendacious half-page full of platitudes and lamentations representing perfectly the manner in which the man had governed his life as well as that by which he had ended it. He had resolved to quit this world of cares, he wrote, due to the ‘pain and distress’ of his recent divorce and because of the loss of his beloved daughter - all of which had ultimately weighed too heavily upon his mind. And thus to the very end, the man had managed his public image to perfection.

Meanwhile, the loch at Craigmull was continuing to be searched by frogmen who, paradoxically, after several hours of diving, have discovered the body not of Hugh Peters but instead that of a much younger man in shallow water amid some reeds.

The editor of the News Chronicle, meanwhile, a certain Malcolm Skinner had been taken into custody and was being questioned by the police on suspicion of having had some part in the whole mysterious episode. According to reports he had been the last person to have seen Peters alive. Incredible.

Herman had devoured each new bizarre twist and turn of the unfolding story with unerring interest as, with each stop along the way, he would don his hat and coat and hurry to the newsstands and seek to purchase the latest editions of the papers - at first the English ones, but these being soon overtaken by the local German and Austrian ones. This was international news. It would surely have already been conveyed by one means or another to those here at Schloss Lethe. And Herman could only wonder, therefore, just how soon it might be before they start to miss their man Hanno, and equate this very story with his failure to return. Surely only a matter of time. But as yet, as Herman examines the face of von Spiegler here in his office this afternoon for any signs of unease or suspicion, it seems he remains unaware or perhaps simply unmoved by any of it.

‘So, Mr Wilson, am I to take it that these paltry sums are really all you are prepared to pledge to the Society?’ the temporarily monocled Herr von Spiegler inquires, glancing up with a look of disappointment blended with a certain incredulity as he scans Herman’s latest bank statements ranged upon his desk. ‘You spoke the other day of thousands of pounds sterling. These numbers are merely in hundreds.’

‘I am not a fool, Herr von Spiegler,’ Herman chuckles with perilous audacity, using the baron’s full name for the first time, which surprises him. ‘Surely you don’t expect me to relinquish my entire estate all at once? Let me serve you firstly, from within the Inner Temple. Then, a little at a time, I will release more of my assets - which must, as I have told you, remain hidden for tax purposes and from which I shall expect a significant return in due course in terms of placement among the ranks of the Society.’

Von Spiegler, a man who would no doubt be familiar with the murky world of hidden assets and tax evasion, continues to sit quietly for a while, seemingly unresolved. Then he shakes his head. It does not bode well.

‘I hope you will forgive me, Mr Wilson, but I regret to say all this is simply not convincing enough,’ he finally states, with an emphatic thud upon his desk as he slams down the file containing Herman’s documents. ‘This, compounded with the fact that you have, even now, failed to provide us with your real name, means I must ask you to leave the organisation forthwith. In fact, I would be grateful if you could be gone from Schloss Lethe by this evening. I hope we can rely on your discretion not to reveal …’

‘No. I am not leaving,’ Herman interrupts, much to the astonishment of the other man.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I’m jolly well not leaving,’ Herman emphasises, folding his arms in obstinate determination, and with laughter in his voice. ‘Listen to me, Herr von Spiegler. Allow me to tell you a couple of things that might be of interest to you personally. I am not only aware of your full name, as you have just discovered, but I also know full well who is in charge of things here. It is not Rascham. It’s you. I also know that you have important connections reaching far beyond these walls, and that most of your colleagues here, and especially the students are conveniently unaware of them. I also happen to know that your friend Hanno will not be returning to you.’

‘What do you mean? How do you ..?’

‘Because he is dead. You must surely realise this by now, Walter, if you have access, as I suspect you do, to any kind of news service. You have the array of cones in the tower over there, linked to the valley below. And I have seen you with newspapers, anyway. The mission you sent him on has failed. Hanno is dead.’

‘You don’t know that. You are only surmising. No one knows that yet for sure.’

‘Oh but I do, Walter.’

‘Don’t talk nonsense! How do you know?’

‘ Because it was I who killed him.’

‘What! Are you mad? This is simply not possible. How ..?’

‘I was in Scotland at the same time, doing a spot of business of my own when we met quite by chance. He was envious of my progress within the society. We quarrelled; he threatened me, and I killed him.’

‘Good God, man! Even if I were to give some credence to this, you surely cannot expect to advance your cause for acceptance in the society with such an assertion? Hanno is (or
was,
if I am to believe your wild claims) one of our most valued operatives, especially for missions overseas.’

‘I can assure you, Herr von Spiegler, he is dead - and I am more than qualified in both guile and ruthlessness to replace him, and to undertake everything he ever did, and probably a darn sight more efficiently. Oh, and by the way, it might also interest you to learn I have written up my experiences and findings of my stay here at Schloss Lethe and have left them in a sealed envelope with a solicitor in London. Should anything untoward happen to me while here, or anywhere, for that matter, that might be construed as, how shall we say
suspicious
, he has instructions to hand that envelope to the authorities, who will descend upon you with all the force of the law. That would be as regrettable to me, by the way, as it would to yourself, because - as I have repeatedly tried to impress upon you - I am entirely on your side.’

‘The law?’ von Spiegler echoes with a splutter of contrived laughter. ‘Ha! You don’t imagine for one moment we are impressed by threats of the law? We have many friends in high places, Mr Wilson.
Many
friends. How else do you think we have evaded investigation here at Schloss Lethe for so long?’

‘That may well be the case. But even the slightest threat or disturbance will be sufficient for those you deal with to take note. They will not risk leaving you to be interrogated and to have their identities compromised. Oh yes - that’s right, Walter. I’m perfectly aware of all those special and very discreet services you organise for your political friends in the hotel privée of Paris and Vienna. I know all about the real mission of your temple maidens, and none of it strikes me as particularly pious or noble. In other words, you really should try to be a bit nicer to me - and you can begin by indulging some of
my
wishes, for once - my most sincere wishes I might add - to become a leading light in the Society. Give me the initiation into the Inner Temple of STORM at once. Explain to everyone that I am to work with you at the highest level, and you will, I promise, have a most loyal and dedicated ally at your service.’

The blood appears to have drained somewhat from the face of von Spiegler, who seems lost in a haze of indecision. But then abruptly he stands and leaves the room. He is away for several minutes, as if consulting with someone, or maybe simply trying to gather himself. When he returns, however, it is with a nod of acquiescence and a finger pointing at Herman as if relaying some divine blessing as he conveys the news Herman longs to hear in suitably solemn tones:

‘You will receive your initiation into the hallowed ranks of the Inner Temple tomorrow at noon,’ he announces. ‘Be suitably attired in the robes given you, and wear nothing else beneath. You will then take an oath of allegiance. After this, there is no turning back. You are with us forever, as are these meagre funds you have pledged to us. Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ Herman responds without much enthusiasm, casually letting drop the greater part of his life’s savings at a stroke.

 

 

A small parcel of items is delivered to Herman’s room shortly after returning from his interview with von Spiegler. In addition to his robes of initiation, which consist of a kind of cassock, a coarse fabric with a cowl - and which, keeping in mind the injunction given to him earlier of not wearing anything underneath, he sincerely hopes are not intended for
daily
use - he is also provided with various keys to all manner of different parts of the castle. This most convenient aspect of his meteoric rise in status also means that Herman is free to cross the stone bridge and to move at liberty through all the chambers within the mountain on the other side. He is due to receive his entry into the Order there tomorrow, of course, but he cannot wait until then. Poppy’s own initiation, can only be a short time away. She may or may not be over there, but if she is he needs to explore the full extent of the place as quickly as possible to organise an escape. And this he resolves upon straight away. He prays only that he is not too late.

Once over the threshold on the other side of the bridge, Herman finds himself, as anticipated, inside the spacious ceremonial hall through which he was taken by Hanno some days ago, the very one with its twelve-pointed star inscribed upon the floor. He can appreciate now what a finely crafted piece of work it really is: a marbled inlay of finest mosaic. The roughly hewn ceiling is just as spectacular as when he had seen it formerly, and lit this afternoon with tall shafts of green and purple lamplight, soaring upwards upon the walls and revealing what looks like the vertical pipes of an organ, as one might find in a church. Likewise, already familiar to him is the entrance to the long passageway ending in Rascham’s reception chamber. He avoids that. But to one side he notices a stairway, and taking this, soon discovers to his astonishment that it leads up to the interior of a far more extensive, manmade structure adhering to the mountain side itself: a long indoor gallery, in fact, carpeted and luxuriously appointed, with oriel windows overlooking a most spectacular horizon of distant snow-capped mountains.

This is part of the building that also clearly serves as a library, being sumptuously furnished with bookcases containing ancient, leather-bound volumes alongside what appear to be quantities of rare and expensive antiquities including a celestial globe and an old casement clock, its resonant pendulum stroke the only sound to be heard in the entire vicinity. He wonders if Rascham or von Spiegler might have their living accommodation somewhere near at hand. Possibly. But there is no indication of anyone at present.

The sun is just setting by this time, its light shining on the otherwise sombre panelled walls; upon suits of long-disused armour or across the dismal faces of heavily varnished portraits - bygone inhabitants, perhaps, and which by their attire Herman estimates would have flourished long ago during the 16th or 17th centuries. What would they make of it all now, he wonders?

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