THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque

by Robert Stephen Parry

  She wears black, as befits her period of mourning, and there is a sinuous braiding of jet beading all around the seams of her gown. But she is not entirely shrouded in grief. She also wears pearls and a fashionable choker necklace of diamonds. Her hat, including a half-veil, is trimmed with scarlet flowers, and altogether there is much about her that appears to challenge the conventions. In truth, he is surprised she should be here at all. Perhaps, he thinks, she would have been invited some while ago and has honoured the commitment despite everything. How very brave.

  It is then when he overhears a particularly disagreeable snippet of conversation nearby between two heavily bejewelled ladies. And Herman knows straight away to whom they are referring.

  ‘That’s the one. Yes, I always read everything of hers, all her books and articles. Fascinating. Though a little too early, wouldn’t you say, to have entered society once again?’

  ‘Um, yes, and I must admit I’ve rather gone off her lately,’ her companion, responds, her words barely audible behind the fluttering of an open fan. ‘I mean, what one finds difficult to understand is if she’s so awfully clever - you know, supposed to be able to tell the future and all that - why, then, did she not foresee what was going to happen to her daughter? Why not intervene?’

  Herman turns away, a grim smile playing on his lips. It would be typical of what many here were saying. The unfortunate woman’s failure to predict her own affairs has given the cynics a field day, a failure proclaimed stridently in the society magazines and satirical rags, or by those who have themselves over the years been on the receiving end of Deborah Peters’s own acerbic writing style. And nowhere has the matter been more fulsomely aired than in the newspapers owned by the woman’s ex-husband. Even now at a distance of some weeks, Herman can recall the dreadful front-page headline from the News Chronicle: ‘Famous Society Clairvoyant fails to Predict Daughter’s Death.’ But really - how could anyone be so callous - just because the poor woman failed to live up to some biblical standard of precognition for once.

  But there is no more time to dwell on such unpleasantness, because the jocular master of ceremonies has glided into view. This is, as anticipated, none other than the illustrious Carrington Dubois the songwriter and society wit advancing towards Herman across the floor with short, dainty steps that make him look almost as if he were on wheels.

  ‘Ah, a very good evening. You must be Manny Grace?’ he declares in a strident voice. ‘Aren’t you the one marked down for the frightful coffin escapade over yonder?’

  ‘That’s right. How do you do?’ Herman replies, feeling slightly irritated that the other fellow, so confident in his celebrity status, has not bothered to introduce himself, and that his handshake is decidedly limp.

  ‘Charmed, I’m sure. And do you perchance work with an assistant?’ Dubois continues, looking perplexed that Herman has evidently arrived alone.

  ‘No, not any longer. I shall require just a little help this evening, therefore, if you don’t mind,’ Herman replies as he accompanies Dubois backstage once again to inspect the props. ‘What I need at the start of the performance is for you, sir, or for somebody to take my jacket; to secure the handcuffs prior to my placing myself in the coffin, and then to tighten the screws on the lid. Once the audience is satisfied everything is secure and airtight, the drapes here should then be drawn round to obscure me. Oh, and I would appreciate it if you could provide me with someone who might stand by with an axe - look, here it is - to break through in the event of something untoward occurring.’

  ‘An axe! Oh, how thrilling. And - er - how far into proceedings should one have recourse to such a frightful expedient? Fifteen minutes?’

  Herman smiles patiently. ‘I suspect after fifteen minutes you might have a genuine corpse on your hands,’ he remarks. ‘The air soon runs out when one is struggling. No - six or seven minutes is usually more than enough. I will definitely be in need of rescue if I am not out by then. And I don’t think I’m quite ready to meet my maker, just yet.’

  At which Dubois, appears to warm to him.

  ‘Oh, indeed!’ he exclaims. ‘And God is so frightfully boring, anyway, wouldn’t you say? All those tedious thou-shalt-nots. Hardly the kind of thing any red-blooded young man like yourself should be concerned with. Why, in this day and age, I should think we could all jolly well do without it, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Er - no, not really,’ replies Herman, slightly stunned. ‘Not until we can replace it with anything better.’

  ‘Oh .. I see,’ Dubois responds with a disappointed pout, following which he seems to lose all interest in the conversation. Instead, he motions Herman towards an older gentleman in overalls who has been standing nearby. ‘Perhaps, then, at this juncture, you will allow me to introduce you to our stage manager, George, who is a good Christian, he tells me, and will no doubt willingly perform the service of axeman should one be required.’

  Following which the great celebrity departs and Herman is left with George to assist with a few last-minute adjustments as, together, they slide open the lid in order to inspect the interior: a fine piece of craftsmanship, the genuine article - even though George does not appear to be all that happy in its proximity.

  ‘It ain’t a used one is it?’ he asks. ‘The casket?’

  ‘No, no, I had it specially constructed,’ Herman replies with a smile. ‘Fresh as a daisy. I’m sorry if it disturbs you.’

  ‘It’s just that when you’ve had to go through all them funerals a good few times like I have,’ George explains, ‘then it don’t seem so jolly any more, all this death and dying lark. And every funeral you go to reminds you of all the ones you’ve been to before, so it gets worse every time.’

  ‘I do understand,’ Herman assures him, before explaining the role he must play as emergency axeman, asking him if he will, as a preamble, wield it with sufficient menace once they come into view of the audience. The drapes surrounding the coffin, which should be closed immediately he is inside, should be swished away again temporarily after precisely five minutes. Herman will not appear to be out by then, and the audience should be made to worry. George seems to understand ... just about. But there is no time to elaborate. The jocular master of ceremonies, Dubois, gesticulating to his pocket watch as he hurries by once more, is clearly already on his way to announce him and he knows he must place himself in readiness.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman,’ Dubois declares as the stage curtain is raised and two hundred faces turn in Herman’s direction, ‘for your continued edification and delectation, I give you the utterly delightful Mr Manny Grace who this evening will break the bonds that tie him and become fully resurrected from his casket of doom.’

  ‘Oooooh!’ comes a collective cry of amusement, for even when Dubois is not actually voicing one of his typically saucy double entendre, his admirers somehow assume that he is - his reputation preceding him with unfailing accuracy. But eventually they do fall silent, even becoming slightly alarmed, Herman senses, as George, thankfully having relinquished his overalls by this stage, arrives with the handcuffs and these are secured upon his wrists.

  Amid all the ornate environs of the ballroom, its lighting having become dimmed and suitably atmospheric, the coffin really does look quite chilling, he thinks in one moment of self-congratulation as, climbing a couple of rungs upon a small stepladder, he is shepherded gently down by George into the padded silk interior - though not before deliberately raising his head for one final moment, making a pretence of uncertainty and dread. He has just a second to catch the distorted, anxious faces of the audience, many with mouths aghast, until the airtight lid is placed over him as per instructions and the screws duly fastened. The curtain around him will, he trusts, be pulled across next, leaving only the spectacle of a large railway clock placed on a stand in front of the stage for the audience to observe and which, as the seconds and minutes tick away, will invite them to contemplate the extent of their own endurance were they to ever find themselves confined in such an oppr
essive place.

  For Herman, there is nothing to hear now, nothing to see in the darkness as he gets to work immediately on the cuffs - which, with the aid of a tiny key he has sequestered in his mouth, are discarded in a matter of seconds. Good. A few moments later, he has manipulated the side panel and slid silently out onto the floor - at which he hears with approval a frisson of unease already beginning to percolate through the audience - the muttering, the sighs, and even a muffled scream from a lady nearby. Someone in the orchestra is performing a suspenseful tremolo on a violin, soon to be joined by a drumroll to add to the suspense. Excellent.

  Quickly, and with the lid now unfastened, he climbs back in. And here he stays, waiting in readiness, pacifying his breathing. He hopes that George will have swished away the curtain again as per instructions to reveal the unopened casket once more, and shortly afterwards, any moment now in fact, he will emerge - push away the lid and burst forth in triumph. But then, without warning and to his utter surprise, there comes a voice into his head - a voice of absolute clarity: ‘Herman, listen. The woman must be helped. You can help her.’

  Herman tries to ignore it. Often in his meditations he has caught the occasional sibilance of a voice, usually just a faint sound on the periphery of his consciousness - but nothing at all like this, so cogent, as if someone were actually whispering in the darkness at his side. Had he not been encased in his coffin, he might well have believed it. Then the voice comes again, repeating: ‘Herman! Her daughter is alive. You must speak to her. Let her know!’

  This is annoying. But then, worse, he is aware of the sounds of the curtain being swished back once more and of someone advancing on the coffin - George probably, with the axe. He can hear some cries of consternation among the audience - time to do it. Now! With one almighty thrust, he pushes away the lid above his head, then with one leap from his place of confinement quickly stands and jumps out - propelled upwards like a cork from a champagne bottle. With a loud clash of the cymbals, the orchestra, pipes up with renewed vigour to celebrate his survival and, as George lets the axe fall, applause and cheers of genuine appreciation ring out all around.

  ‘Amazing!’ ‘Fantastic!’ he hears them cry as he bows in acknowledgement. It has all gone far better than he could have anticipated - apart, that is, from those odd voices. He continues to feel somewhat shaken by those as he retreats to the room behind and accepts a welcome mugful of hot tea. Dubois is here too, he notices, preparing for his own performance and discussing his musical accompaniment with the pianist before - and it seems most out of character, Herman thinks - being summoned over to the door for a tête-à-tête with someone who has just appeared there. Dressed in a shabby raincoat and Trilby hat the newcomer looks awkward and out of place, like a reporter or journalist of some kind, yet seems to have an important message to impart. Curious, Herman sidles over closer, but all he can hear are vague statements to the effect of fulfilling a task of some kind, as if taking instructions from somebody important. Most strange.

  With a porter commissioned with the removal of his equipment, Herman takes the opportunity to mingle among the guests in the ballroom. They are not remarking on the brilliance of his act, however, but are instead excited by the appearance of a man of exceptionally large girth and with an almost equally formidable beard who, cloaked and masked, has just entered with a small and distinguished party - and to which people are already whispering that this must surely be the Prince of Wales. Not only this, but Dubois himself has finally taken to the stage, as if he had been delaying his own performance until precisely the moment of the Prince’s arrival. He is to sing them one of his newest songs, he declares with gusto - though this, as the jaunty piano accompaniment strikes up, gives every impression of being nothing greater than a few lines of verse - more spoken, than sung - and tripping off the tongue in the refined and somewhat affected accent of an Oxbridge don:

  I dreamt I spoke with the Grim Reaper chap,

  I said when I die, do you think I’ll need a map?

  No, no, old boy, he replied, don’t get in a flap,

  The vicars and priests have made a dreadful mishap.

  The landscape is empty, the lights are all gone.

  The choir is all silent, not even a song,

  At the end of your days, don’t trouble your head,

  Because that’s all there is when your dead.

  With ne’er a care for the person I’ve been,

  I elected therefore for the crass and obscene,

  A vocation in life of a blithe libertine,

  Pursuing my pleasure wherever it’s seen.

  To nowhere and nothing!

  To a pyre and a coffin!

  I no longer feel I’m misled,

  Because that’s all there is when you’re dead.

  No laws disobeyed you must keep,

  No contests with goats and with sheep,

  No sins to be punished, no angels to weep,

  Not even a whimper, not even a bleat.

  There’s nothing to fear,

  No Devil comes near,

  And when all of your worries have fled,

  That’s all that there is when you’re dead.

  So, I say, you should drink and be free!

  Delight in the senses, and go on a spree.

  Debauch, my dear friends, exactly like me,

  Or you’ll come to regret it, you see.

  For that’s all there is to it,

  Don’t think you just blew it,

  There’s no need to quiver or dread,

  Because that’s all there is when you’re dead.

  The pianist hurries through a final flourish, and loud applause breaks out as Dubois, leaning to one side with a hand clutching his chest in theatrical fashion as if about to expire, finally bows as the curtain falls - and straight away descends into the crowd of devoted acolytes who immediately trail at his heels, his strident voice to be heard in animated conversation, basking in the adoration as he goes.

  There is now, Herman senses, a more inebriated atmosphere than earlier - the rich when at play being often so much more reckless and noisy than anyone else. It does not fill him with any sense of satisfaction, observing them like this - all these arbiters of good taste getting drunk. For here at the end of the year, at the close of the century, with a Queen of eighty years on the throne for as long as most people can remember; when every other poem that appears in print is of doom and nostalgia, and every other painting hung in the Royal Academy is of some reclining odalisque in a languid swoon of intoxication, it really does feel like a slightly heavy-hearted dance macabre that is taking place here, a final fling before the very end of days. And even more strange: no one really seems to care - the world he has known and adored for so long is vanishing beneath his nose, a world crushed beneath the weight of a collective lassitude that must make that ending all the more inevitable.

  Still with his gaze fixed upon the indefatigable Dubois, Herman watches as he approaches the table at which Deborah Peters is seated in company with a few associates or admirers of her own. Glancing up from beneath the broad brim of her hat to meet the eyes of the man, she seems for a moment strangely disturbed. There is an intriguing vulnerability to her face, he thinks, even from what he can discern of it through the lace of her veil - a profound intelligence combined with a certain pathos and suffering. And then it happens:

  ‘Ah 'tis the Goddess of the cards and the starry sky!’ Dubois is heard to exclaim, followed by a ripple of dutiful laughter from the acolytes. ‘I trust my modest little refrain did not cause offence, my dear, because of course, you have had your own share of personal misfortune of late, isn’t that so?’ he continues - and all at once you can hear a pin drop in the vast ballroom.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Deborah responds with a questioning gaze, raising her chin and challenging him to elaborate - and upon which the Wit becomes all sweet and cloying, his brows puckering with utmost sympathy and compassion.

  ‘Oh, I am so dreadfully sorry, Debbie
. It’s just that we are all so curious, my dear - I mean - whether you had any presentiment at all of the profound tragedy that was about to befall you?’

  Scarcely a ripple of laughter is to be detected this time, unless it is the somewhat embarrassed kind of laughter that signals someone having overstepped the mark - his attack upon this poor woman as part of some self-styled mission to rescue civilization from the evils of superstition having, in this instance, gone down like a lead balloon.

  ‘I’m sorry, I think, I would like to leave now,’ Deborah can be heard to say as she responds not to her vexatious friend, but rather to the few anxious faces turning her way from around the table - and at which she rises and, with a hasty assembling of her handbag and gloves, her moist eyes searching for anyone who might come to her aid, but finding none, she quickly sets off - though not without a passing shot, ‘You bastard,’ mouthed silently to Dubois himself as she hurries past and up the broad array of stairs towards the foyer.

  The Prince of Wales, meanwhile, if indeed this is who it is behind the mask, and who has observed it all in stony silence, promptly turns his back on Dubois to converse with his companions. He is not amused. The whole room notices and follows suit, leaving Dubois standing alone and clearly isolated as the general hubbub of frivolity rises and the orchestra strikes up once more.

  It is a faux pas from which the fellow is unlikely to recover. But Herman is no longer concerned with any of it. He is already at the foyer and, dragging his topcoat quickly over his shoulders, hurries in pursuit of the poor woman who has just fled.

  Chapter 9

  ‘Mrs Peters, wait, please!’ Herman cries as he overtakes Deborah at the main exit, and where she is currently occupied struggling with the fastenings of her long-hemmed coat. No one has bothered to come to her aid or to offer the least word of consolation.