But just then there is a knock at the door that sounds like thunder in the abrupt, plunging silence of the room - at which Peters barks out permission to enter, and in marches Beezley with, at last, the very man who has set all this up, his so-called friend and colleague Sir William, his top hat still in hand - a man Peters has always considered to be a decent enough fellow, but who he now suspects is up to his neck in all this filth, as well, and probably has been for years.
‘You bloody cur!’ he cries and raises a fist towards the noble lord in the doorway. ‘You first-rate bloody cur!’ he adds as he advances towards him.
Alarmed, Sir William jumps clear of what is clearly an attempt to grab him by the lapels, or much worse; and Peters is left tottering on one leg at the threshold, looking slightly preposterous. Having already drunk too much, he feels weak, enfeebled by his own anger.
‘Mr Peters,’ comes the cautionary voice of the banker, who seems most concerned, ‘whatever the cause of your displeasure, I do hope we can be assured of your discretion?’
It is not an unreasonable request. But its reasonableness is wasted on Peters.
‘Get the hell out of here!’ he bellows, his voice choked still with anguish and torment as he strides off down the hallway, followed by a distraught Beezley hurrying in his wake and even the fluttering appearance of Rachael in evening gown scurrying in confusion from the drawing room at the sound of all the commotion. It leaves a terrible gulf of silence behind, in which the three remaining men can only stand helpless, staring at one another in various states of embarrassment and perplexity. This is clearly a very grave situation. Much has been disclosed this evening, many secrets compromised.
‘We were not briefed adequately,’ Klaus declares with an accusing glance at Sir William.
‘No, evidently not,’ Walter replies curtly, addressing solely his friend while turning his back most discourteously on the illustrious knight. ‘And also a matter of my own oversight, Klaus. A foolish error. I will explain later - but for now, we must leave at once.’
And as the two men retrieve their bags and hurry out to a waiting carriage, fortunately already on the drive in readiness for other guests, they are followed by an immensely apologetic Sir William trying desperately to learn what on earth could possibly have gone wrong. But no one is listening or willing to explain. A terrible wind has got up by this time, and the lanterns on their overhead chains swing wildly, creating fitful shadows everywhere as the vehicle and its horses spring into motion - a brisk cantor, stirring up the slush and old leaves into a similar whirlwind of utter havoc as they go. And by the look of dismay upon the face of Sir William, knowing full well who these men are, and the extent of their power and utter ruthlessness, it seems that somebody, somewhere will surely pay a heavy price for the mistakes that have been made here this evening.
Chapter 19
This is more than a little disconcerting, Herman thinks, being alone in someone else’s apartment, going through their belongings - almost like being an intruder. But this is what she insisted upon; and Deborah is not the kind of person one argued with. Thus, he finds himself here in London, making himself at home, albeit temporarily, in the rooms where the famous celebrity herself lives and works, a set of chambers every bit as flamboyant and extravagant in style as its owner - beautifully furnished, with fine touches of antique walnut and mahogany but also several examples of those sinewy, curvaceous innovations in design arriving out of Paris and Vienna: the latest art nouveau styles, as they are called. Gorgeous.
For almost a week he has been here, looking out between the heavy velvet curtains to the rooftops and busy streets of Knightsbridge where even during the day at this time of the year, so many of the vehicles have recourse to lights, so overcast and gloomy it is. Flurries of sleet occasionally pepper the glass in the otherwise utterly silent rooms as he continues to sift through papers and documents, to write letters at Deborah’s desk or to brew up endless cups of tea in the kitchen. And even though she had assured him that the incident at the ski resort where she had almost been killed was merely an accident and of no significance, still he cannot help feel anxious for her - and he knows he really should not have allowed her to persuade him to leave her so readily. It seems a sad and forlorn place in the absence of she who lives here. And although he has permission to open all of Deborah’s mail, none of it is particularly edifying, and many of the tasks he has been charged with performing on her behalf are onerous - clients cancelling orders; debtors demanding payment; an American publisher pulling out of a deal; and solicitors continuing to threaten legal action for breach of contract. Unable to comprehend even the half of it, Herman can only conclude that her life is simply in chaos.
Each evening he would go to the telegraph office just around the corner and wire her his findings, asking her in the usual truncated and highly unsatisfactory language demanded of the telegram what he must do, checking his actions are acceptable, and daily he has become more and more disturbed by the cursory and disinterested replies coming back to him - first from an hotel in Austria, then courtesy of one in Switzerland, then a forwarding address at a stationer’s shop in Heidelberg, until those long time-spans between replies eventually descended into complete silence. And even though some of her biggest debts have yet to be settled, it really is becoming futile, he suspects, staying here a moment longer trying to disentangle Deborah’s crumbling empire - not when the poor woman herself must surely remain in such distress and, possibly, despite her assurances to the contrary, in danger also.
And so, after just a few more hours of unproductive dithering this afternoon, and cursing his stupidity for ever losing track of her at all, he takes a train back to his home by the Thames and - with assistance from the redoubtable Mrs H. - begins ordering his affairs once more, though this time for a far more prolonged absence, he tells her. He feels settled in his decision. But there is just a little sad news waiting for him here at home, as Mrs H herself duly imparts while he is upstairs in his bedroom packing.
‘One of your old boys at the nursing home passed away this week,’ she reports in suitably sombre tones, hovering nearby in the event of being needed and not pausing in her show of productivity, dusting shelves and adjusting picture frames - all of which he suspects she might not bother herself with quite so enthusiastically in his absence.
‘Oh really?’ he responds, holding up one necktie after another to the light to see whether it matches his chosen waistcoat. ‘Who was that?’
‘Mr Smythe - you know: the gentleman they all called Smudge. He went in his sleep, peaceful-like.’
Herman stops what he is doing. The news really should not come as a surprise - not at the venerable age dear old Smudge must have reached. Yet it is a deep sadness he feels, recalling the last time he had spoken with him, just after the performance of an hour of his ‘Manny Magic’ when, over tea and sandwiches and in the company of his equally formidable brother, the old fellow had upbraided him for failing to appreciate the trials and tribulations of becoming old.
‘So it wasn’t the cough that carried him off, eh?’ Herman ventures, finding himself smiling, and speaking almost to himself as he recalls one particular amusing bit of nonsense Smudge had quoted at the time.
Mrs H, however, appears somewhat baffled. It is not an unfamiliar look, and Herman knows he must elaborate.
‘It’s not the cough that carries you off. It’s the coffin they carries you off in!’ he states, which seems to satisfy her. ‘He told me that little gem,’ Herman continues. ‘Quite good, really. I always thought I could use it some day in one of my shows.’
She understands, and they exchange a brief look of shared amusement and sadness all at the same time, before Herman returns to his packing, adding some fresh shirts and a couple of spare white collars whilst mulling over the ever-present conundrum of somehow having to cram several case-loads of clothing into one, for he knows he must travel light.
‘Um … I don’t think I’ll bother to take this back wit
h me,’ he mutters as he extracts the loose canvas of Poppy’s painting from his briefcase and lays it to one side upon the bed.
It’s true enough, he thinks, there is nothing more he can glean from it. Deborah might well wish to have it returned to her some day, he thinks, so it might as well stay safe here at his home for the time being. Mrs H. meanwhile, ceasing her labours, seems to have taken a shine to it, her eyes returning to it with interest again and again … until she finally takes it up in her hands, compelling him to explain. ‘Oh, that’s just something I picked up last time when I was in Heidelberg,’ he says. ‘Nothing of value.’
‘That’s Cologne Cathedral, though - there in the background, isn’t it?’ she asserts, tapping the surface with a slightly vexatious finger.
‘Really?’ Herman inquires, stopping what he is doing and turning to her again, trying not to appear too amazed over her possessing such knowledge.
‘Oh yes,’ she confirms. ‘Not that I’ve been there me-self, or anything like that,’ she adds as she places the canvas down again on the bed. ‘But it’s on one of them big posters at the station. I recognise them towers. Can’t mistake those, can you - great, big, black ugly things.’
‘Cologne?’
‘Yes - you take a look at the poster by the ladies waiting room at the station next time. Thomas Cook Travels, it is.’
Herman can only regard his housekeeper with a blend of bewilderment and admiration - and no small excitement, too, at the revelation. ‘I shall, Mrs H. Have no fear of that. I shall,’ he responds with conviction as, taking up the canvas once again, he slots it in-between his shirts, after all - because he knows exactly where he must journey to next. And the painting is definitely coming with him.
From London’s Victoria, he takes the cross-channel sleeper service via Dover, and within hours is on board the steamer on his way across to the Continent. It is a tranquil, frosty evening, and from his vantage point on deck, and with the collar of his overcoat turned up against the cold, he watches as the harbour lights of the French port approach out of the darkness, the infernal red glow of engine sheds and the furnaces of locomotives waiting in readiness upon the horizon. He feels exhilarated, not regretting one bit turning his back on England once again because there is for him this evening a sense of liberation and excitement that only recollections of the distant past can equal - of childhood and youth when at moments he had perceived life as being so magical, and often when undertaking a journey just like this - a railway adventure into the unknown.
The attractions of foreign travel are manifest and numerous, and to be truthful he rarely needs much of an excuse to indulge in it - the sometimes unpleasant, frequently dangerous transport of yesteryear being but a distant memory for most. From the very onset of a journey, these days, every convenience and luxury is provided. Even the railway stations, like the one he had just left in London, are like palaces compared to those of just a few years ago - cathedrals of opulence where a traveller might commence his journey in a ticket office furnished with armchairs and carpets, engraved mirrors and works of art, fragrant with the scent of freshly cut flowers or enlivened by the singing of caged birds - a world of chandeliers, velvet curtains, champagne and luxury dining that does not diminish one bit once on board the trains themselves - those ornaments of comfort and style where, in dining cars or saloon carriages of plush upholstery passengers sit at tables bedecked with fine linen, illuminated by the new miracle of Edison’s light bulbs and served by waiters and chefs devoted to the very best traditions of culinary art and haute cuisine.
It is an age of elegance in motion - and if one travelled first class, one would not encounter a single person who did not, by their dress and deportment, award their fellow passengers the compliment of an agreeable demeanour. Why, even the necessities of sleep are catered for in style - and one could as easily hire a berth in a Pullman or ‘boudoir car’ for the journey - a private nook where, upon a freshly aired mattress, ensconced in the darkest ambience of finest black walnut or cherry marquetry, a person might sleep the night away in peace and safety, closing his eyes perchance in Paris, only to open them again already half way to Berlin or Vienna; to Budapest or Istanbul. He loves travelling.
And so, full of anticipation and excitement, he fortifies himself with a glass of brandy in the restaurant on board and awaits the moment of disembarkation. Tomorrow, tomorrow - what will it bring? The fates have cast down the gauntlet before him again, challenged him to unite his destiny once more to that extraordinary woman Deborah Peters and to her equally extraordinary belief that, against all the odds, against all the deductions of authority and the processes of law, her daughter may still be alive. Is she deluding herself, like everyone says? Are those mysterious and insistent voices that have come to him in recent times likewise merely falsehoods, an elaborate, ghostly joke perpetrated upon them both from some distant plane of psychic mischief? It is always a possibility. Tricksters are everywhere, even among the dead. But either way, it matters not a jot for Herman, not this evening. For here at last is a piece of real magic. No more trickery or stage illusion. Something very special has taken a hold of his life, he knows. The world has become open once again, the very playground of adventure and romance.
Chapter 20
The road extends ahead, and she continues to walk it. Sometimes there are alternatives, a bus ride, a provincial railway line or two, a tram or omnibus, but the same road is always there, the road that leads to Poppy. Yesterday had been good, and after selling a few personal items of jewellery to raise cash, she had spent her last few marks on a proper dinner and a night in a seedy bed-and-breakfast establishment. She even has a few coins left over for today - which is an important day, because on her mind this morning is a train journey north, destination the city of Köln or, as the English insist on calling it, Cologne.
Though she had kept quiet about it at the time, she had begun to infer almost straight away that the background in the painting Herman had shown her at the alpine resort that afternoon was in fact the twin towers of St Peter’s Cathedral in Köln. It was a painting she must have glanced at a dozen times when sorting through her daughter’s belongings, and yet it was only then when he had pointed it out that she comprehended its significance. She recalled that Poppy had visited the city on at least one occasion last summer - she had mentioned it in one of her letters home. And Deborah feels certain now it is there in that ancient city in the heart of Germany, where some vital information is just waiting to be unearthed. The question is how, without money, is she going to get there - a journey of some three hundred miles?
Removing a glove and with impatient fingers, she reaches inside her bag for the bread roll she filched from the table this morning. Unwilling to be seen eating in the street, even now, she finds a secluded spot to consume it, seated upon a low wall by a well, before continuing towards what she hopes might be an unstaffed train station out here in the suburbs and where she might be able to sneak on board without a ticket. A reasonable enough plan, but somehow she becomes lost - wandering into an area even farther out of town, where the road appears more rural, bordered by fields and farmsteads. The snow is almost absent in this place, a sheltered lowland valley, and the waters of the streams are flowing freely. It is a fine, peaceful afternoon, and yet every few paces she feels compelled to look back over her shoulder, a self-imposed vigilance in case he is coming after her - yes him: that horrible creature, Hanno.
No, she did not explain nor mention again the dread name to Herman, nor did she speak much more to him about the incident that afternoon when she had been almost crushed beneath the wheels of that carriage, nor did she allow her friend to perceive the icy panic that had gripped her heart for several hours thereafter. Instead, she resolved to keep him from any danger by insisting he return to London, which was well and good because, even now, she feels loath to embroil such a gentle soul in her complex world of pain and suffering. She is strong now, in any case. She really believes it - ready to face the spectre
alone if need be.
Yes, Hanno. If only she might discover him here this morning. She almost yearns for it, so she might tear and claw at his face, beat upon his breast and hurl his body down upon the rocks and stones below the edge of the roadside, beat him again and again until he confesses and tells her exactly what he knows and where Poppy might be kept - for surely he would have the answers. Yes, it is he who holds the key.
And so it is with both fear and longing that such an opportunity might ever befall her, that she turns and, in the absence of any sign of a train station or even anybody of whom she might ask directions, retraces her steps back towards the town, listening for every sound upon the road, every whisper of every breeze in the undergrowth, every step on every cobblestone in every side-street as she goes. Is this madness - this fitful mixture of longing and obsession, this grieving and raging all at once? Never has she felt life so intensely, with the spirit of some wild avenging animal in her breast, warming her blood, nourishing her heart with every step. There is no desire any longer even to minister to her own needs, nothing of any importance she can value in the common pursuits of cleanliness and tidiness. The clothes that cling to her are all filthy; her hair - unwashed since the afternoon when she has made the effort for Herman’s sake - has become matted again, a tangled mass of dark Medusa locks.
But really, what does it matter? The open skies have become her looking glass, the only one she needs these days, a place where her thoughts alone might be reflected and her mind might soar resolute towards the heavens. And just as the bleak, turbulent clouds and the withered bracken lining the roadsides proclaim the sorrows of winter, so she too will remain in obscurity, not tend to her outward state until Poppy might be returned to her, until the flowers and verdant trees, the fields of corn and blue skies populate the space of her inner garden once more, with Poppy’s smile and warm embrace to make it real.
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 19