Chapter 29
It is a suitable enough setting, Herman reflects, in which a man might defraud another, with its desk and chairs and filing cabinets - all items that would be considered vulgar and in bad taste in any other part of the castle but here in the chamber of the registrar and treasurer, all perfectly acceptable and functional. Herman, still in his guise as a certain Mr David Wilson, is here once again, seated across the cluttered and disorderly desk of the fellow by the name of Walter he had first dealt with upon his arrival some days ago, in order to explain why they should admit him into the higher orders of the Inner Temple straight away - an audacious suggestion with a most improbable chance of success, he realises, but one he feels is at least worth a try.
‘I would like to impress upon you, sir, that I am a person of far greater wealth than I have hitherto led you to believe,’ Herman begins plainly, though without any lilt of self-importance to his voice. ‘And I should also perhaps confess that I have employed an alias in my dealings with you here at Schloss Lethe. The reasons for this will be obvious once you become privy to my true identity and title. You should also be advised that my filial obligations and those to various official bodies is such that I am only at liberty to part with my wealth by slow degrees - an orderly process, which would be my natural inclination and duty in any case, no matter what the circumstances. So, to put it plainly, you can jolly well forget all this business about handing over house deeds and investment certificates right away - something I will only ever contemplate later if you ensure my progress is rapid and without restriction. I want to learn, you see, and to learn quickly. If you will sanction this, I am prepared to enrich your organisation - but in return I expect to benefit to a degree proportional to my generosity.’
Oddly, at this, the treasurer, whose mutton-chop whiskers have, if anything grown even bushier in the interim, surrenders to a broad smile, displaying as he does so an impressive concentration of gold teeth in the corners of his mouth. ‘I must tell you, Mr - er - Wilson, we have heard that kind of statement on more than one occasion from eager young men such as yourself. I am, however, grateful you have revealed your use of an alias. It would explain why our checks on your identity over the past few days have proved so fruitless. Oh yes, we have checked. The field of credit management is one in which I have considerable expertise. Therefore, I suggest in future you confine your statements only to those you can substantiate. For instance, how might one verify that you are as wealthy as you claim to be? A titled gentleman, as well, you say? Yet we still do not know your name.’
‘You must trust me, simple as that.’
Seeming to look down the entire length of his pendulous nose with a look of studied nonchalance, the treasurer places his pen aside and with a grimace of sorrow playing on his fleshy jowls sighs deeply. It is, Herman thinks, like being face to face with an especially recalcitrant bank manager.
‘Sorry, Mr Wilson. I won’t pretend your claims to high status are not of interest to us, but unless you can offer proof in the form of some kind of documentation, you must simply be patient and progress to the Inner Temple via the normal channels. It could take years.’
At which Herman decides to call his bluff.
‘Unfortunately then I will have to consider terminating my studies and taking leave of you,’ he declares, standing. ‘Or would you prefer me to have a word with the heavy mob first?’
‘The heavy mob, Mr Wilson? I’m afraid I don’t understand.’
‘Your friend Hanno. The knave. I’m sure he’s around somewhere, to remind me of my vows?’
‘Ah, I see. You mean our liaison officer,’ Walter corrects him with a trace of amusement. ‘No, no, that won’t be necessary. You are free to depart. We naturally trust in your discretion.’
And with shoulders hunched in mock indignation, Herman turns and leaves the room. His little ruse has failed to work, and he suspects he will need to think of an alternative way to gain entrance to the hallowed Inner Temple.
In the meantime, desirous of some fresh air, he takes a stroll around the keep again, trudging through the freshly fallen snow, and where he discovers, almost by accident, a narrow passageway between walls to parts of the complex he has hitherto not been aware of at all, a comparatively ramshackle area of additional stone buildings, these mostly abutting onto the walls and towers at the rear of the central keep. Here can be seen many of the practical necessities of maintaining the castle itself: workshops and storage facilities; logs for stoves and kerosene for lamps. There is a chicken coup and even a small pigsty, a place whose stench is sufficient to discourage his proceeding further. And it is then, when turning back towards the tower, that he notices a small service door set into the walls of the building itself. It is ajar. Nobody appears to be in the vicinity, so in he goes - finding, at the end of a short passageway, a surprisingly well-lit and airy chamber containing various benches and what appears to be an extensive array of medical equipment. How interesting. But, again, his judgement this morning is about to prove unsound.
‘Can I help you?’ comes an indignant-sounding voice, and when Herman turns and glances to the doorway of an adjacent chamber to the side, it is to behold a gentleman in a white coat, like a doctor. He is not young; has spectacles down almost on the tip of his nose, and seems to be annoyed at the intrusion.
‘I am - er - looking for a doctor,’ Herman declares, prompted by the distinctly antiseptic smell of the place.
‘The earliest I could see you would be tomorrow morning,’ the man replies.
Realising this must, indeed, be some kind of medical environment after all, Herman duly makes an appointment, without knowing what for, but as he does so he notices that the room from which the doctor has emerged appears to be a small operating theatre. There is a table with restraining straps, jars and tubes, and numerous anatomical and ophthalmic charts on the walls.
This must be more than just a doctor’s surgery, he reflects as he makes his way from the building. The preponderance of ophthalmic charts was an especially curious feature. Were they trying to restore Rascham sight? Surely not! - not in a tiny, remote clinic like this up in the mountains.
Once outside, Herman continues his exploration - eventually coming upon a cluster of old converted stables. There are no open doors this time; but peering into their refurbished windows Herman can catch glimpses of what amounts to a small arsenal of weapons - everything from hopelessly antiquated swords to modern lever action rifles - all neatly laid out in racks or upon shelving - while nearby, the other side of yet another window, can be seen bottles marked with the skull and crossbones, denoting hazardous chemicals or poisons - and a collection of strange-looking gas canisters, too, leaving little doubt in Herman’s mind of a more nefarious undercurrent of activity that clearly exists here at the headquarters of Rascham and his perhaps not-so-divine followers.
‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ comes a weak and oddly rasping voice behind, and as Herman turns with the instinctive rapidity of one in shock, it is to meet with the narrow probing eyes of Hanno.
‘Hello Hanno,’ he responds calmly once he has caught his breath. ‘Have you come to escort me home?’
But Hanno merely coughs - that same feeble, possibly consumptive cough that Herman had heard the other day when the man took the unfortunate Andrew away from the well house. ‘No - as a matter of fact I have come to take you to the presence of Rascham,’ he states, almost grudgingly, his thin lips twisting themselves into a smile of sorts, though it looks more like a snarl. ‘You are honoured, my friend.’
‘Are you serious?’ Herman asks, not bothering to stand on ceremony with the little thug.
‘Oh yes, Hanno is always serious,’ he replies. ‘So … if you would care to step this way,’ he adds with sarcastic formality, bidding with one scrawny outstretched arm protruding from his sleeve for Herman to accompany him. He does not lead the way, however, but insists on walking closely at Herman’s side, as if taking custody of him.
Herman, mean
while, is torn between feeling excited at the opportunity being offered, and yet also a sense of horror, engendered for the most part by being in the company of this most unpleasant individual - opposing sensations, to be sure, and ones, he concludes, he would do well to reconcile if he is to survive - for if Hanno does possess any special gifts at all, other than a penchant for aggression and cruelty, it is probably an innate suspicion of everyone he meets. Would he remember? Would he have any recollection at all of the person on Deborah’s arm that afternoon when the poor woman was almost trampled under the wheels of this lunatic’s carriage? Despite having sacrificed his own distinctive moustache, Herman is not really able to feel assured of his anonymity, not in the presence of such a possibly shrewd and cunning individual.
With quick and purposeful strides, they enter the castle and after traversing the familiar main hall and passing through a set of double doors with the aid of one of several great iron keys in Hanno’s possession, they find themselves in a passageway within what Herman assesses must be the very rear of the building, a part he has not been in previously - and at which all of a sudden two people emerge from a side chamber, coming towards them, both of them female. And then he sees her.
Poppy - he knows it is her - glances across to him as they brush by. She doesn’t stop, and neither does he - but temporarily startled by the look of astonishment and pleasure on his face, the young lady’s alert and perceptive eyes are drawn to his instantly. It is like seeing Deborah there passing by, only younger, of course, smaller in stature, and with darker, less wavy hair. But it is Poppy - no doubt in his mind - alive, unscathed and, indeed, every bit as beautiful as her mother had proclaimed her to be, so that despite the dire situation he is subject to at present, he feels an almost overwhelming happiness at the discovery.
Hanno, meanwhile, unimpressed or simply uninterested in this rare blessing of female society, guides him on. ‘Some nice girls here, eh?’ he comments without warmth. ‘If you’re the romantic kind, that is,’ he adds, almost as if forcing the words in order to humour his companion, a voice most chilling in its indifference.
‘Indeed, yes,’ Herman responds, wondering what kind of cold blood might run through Hanno’s veins. He can feel his eyes upon him, examining his face as they walk, an ever-present vexation to Herman. Worse, his feelings of revulsion have probably communicated themselves to the other man - because as they exchange glances, Hanno’s eyes flash and his mouth twists itself into a further snarl.
‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’ Hanno inquires, drawing Herman to a halt this time with a firm hand on his sleeve.
It makes Herman’s flesh crawl to be touched by the man, and it is all he can do to prevent himself from dashing his hand away. ‘I doubt it. I should certainly remember you, if we had met,’ Herman answers with equal derision and which, again, Hanno does not seem to enjoy all that much.
At the end of the passageway, he opens another door and, behold, they find themselves outside at the foot of the stone bridge - with just sufficient time, as they cross, for Herman to take a glance over the balustrade and down into the steep, seemingly bottomless ravine before they step through the portal on the other side and into the mountain. Here, Herman finds himself in yet another vast, cavernous space - and clearly the domain of the famous Inner Temple, the very scene Herman recollects from the mural in the treasurer’s office with its great ceremonial hall and large twelve-pointed star inscribed on the floor. It is all most impressive and slightly threatening in scale, and with a ceiling that, although shaped in the same Gothic and vaulted fashion as the dining hall of the castle, is here rough-hewn out of the rock, largely unembellished and whose upper limit is so high as to be obscured in darkness. The lower levels are well-lit, however, revealing the same extravagant opulence of style as already seen elsewhere - in fact even better - with oriental rugs and panelled walls, with murals of lush, sub-tropical gardens and exotic beasts peeping from the undergrowth, or else hung with banners and tapestries filled with oriental characters, astrological symbols and kabbalistic diagrams - all redolent of the chaotic hodgepodge of ideas that have figured continually in his training over the past several days.
But there is no time to dwell on the spectacle. At Hanno’s behest, they continue to march through and towards a further set of oak doors reinforced with iron, and from which they descend a narrow, sloping tunnel - the occasional candle set at intervals into the walls barely sufficient to guide their way. The air inside the tunnel is not at all oppressive, however, leading Herman to the conclusion that a ventilation shaft or two must be cut into the rock somewhere. That or else maybe all this is just part of another building, another structure adhering to the mountainside. And he wonders whether he will ever get a chance to find out.
‘A bit dark in here, isn’t it?’ Herman comments as they continue on down.
‘Rascham has no need of light,’ Hanno replies with an obvious smugness.
‘Ah yes, Lord of the Darkened Way, isn’t that so?’ Herman remarks. ‘But is he really blind?’
‘Blindness … what is blindness?’ Hanno muses. ‘It is humankind that is blind. Blinded by ignorance. Humankind knows nothing.’
‘Oh really?’ Herman responds with amusement, and not attempting to hide his contempt for the other man’s pseudo wisdom. ‘What about an engineer, or a doctor, then, Hanno? What about a man who builds a steamship or a great bridge - does he know nothing?’
‘Ah … given a few million years and you can teach a monkey to do those thing - monkeys just like us, ha ha!’ Hanno replies, undaunted. ‘Only Rascham - he is not like us. The Lord of the Darkened Way can see what no one else can. He can see the future. He can gaze into the souls of men. Even though his eyes do not work, he can tell when people are pretending to be something they are not.’
Trying not to take this as a threat, Herman continues on in silence, hoping he is not walking to his own oblivion in this dark and desolate place. Contained and nurtured within this building could well be minds of exceptional psychic ability, skilled in the reception of thoughts and emotions. And so, with a little tug of the sash about his shoulder, he reminds himself that he is, indeed, a novice amid such an unusual and sophisticated congregation, and that he must never forget it.
A final set of double doors, and Herman finds himself in what appears to be some kind of formal presence chamber for his audience with the great man - it can only be he - seated motionless like some mighty Buddha on a dais at the far end of an otherwise sparsely furnished space.
‘Listen, I have a train to catch,’ Hanno whispers, to Herman’s surprise, as if confiding a slightly subversive intention, ‘and it’s a long way to the nearest station, right? I leave you with Rascham. Be good.’
Perhaps the fellow would normally be expected to linger somewhere close at hand, Herman reflects - but he seems keen to be off, closing the door very softly, without sound, behind him as he goes. And Herman certainly has no wish to detain him.
The unseeing Rascham, meanwhile, and who has remained silent, without reaction upon their arrival, says nothing. It is as if he were trying to sense Herman’s presence rather than wanting to question him or to talk. The silence here, in the depth of the mountain, is extraordinary - immense. It is a silence unlike any he has ever experienced or even believed could be possible. His own breath is like the waves of an ocean in this silence, his heartbeat like a mighty drum, the blood coursing through his veins and hissing in his ears like a hurricane.
Above he notices a shaft of daylight emanating from an aperture high in the chamber, surrounded by panels of stained glass, and this provides a certain opalescence to the atmosphere, along with a more concentrated beam, angled downwards and directly onto the dais and the face of Rascham himself who continues to sit in concentrated silence, reminding Herman of some menacing reptile waiting with infinite patience and, save for a slight, rhythmic swaying motion of the body, utterly still - as Herman standing silently also, his eyes gradually becoming accustomed to the
darkness, continues to wait … and to wait.
The mantra’s sound fades; her thoughts transcend the familiar realm of the senses. The pure space of meditation should open up to her then, she knows. But it fails to do so. Again this afternoon, as so often of late, it evades her bidding. What can be wrong? Her achievements during the first few months after joining the Society had been spectacular, and the disciplines she had learned had taken her to spiritual heights she had never imagined could exist until then. But now what’s this? There is nothing - nothing but confusion - a melancholic silence punctuated by strange voices and memories. Her mother is in her meditations, her mother’s love and devotion - almost tangible, those long-forgotten feelings mixed with all manner of recollections of childhood and adolescence, like a kind of juvenile homesickness - only amplified ten-fold.
For the past several days it has been like this; with the passing of that most festive and loving of seasons, the winter solstice and Christmas, it is as if her spirit-self has begun to draw upon the past, upon her mother’s amazing mental strength, something that had so often motivated and enthralled her as a child. She remembers the stories at bedtime, the country walks and horse riding through the lush green country fields and woods. She remembers long summer evenings in the garden at home, of pets and animals whose lives they shared, of fantastic stories and tales of heroic deeds - and of the simple wonderment at nature’s mysteries, the trees and wild flowers, mushrooms and herbs, and the bees her mother would keep at the end of the garden, too - always introducing her to one sacred mystery after another as if divulging the source of some great lineage of arcane secrets.
Heavens! She had thought she had left all this behind - imagined she had succeeded at last in growing up, discarding all those illusory infantile attachments of family and friendships - just as they told her she would. But this afternoon she is a child once again, her mother’s invisible hand smoothing away her cares, her lovely serene face in the light of the hearth fire appearing again and again before her, full of humour and tenderness.
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 28