‘Tell me, though, my dear,’ Deborah continues in a voice which is still as hushed and tranquil as the night, ‘for I simply cannot settle my mind until I ask you the one question I have so often asked myself: why should he have bothered at all, to have allied himself so closely with my misfortune? He hardly knew me; he did not know Poppy at all. Why should he have tolerated my vanity and poor judgement time and time again, and all so selflessly?’
And as Deborah turns to look into the face of her companion, Kristina appears to smile, and then to look inwardly. ‘Herman is that variety of man who is the most dear to me,’ she replies. ‘He was acting on your behalf, always with kindness, but also with detachment - without any expectation for the outcome. He was acting because the matter fell to him, because he heard my voice, and because he was guided by the code of a gentleman.’
‘Gentleman?’ Deborah exclaims with irony. ‘And what, precisely is that? My husband was a gentleman once, or so I believed. So many a so-called gentleman of his kind proves to be anything but with the passage of time.’
‘It is because even the best intentions are tainted with desire. A man when he clings to the physical world will be always enslaved to his passions. He will suffer agonies when thwarted and feel betrayed by his destiny. Then he will blaspheme and will embrace power and brutality instead of kindness as a means to achieving his desires. But even those are paths leading only to greater distress. The gentleman, on the other hand, will always forbear. He will act with modesty and will cultivate humility. He is above taking personal offence; and will strive always to place the feelings of others above those of himself. Herman did what was there to be done, for the benefit of another - and he accepted the chances of success or failure with equal indifference.’
‘Yes … yes, that’s true,’ Deborah agrees. ‘Even when he put himself to such trouble, even when he would pursue me half way across Europe, it was really never to gain my gratitude. He did not seek approval. He just did it … like those brave and reckless souls who climb mountains. What is it they say? Because it is there.’
Kristina nods and smiles in agreement, and watches as Deborah, most reluctantly, relinquishes the warmth and pleasant reassurance of her position and rises - a little unsteady at first, wrapping her nightgown around her shoulders as she walks to the hearth where the embers are still aglow, though only just. The room seems so dark compared to the vivid universe in which she has been engaged, so empty now that all the amazing visions have faded. How long has she been here, she wonders as she glances over to the windows to inspect the progress of the night? There is a narrow gap in the curtains, but it reveals nothing. It is still dark, still silent, with as yet no hint of the grudging light of an April dawn breaking through. How astonishing it has all been, she thinks as, instinctively, she reaches among the hearth tools and stokes the embers into a more cheerful display. Some light, too, at last, so she might see the clock.
‘Madam, you do the work I should do for you,’ Kristina laments, rising now as well.
‘No, no, my dear,’ Deborah states, an unfamiliar note of surrender to her voice. ‘You are no more my servant than I am your mistress - I realise this now. But who exactly you are, or what you are … that I dare not contemplate. Oh, if only they had torn out his black heart, those awful men when they attacked Hugh’s carriage!’ she adds in a rare outburst of vehemence, moved still by so much of what she has seen and unable to let the anguish from it pass.
‘The fates had a different destiny for him,’ the maid remarks, folding the broad unruly pages of the newspaper neatly once again and placing them to one side.
‘Yes, that’s right. I understood so little of it at the time,’ Deborah responds, ‘though no doubt you will reveal more to me shortly, my dear - am I right?’
‘You are m'lady. But first, would you honour me by revealing something, also? Show me the weapon you intend to use against your enemy.’
‘You wish to see it? You wish to see that?’
‘Oh yes ...’
Only with considerable hesitation does Deborah comply with this strange request. Taking up her portmanteau from the table and, returning to place it on the floor between herself and her companion, she releases the catches, lifts the lid and from beneath a neatly folded chemise brings forth with both hands a large, sheathed dagger of ancient appearance.
‘A little something I picked up at one of the antique shops on the Singerstraße,’ Deborah explains as, taking hold of the ornate handle of ivory, she slowly draws the weapon from its finely carved wooden scabbard. The blade itself is no less than seven or eight inches in length, straight along its spine, but curved gracefully from a broad hilt to the sharpest of points. And this she gazes at briefly, almost in admiration before placing the item carefully down upon the silken surface of the chaise amid all the scattered flowers and petals - the intensity of life and death together, side-by-side. ‘It is a traditional sacrificial knife from Sumatra,’ she continues in a voice of studied nonchalance that belies the terrible significance of the object. ‘It was once used, they tell me, for the slaughter of pigs - which seems quite appropriate really, wouldn’t you say, considering the purpose to which it is soon to be directed?’
‘Indeed, yes, ma'am,’ Kristina replies, casting a questioning glance in her mistress’s direction by way of making sure it is permissible for her to reach out to the dread object resting there between them. ‘It is not a suitable weapon for thrusting or stabbing, ma'am,’ she remarks, as she takes it up and examines it for herself, her eyes, like those of Deborah, transfixed on the exotic beauty of the object - a look of wonder and admiration on her face as she holds it up to catch the light of the fire. ‘May I enquire whether m'lady has considered where exactly she plans to make her incision?’ she continues. ‘The broad blade indicates it is only for a shallow penetration, and then for cutting in a lateral direction, crossways. Has m'lady also given thought to the degree or otherwise to which the gentleman himself might be clothed at the time and thereby safeguarded to some extent?’
‘Well .. no, not really,’ Deborah answers in a distracted way, disturbed by having to confront the practicalities of the deed and the visions it conjures up. ‘I thought I would hide it away in the pocket beneath my skirts, then make use of it as and when opportunity arises. There will, I do not doubt, have to be some measure of spontaneity involved.’
‘Indeed, m'lady. And that is never a good strategy for undertaking an act of such magnitude. Given the shape of the weapon, which, as I say, has an edge to it only on one side, I would suggest approaching the gentleman from the rear when he is unawares, taking hold of his hair if possible before slashing the throat with a lateral movement. You will need to apply a good degree of pressure at the point of incision. And if he wears a high collar, this could prove difficult. He will have time to grapple with you, and possibly defeat your purpose. Alternatively, you could approach from the front, given that perhaps the gentleman would be lying down at the time, or asleep. Then you might enter here - look, where I am pointing on myself - just beneath here on his left side, slanting upwards towards the heart. But again, it would depend on his state of clothing at the time, and your own strength.’
Deborah stares wide-eyed and incredulous as Kristina continues to speculate with such vivid detail on the terrible deed, and becomes even more amazed as the young woman unbuttons the front of her own modest dress, takes up the frightful weapon once more and demonstrates by placing it against her chemise at the very spot, evincing an expertise in such matters as chilling as it is unexpected.
Heavens - she is so thin! Deborah thinks, as she reaches out to touch the very spot with one hesitant finger, her eyes fixated on the indentation made by the weapon’s tip upon the cotton chemise, beneath which one can easily feel the ribs. ‘Thank you,’ she says, her thoughts still racing in dizzy confusion.
‘And there will be copious quantities of blood, no matter which method you have recourse to,’ Kristina adds with continuing authority. ‘Th
ough I suppose you have no expectations of avoiding detection?’
‘No … none at all,’ Deborah replies as she finally withdraws her hand. ‘I know I might be heavily stained and will not be able to get away. There might be noise, too - and, like you say, a struggle. He will doubtless have a valet or servant nearby or in another room. No, I cannot get away with it, I realise that. And … and they will have me hanged, won’t they?’
But the maid does not respond to Deborah’s misgivings; nor does she appear overly concerned by the harsh, inevitable act of justice that will ensue. With a barely imperceptible shrug of the shoulders she merely asks, ‘And what of the alternative of a pistol, ma'am? After all, m'lady is capable in the use of such a weapon - even if not entirely accurately in the case of Mr Small. It would be the more practical option, do you not think? Especially if you are indifferent to being apprehended afterwards. Why not simply ..?’
‘It would be too quick, too easy for him,’ Deborah interrupts with conviction, for this is an aspect of the deed she has thought through and rehearsed in her mind many times. ‘Oh, I know it sounds rather irrational, but I have this longing, you see, this fantasy in my imagination of being able to tell him why I have struck. I want him to be aware. I want him to suffer and to fear. To cut his throat would also be too quick - he would pass out almost instantly, wouldn’t he? - knowing nothing of my intent, never hear the name of Poppy on my lips, never to comprehend why he is dying. And so, yes, no matter how awkward it might be with the weapon I have chosen, I shall keep to my intention - to thrust at that evil heart no matter how difficult. And if I can look into his eyes and watch his agony and curse him at the same time - ah, what sweet revenge that will be.’
‘Well and good, ma'am,’ Kristina responds with the same surprising and most unreasonable nonchalance, so that again Deborah cannot help but feel surprise at the complicity of her young companion in her designs. Hearing herself express such hatred in her own words also leaves her feeling unsettled - guilty and uneasy over the depth of her wickedness and all her unrealistic expectations of her abilities in this respect.
‘How strange,’ Deborah murmurs. ‘Now I hear myself speaking of it, the whole thing fills me with horror. Yet it shouldn’t. Ever since those tragic events so long ago, I have worked for this day, a carefully plotted course - with each spell as mistress or companion to one man or the other taking me further and further up the social scale until now, at last, I have finally set the snare for the beast I have pursued for so long. The deed is waiting for me at last, waiting just the other side of this night. So near, I wonder now if it is not like being condemned oneself, like all those infamous nobles of olden times awaiting execution. And though he will be the one to die tomorrow, my fate will be to follow him soon enough. I, too, will have my morning of reckoning - all the worse for me, because I will have leisure to anticipate it. The baron will know nothing until the last moment.’
‘On the eve of your punishment, you will be at peace,’ Kristina argues. ‘You will be at prayer, reconciled to the journey. The baron, on the other hand, will be taken unprepared, in the throes of all his excess and debauchery. So you should not feel you have the worst of the bargain, ma'am. His journey through the shades will be far from easy. He will suffer greatly.’
‘Oh, I only hope it will be so - and I will have the opportunity to make it happen, that I will have time enough alone with the wretched man - and then, if I do, that I will be able to act decisively. Do you think I shall? To commit murder, to take a life in such a manner - is it not against all those principles we have been brought up to value?’
‘You cannot take a life, ma'am,’ Kristina responds.
‘But if he dies - if I kill him?’
‘Death is an illusion. You cannot destroy anyone, only their body will perish. The soul is eternal.’
‘The soul? But what of my soul, Kristina? I shall be guilty of a terrible crime. Thou shalt not kill.’
‘If you feel it is so terrible, m'lady, then why do it?’
‘Because I hate him!’ Deborah cries, and buries her head in her hands for a moment. ‘Because I hate him. Or is my wretched hatred an illusion, too?’
Kristina extends a pacifying hand upon the arm of her mistress once again as she looks into her eyes. ‘You have answered your own question, m’lady,’ she declares with an irrefutable, almost cruel logic, though in a voice still as serene and as reassuring as ever. ‘We are all of us beset by illusions, clinging to those that satisfy us the most and which inconvenience us the least. And all of it is frivolous and of little merit. Life is a dance, that is all. We take to the floor for only a short while, and the music we hear is the sound of God laughing.’
To which Deborah, with a sigh of inevitability and surrender, slides the weapon back into its sheath and rises to set her portmanteau back onto the table. But as she returns, and as her gaze rests upon the face of her young companion once again it appears there is yet more she wishes to say, even now.
‘Yes, you are correct, m'lady,’ she says, anticipating her. ‘There is just something. You see, if you were to strike this blow and succeed, it would - unlikely as it might seem - help to maintain the peace.’
‘I don’t understand. Do you mean the war? That awful war that is coming and which nobody seems able to avert?’
‘Yes, that is what I mean. Without him it would be delayed.’
‘Really? By how much?’
‘A few weeks … a few weeks of further golden peace, to celebrate the light before the darkness.’
‘Is that all? A few weeks. I wonder, is it worth it?’
‘Oh yes, it is worth it,’ the young woman replies with confidence and a look of immense sadness upon her brow. ‘It is worth it because the suffering that is to come in just a few short years from now is of such enormity that it is worth the blood of a thousand tyrants to delay it for but a single day.’
‘Heavens, my dear,’ Deborah gasps, disturbed by the young woman’s intensity, ‘you make it sound like the end of the world, the end of civilisation!’
‘The end? No, not quite, ma'am,’ Kristina replies. ‘That will take many years to complete. But for many it will be the beginning of the end. And so m'lady understands where her duty lies. Be assured, whenever and wherever you choose to do this deed I shall be at your side. Even if you cannot see me, you will feel my presence. I will steer your course; I will guide your hand, and provide you with all the strength and courage you require.’
‘Really? Can I believe this, Kristina? Can I really believe in such a thing?’
‘Yes, m'lady. And I trust that you shall.’
And so it is agreed.
Introduction to the 3rd Hour
‘The night will soon be drawing to a close, m'lady,’ Kristina remarks with all her usual composure, her voice softly spoken, sympathetic yet firm. ‘In just over an hour, it will be dawn,’ she adds.
She is waiting to resume her seat upon the chaise - a little ominously and a little too soon for Deborah, for she suspects what she is yet to be shown will be far from easy. In truth, she dreads it.
‘Dawn? So soon?’ she responds, occupying herself rather needlessly by examining the hat she will wear for her assignation and then setting this down with great care upon the unruffled counterpane of the bed. ‘Just these few short hours have contained a lifetime for me,’ she states as she approaches the young woman and who, having relinquished the starched formality of her working clothes, has already wrapped the nightgown Deborah has lent her about her own slender shoulders - it being only right and proper, Deborah has told her, that she be attired as comfortably and as warmly as her mistress. ‘Do you know, Kristina, dreadful as it may sound, this does rather remind me of being in love. Really, it does.’
‘In love?’ Kristina echoes with puzzlement as her mistress re-takes her seat at last and the young woman follows.
‘Yes. It is the intensity of it - that’s what I mean. Experiencing so much, feeling so much in so short a time. You s
ee, one can live a life for years of dull routine, with hardly any change or fresh experience until there comes along out of the blue a few breathtaking days or even just hours in which one is in love, and during which everything alters and time expands to embrace every joy. And every torment, too. Have you ever experienced that, Kristina?’
But the young lady merely shakes her head, ‘No, ma'am,’ she answers, looking askance at her mistress with an expression almost of pity. ‘That does not befall one such as myself. I should say, also, with respect, m'lady, I cannot easily picture you living a life of routine.’
‘Oh, but you would be mistaken, my dear,’ Deborah remarks with a sigh. ‘I’ll have you know my vocation as a femme fatale is one I embarked upon only very late in life. I was young when I met and married Hugh, and my daughter was born soon (perhaps a little too soon) thereafter, so there was no opportunity to be reckless. At that age there is, in any case, hardly any concept of life’s experiences, the spectrum of life’s colours. One lives, instead, in the greatest propriety amid every extravagance of black and white without even suspecting that colour might exist. Then, much later, and the greatest of ironies, when circumstances drove the marriage to an end, and when the battle for custody of my daughter commenced, I was hauled through the courts and accused of every vice. Can you believe it? That’s what it’s like if you are a woman who has chosen to pursue a career on the stage or even to deport oneself with any kind of joie de vivre. I remember, during my divorce, it was even suggested I was living in sin prior to my marriage. Anything to blacken my name. Ha! I told them most of my sins had taken place after my marriage, not before - and certainly precious little while I was in it!’
Sensing a smile upon her companion’s face, she pauses to share in her amusement.
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 30