It is evening, and as Deborah leaves the apartment and makes her way towards the Altstadt, the old quarter of town, it is as one attired far more modestly than she is at all used to. Dressing down and minus much of her jewellery, she has resolved to venture into the leisure quarter where she hopes to find some answers to the questions that are troubling her. People regard her with curiosity, for she is not young, and not accompanied - an odd fit for such a place, seated alone with her coffee or wine amid the grime and the smoky air of a typical student haunt, surrounded by loud voices, some disputing politics or philosophising, others playing chess, and everyone drinking heartily, enjoying their bier or schnapps. For her part, she resolves not to imbibe too much, especially in light of what occurred recently at Highgate. Nor will she allow herself to be intimidated by the incongruity of her position here, not for one moment, because there is always the hope, no matter how remote, of stumbling upon some vital piece of information as to her daughter’s whereabouts, and this inspires her determination.
There is also, and she shudders to think of it, the chilling possibility of encountering once more that spectral creature who had called himself Hanno - surely an associate of that terrible clandestine cult that had taken Poppy. It is the one lead she most dreads and yet, she suspects, could transpire to be the most valuable should she ever stumble upon it. So Deborah keeps searching, going from place to place, from café to bar, from tavern to bierkeller. Often she inquires directly, speaking to just about anybody who would care to listen: ‘Do you know of a young man called Hanno?’ she would ask. ‘He is rather unusual to look at,’ she would sometimes add, or even appending her question with a brief description - the cropped hair; the sunken chest and nervous cough; the earring and shabby suit. To her astonishment, she could recall every nasty detail from just those few short minutes in his presence that afternoon, describe every feature of his face and clothing. She could even bring to mind - should she be called upon to do so - the way he smelt. But it is no good. Wherever she goes, always she is met with the same bland shrug of the shoulders - everybody in perfect ignorance of anyone called Hanno, a subtle term of ridicule apparently in these parts, meaning a simpleton; a peasant. Not nice.
In desperation, she even mentions the name of the group believed to be connected with the chalet fire, the same as provided by the police in Munich - the Society for the Teaching of Redemptive Mercies. But the unfamiliar, English-sounding title means nothing to those she questions. It all compounds her state of pessimism, a state not in any sense ameliorated by the recollection of her experiences the day before - just prior to her arrival here in Heidelberg, when she had broken her journey for an appointment with a certain gentleman in Frankfurt am Main by the name of Herr Pfeifer, a private investigator, as he described himself, and a man she had hitherto communicated with only by letter and telegram ever since she discovered there really were those who advertised their services expressly for the tracing of missing persons. This had been some weeks ago, but yesterday she had finally arranged to meet him in person, clinging to the hope that he might have determined something of Poppy’s movements during the days and weeks following her departure from Heidelberg.
The meeting took place in Herr Pfeifer’s office, a grubby room in the basement of a tenement on the outskirts of the city - the orderliness and antique charm of the town centre being very much absent in what was a comparatively grim, rundown district where the houses were dilapidated and their inhabitants clearly far from affluent. Herr Pfeifer, an unprepossessing man in a crumpled chequered shirt and waistcoat, was already in receipt of a letter containing all the details of Poppy’s academic affairs, her domestic arrangements and, most important of all, a description of her appearance - but yesterday Deborah was able to hand him a recent photograph, as well. Some further cash payment in addition to the advance she had already telegraphed to his bank was necessary then, in return for which, and much to Deborah’s disappointment, Herr Pfeifer really had nothing of any significance to report. ‘Not yet, anyway,’ he said. The investigation was ongoing, and she should not be anxious since he was really ‘pulling out all the stops,’ as he put it. Deborah had come away feeling saddened and slightly dirty. It was not the unswept floors or the cluttered office that made her feel that way, it was not the offensive smells of the building, either - a certain redolence of mould and sewage. No. Rather, it was the way Herr Pfeifer had looked at her and the way he had behaved: he was disrespectful and slightly lecherous, she felt. Over her years upon the stage and as a socialite she had become used to the latter in men, but never the former. And for a moment she had felt slightly afraid for herself and of the unfamiliar and rather sordid sphere of reality into which she was being forced to descend.
Yes, a fruitless trip, as much there yesterday as here this evening. Yet still she does not stir. Still she sits at her table in one smoky café after another, hoping against all the odds that something will happen, someone will walk in, someone will be able to answer her query with more eagerness or understanding. But it is not to be. It is late, and everyone is becoming spectacularly rowdy. They do not comprehend her misery or desolation. Why should they? Everyone here is so young and carefree, so very intent on the pursuit of romance, alcohol and laughter, as is only fit and proper, of course, at this hour of the evening and for such people in such parts - and she is feeling all at once so very old, so out of touch and discouraged by it all.
Then, upon reaching into her bag to settle the bill, she discovers by chance the card given her by Manny Grace. How funny. It shocks her, that she has forgotten almost all about him since that evening at the Savoy. A decent enough fellow, he had, she recalls, seemed genuine in his conviction that he could aid her in her quest to reach the truth about Poppy. Why, then, had she dismissed him so readily? She had promised to get in touch, but somehow she had let it slide, along with so many other things of late.
Should she try to reach him? she asks herself. What good would that do? He would have long since forgotten her. And she is certainly not interested in some knight in shining armour riding to her rescue. To believe even for a moment that such men might exist in the real world is, she knows, the ultimate folly. Yes … she really should, she feels, spare the poor man her sorrows. And so, drinking up and leaving the café, she simply tears his card in half and drops it into the gutter - and, with a heavy heart, hails a cab and returns to the comfort of her hotel and the welcome relief of a hot bath.
Chapter 13
‘I might be away for some time,’ Herman states this afternoon to his housekeeper Mrs H. ‘In fact, I’m cancelling all engagements until after Christmas.’
Despite this drastic announcement on the part of her employer, Mrs H. appears unimpressed.
‘There was a lady called for you the other day while I was here on me own,’ she remarks as she goes about her business, dusting the bookcases in his study, and speaking in that particularly clipped tone of voice that Herman well knows betrays her displeasure over something. ‘She didn’t leave her name, as I recall - or if she did I’ve forgotten it. Seemed to know her way around well enough, though,’ she adds pointedly.
‘Really? What did she look like?’ Herman asks, glancing up from the task of replenishing his pipe with tobacco, and wondering for one moment whether it might actually have been Deborah. But no, apparently it had been a young woman, a blond - and Herman’s heart skips a beat as Mrs H goes on to describe the exact features, the very form and demeanour of none other than his ex-fiancée, his partner upon the stage and in life for so many years: Marcia.
‘So when exactly was this?’ he inquires, his voice faltering with emotion. He doesn’t want this kind of nonsense being sprung on him - not at the present time.
‘Monday, I reckon. Anyway, it weren’t the weekend, because I didn’t come in at all last weekend, as you may recall.’
Feeling a little stunned, Herman stares at his housekeeper in silence. She is attending to the condition of an antique and, sadly, entirely broken
Orrery clock he keeps in the window recess - a fine old piece in ornate brass and silver, complete with circles of celestial equator, ecliptic and orbiting planets. Still deep in thought, he watches as she waves a feather duster over its glass dome as if brandishing a magic wand that might, were such miracles within the gift of Mrs H, be able to restore its broken springs and cogs into active service after two hundred years of idleness.
‘Didn’t she even leave a card?’ Herman presses her at length, trying not to sound perturbed but, he suspects, failing miserably, because Mrs H’s bushy eyebrows appear to raise themselves an extra notch in amused observation.
‘Very attractive young lady, anyway,’ she observes, with a furtive sideways glance towards Herman before continuing about her business, smiling with that distinctly fruity kind of smile that she reserves for any form of romantic intrigue. It is the same smile of titillation he has often noted on her face whenever he catches her with her feet up reading the Sunday papers.
‘Well, if it was who I think it was, the lady who once assisted me on stage, I really can’t imagine what she would have been after, coming here,’ Herman remarks, wanting to penetrate Mrs H’s unusual and obviously deliberately cruel silence.
It was true enough, though, he thinks as he strikes a match and lights up. What more could possibly remain to be said between them after all this time? It has, in fact, been the greatest relief to have had her absent from his life during the past several months.
‘Well, Mister Grace,’ comes the cheery voice of Mrs H from behind - and when he turns he sees her shifting the curtain aside and glancing out of the window, ‘you’ll probably get a chance to find out for yourself soon enough - seeing as the lady in question happens to be a-walking up the drive again at this very minute.’
‘What? Where - show me!’ Herman demands, hurrying over. ‘My god! Yes, it is - it’s her. It’s Marcia.’
Mrs H. regards her employer with renewed amusement as, with something not unlike horror etched upon his face, he observes the progress of the smart young woman as she advances along the driveway towards the house. Dressed in full-length scarlet coat, she appears every inch at one and in familiar surroundings, her resplendent blond hair tumbling with typical ostentation from beneath her hat as she stops at just that moment to admire the only item in the landscape that could possibly vie with it, a spectacular Mahonia bush of yellow flowers.
‘Please, show her into the study here, will you, Mrs H?’ Herman requests as he hurries away into the conservatory amid the camouflage of exotic palms and orchids to compose himself.
A good while, it has been, since that horrible night after their break-up when she had visited him for the final time - having quarrelled with him bitterly over some petty affair that she had suspected him of, but in truth having wanted an exit from the relationship for some time. Marcia had always had her sights set on higher things, in any case, and his distinct lack of worldly ambition had been a continual disappointment to her. The parting of the ways was as inevitable as it had become necessary - and was mutually agreeable to both - which makes her sudden re-appearance all the more puzzling.
‘You haven’t changed a bit,’ is Marcia’s opening salvo, her first words as he makes his entrance from his conservatory into the study where Mrs H has already served her a cup of tea and a biscuit, neither of which he thinks during one odd, detached moment of observation, appears all that becoming in the lap of Marcia, a young woman so sophisticated and fashionable, so unhomely in every sense. A champagne glass would have suited far better.
‘How jolly kind of you to say so,’ he replies, pipe in mouth, feigning nonchalance while thrusting his hands into the pockets of his regrettably baggy and unpressed trousers. ‘I shall take that as a compliment. Anyway, you wished to see me, I understand? The other day?’
‘Oh, yes - just that I saw your photograph in a magazine.’
‘Really? Is that all?’ he responds as if such news were of little consequence and that he was quite used to seeing his photograph in all manner of places with tedious regularity.
But she persists in her determination to unnerve him, and with a smile that seems to say, ‘you rascal you!’ reaches into her handbag for a press cutting. ‘Yes, from one of the weeklies,’ she says. ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t seen it?’
He takes the scrap of paper, and is astonished by the sight of a blurred and grainy photograph of himself and Deborah Peters in the foyer of the Savoy, which must have been snapped on the evening after the Halloween party, and with a story beneath it, moreover, full of innuendo and tittle-tattle.
Debbie Peters, being pursued by her friend-in-need, entertainer Herman Grace, of ‘Manny Magic’ fame. The couple were spotted in Gordon’s romantic wine bar in Villiers Street shortly afterwards, deep in conversation.
‘They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity,’ Marcia observes in droll fashion. ‘But really Herman, have you completely taken leave of your senses - getting mixed up with that ridiculous old harridan? She’s a laughing stock.’
‘It’s not like that,’ he protests and, still feeling aggrieved for the poor woman in the photo, stares back icily into Marcia’s amused eyes. ‘There is nothing of that kind going on between us. In fact …’
‘Oh, come on, Herman! There’s never been smoke without fire, not where you’re concerned. What’s she got that I never had, anyway? I didn’t realise you liked old girls.’
‘Why are you here, Marcia?’ he asks, wanting all of a sudden to dispense with any further silliness.
‘Oh … nothing much. Just had a hankering to see the Mahonia in bloom again,’ she replies, not willing to flatter him with having any part in the matter. And his heart sinks - because it really is the same old Marcia: never saying what she feels, never making anything clear. Having a chat with Marcia always was like trying to solve some childish riddle, not so very different to the mentalist act that she once assisted him with upon the stage - and nothing seems to have altered in that respect.
‘So, how’s your career progressing these days?’ she asks, though her diverted gaze as she examines the pattern upon her cup and saucer suggests a lack of any genuine interest. ‘Getting on all right without your glamorous assistant?’
He knows she is being deliberately sarcastic, but still - pouring a fresh cup of tea for himself, which is sadly tepid by this time - he takes a seat opposite her on the sofa and dutifully relates all the latest news, as requested, which would not, he suspects, sound all that exciting to her - she who had, after all, once rescued his career from oblivion, and whose determination had led him to exploit his talents and make some decent money for himself. And, predictably enough, since Marcia’s departure, there had been no fresh routines for stage, no new gags for after-dinner speeches - a state in which, he assures her, he feels more than comfortable, having instead the time and space to study once again, to travel and to learn.
But Marcia is not impressed, not by such a litany of unprofitable activity. Too restless to stay seated for much longer, she is up on her feet by this time - where she wanders the length of the study, examining his bookcases as she goes, as if unexpectedly attracted to their contents - which, he knows from experience, she almost certainly is not. ‘And still such a lot of books!’ she exclaims. ‘A veritable library. Still reading in bed at night?’
‘Oh, absolutely, yes,’ he replies, wondering where all this is leading. ‘I believe we do well to fall asleep each night with books. We enter the library of our dreams in good company then.’
Marcia, however, remains undaunted. ‘Poor Herman,’ she sighs and turns to gaze at him more fully this time with her big watery blue eyes, attempting to be deliberately provocative as she continues to examine him, as one might a specimen in a museum. He could almost hear that super-intelligence of hers firing away inside, trying to shape itself into words that might be comprehensible for once. But her failure to do so does not matter - because he knows exactly what she is thinking, anyway, her reason for being here.
She is aiming to add him to her collection of resurrected amours - men she always prided herself as being ‘still in touch with,’ men with whom she intended ‘always to remain good friends with,’ and so many other hollow platitudes and excuses for the feeding of her vanity. She would probably be married by now, he thinks, or engaged, judging by the suggestion of rings beneath the fabric of her glove, and he would be in line for the honour of becoming a lover of some kind. Yes - how well he could always read Marcia’s mind. It was in her company he first discovered his telepathic gifts; it had even become part of their act for a time, and rarely since has he ever encountered anyone quite so easy.
‘Marcia. Please. Don’t even contemplate it,’ he states.
‘What do you mean?’ she demands, indignant. ‘Heavens, you don’t imagine I’m longing to throw myself at you again, do you? What an impossible egotist you are, Herman.’
‘All right - I do apologise, Marcia,’ he says, trying desperately to keep the peace as she retakes her seat.
‘Oh Manny, for heaven’s sake!’ she declares in a voice of exasperated surrender. ‘Let’s have dinner together again - somewhere like the Ferryboat, like we used to. I’ve had a lot of things happening in my life lately. Yes, I did get married - to Nigel, after all. And life is good, in certain respects. Only I need someone I can talk to just at the moment, to really communicate with and ...’
But the voice trails off in confusion again, not being able, it would seem, even now, to say what is entirely on her mind.
It is tempting, of course. Marcia has lost none of her looks, or her sex appeal - those delectable, fleshy lips of hers, so good to kiss, and those long legs, so shapely through the clinging fit of her skirts. She had always subscribed to the image of the ‘new woman,’ and it suited her admirably - only, being the new woman for Marcia had always been a predominantly physical aspiration; not so much about campaigning for rights or education, but about indulging in her own innate promiscuousness at every possible turn. That was her way of flying the flag of emancipation. To think that he had once been the object of that raw, guiltless hunger of hers is flattering for a moment. But this is not the right time. And even had it been the right time, Marcia is no longer the right woman. He can only pity her husband.
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 12