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

by Robert Stephen Parry

  ‘Why, yes. Yes, of course,’ Herman replies retaking his seat.

  ‘The outcome will be the death and injury of numerous citizens, men women and children,’ von Spiegler adds, without a trace of remorse. ‘Still keen?’

  ‘If it is Rascham’s will, I am ready,’ Herman asserts.

  And so Herman is given his first job under the auspices of the holy order - though one that he is determined shall be, by any means possible at his command, an absolute failure. He will make sure of that.

  Somehow, by stealth, by craft or occasionally outright duplicity - this last being the greatest of her regrets - Deborah has managed to prevent herself from starving and today has even managed to have telegrams relayed to her here in Vienna from the stationers in Germany where she had pledged Herman, so long ago, to check for his messages. She had thereby not only regained some understanding of his intentions but by various means also managed to arrange additional funding for her survival - not much, to be sure, but sufficient for the luxury of a few decent hot meals and a night of relative comfort in a cheap hotel - all the while buoyed up by the knowledge that Herman appeared by his messages to be close to locating Poppy - this was in the first of his telegrams, admittedly written some weeks ago; the second, however, composed just a few days ago, stated that she was certainly alive and well, and that he was en route back to England, hopeful of a resolution.

  Thus all of her instincts were confirmed, for often she had sensed their togetherness, her daughter and Manny - though whether this had been merely her own wishful thinking or the very real and genuine workings of her intuition, she could no longer rightly tell. She has felt confused and forgetful lately; and this occurring too often to be able to trust any longer in that bright jewel of her intellect, once such a source of pride to her. It has coincided with a time in which her body has become weaker and sicker by the day, with a feverish cough that never seems to leave her - so she can only fear in her darkest moments that she may have contracted tuberculosis at one of the dreadful places in which she has been forced to spend her nights amid such squalor and filth. Yet still she cannot bear to contemplate quitting, abandoning her quest and returning to England. Even the discovery in the newspapers of her late husband’s demise has failed to move her. She will not cease. Never.

  And so, remaining still in the magnificent city of the Habsburg Empire, with its stately buildings, and the occasional dusting of fresh snow upon its broad, skeletal avenues of trees and city pavements, she amuses herself by sneaking into music recitals or concerts, often without a ticket; occasionally even entering via the stage door of a theatre - her singular and eccentric appearance sometimes aiding her in this respect, for they would suspect her of being in costume and part of the cast. And here, seated in a sheltered stairway or sequestered near the warmth of a chimney, she would listen to the precious music, half heard, half imagined, and which was once so familiar to her. At one time, during the ballet, it would be the majestic and tragic music of Swan Lake; at another, during an orchestral concert, it would be the dream-like piano concerto of Brahms - all heard through walls, strangely muffled and yet always restoring to her mind some precious memories of Poppy, the music they would so often have shared together and some of which her daughter had learned to play most beautifully.

  The music also reminds her of her affluent past, of days when, bejewelled and cloaked in the finest of fashion, upon the arm of her handsome husband or a favoured female friend she would glide majestically from their own carriage into the opera houses of London or Paris. Good times. But those glory days were long ago, not so much in time but in a distance of status and respectability. For now she is no longer respectable at all. Now she is a vagrant, a wretched despairing soul who sits in stairways and listens to music of unsurpassable beauty that would henceforth forever be denied to her. No flowers will adorn her breast, no smile will ever grace her lips, no joy ever fill her eyes until Poppy is restored to her. And if death is near, as she suspects it might be, especially at times like this when her health and strength seem to fail her, then she is ready to face it with all the obstinacy and resistance possible until that fateful day.

  Chapter 40

  It is night. Everyone is supposed to be in their chambers or dormitories, and all lights extinguished, when Herman, spurred on by a renewed sense of urgency and equipped with little more than a small oil lamp and a hand-drawn layout of what he knows already of the building’s interior, ventures out into the passages and stairways of the castle keep, desperately searching the building once more for Poppy. The Old Theatre, he has learned, is where she is kept, confined in strict isolation under the guidance and tutelage of her mentor, Frau Weiss. The Old Theatre … but where might that be? In respect of developments during the past forty-eight hours, the situation is suddenly very serious, and he knows he simply must find her now, and quickly.

  Already his new duties within the Inner Temple have taken him away to Budapest and back again upon the very mission to which he had so keenly volunteered on the afternoon of his initiation. In the company of his fellow adept, Ernst, they had embarked the very next day on the lengthy journey through the flat and unspectacular scenery of the Danube basin, heading towards the second greatest city of the Habsburg Empire in order to fulfil the task of planting an explosive device at the main railway station - the item itself having been constructed with consummate skill by none other than the medical doctor at Schloss Lethe who clearly possessed additional talents to that of medicine - and thereby providing Herman with a new and totally chilling appreciation of his nickname: ‘Doctor Death.’

  Upon enquiries of Ernst, it soon became apparent, moreover, that this was not the first time such an exercise had been undertaken - and the incident of the poisonous gas vented inside a public building that Herman had read about upon his arrival in Heidelberg some weeks ago was their handiwork, also.

  Fortunately, this time, the mission was recalled before there was any opportunity to even prime the murderous device - for no sooner had they arrived and established what part of the concourse to best install it in readiness for detonation the following day, when a wire was received at their hotel across the square with coded instructions issued by Herr von Spiegler to postpone the whole ghastly enterprise. They were summoned back to the Schloss immediately - because there had been, according to the same telegram, ‘worrying new developments’ - and it didn’t take Herman long to surmise just what these worrying new developments might be, because the papers were still covering the sensational developing news of the suicide in Scotland of publishing magnate Hubert Peters whose body, wrapped in iron chains, had at last been located and recovered from the loch adjacent to his home. An intriguing story, to be sure. And, for the continental readership, there was an equally sensational aftermath to contend with - engendered in no small part by the previously unidentified body of the young man who had been discovered on the shores of those very same waters, and upon whose person, it has now transpired, have been found various Austrian documents and train tickets.

  But there was even more. In addition to the lengthy suicide note already published in the press, there was apparently also a special, private dossier regarding Hugh Peters’s investigations into his daughter’s death found upon his desk. Following his demise, his personal secretary, a certain Joseph Beezley, had wasted no time in handing this over to the police along with his own extensive findings. And as Herman and his would-be colleague in crime had sat over coffee in the sumptuous Baross restaurant of the Keleti station in Budapest with its marbled walls, its pilasters, palms and gorgeous murals, observing the movements of those very same citizens, the men in the top hats with canes, the women in their elegant flowing dresses, who could well become the imminent victims of their violence, it was clear to them both that not only had some of the contents of that dossier already been leaked to the international press, but that the Austrian police had also been forced to take more than a passing interest.

  Ernst, for his part - his h
eavy, ox-leather Gladstone bag containing the components of the lethal device never once leaving his side - was obviously deeply disturbed by these revelations as they boarded the first of their trains back, via Vienna, towards their remote habitation in the mountains, while Herman, his own hand luggage bristling with newspapers, could only wince in disgust, reading the suicide note yet again - for the popular press continued to be morbidly fascinated by every detail of it: the sad, unfortunate man, driven to despair over the tragedy of his daughter’s death, and so on. Herman, of course, knew better, and that it was the discovery that his daughter yet lived that had driven the wretched man to seek the easiest way out. The humiliation would have been too great otherwise, especially in the light of his animosity towards his ex-wife, that brave and courageous woman whom he had, in such a public manner, sought to destroy (and probably had destroyed by now).

  But the mission was not entirely fruitless from Herman’s perspective, because during the long return journey he got to discover a lot more about the structure of the Society, as well as more information concerning his clever and yet ruthlessly fanatical companion Ernst whose well-to-do family haled from Freiburg, he explained, but who himself had been educated in Britain - thereby accounting for his excellent English. The conversation also provided further information concerning his position at the Schloss as librarian and researcher.

  ‘Oh yes, I saw the library the other day,’ Herman announced. ‘Very impressive. I must say.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have been there, not without permission,’ was the man’s icy response, putting down his own newspaper as they sat alone together in their splendid first class compartment with its plush maroon seating and fine marquetry, and awarding Herman his full attention for several seconds of intense scrutiny over what was clearly a significant misdemeanour on his part.

  ‘Really? Why’s that, then?’ Herman had challenged him rather impertinently - for there was, he suspected, little to be gained by sheltering behind his natural inclinations of gentlemanly courtesy amid such company.

  ‘Because it is the part of the mountain where the young ladies, the Lord Rascham’s temple maidens, have their quarters.’

  ‘Well .. so what! I’m not averse to a little female company from time to time. What about you?’

  ‘We are not supposed to have any contact with them,’ Ernst had snapped back, pouting somewhat with disapproval. ‘They are for Rascham’s delight only. Anyway, that’s the official line ...’

  Sensing a certain cynicism in Ernst’s tone, Herman pressed him further with a questioning gaze.

  ‘For Rascham and just one other,’ the man had continued with a smile looking just a shade unnatural, like someone acting the part of being amused.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Herman insisted.

  ‘Von Spiegler - you know, Walter,’ Ernst replied. ‘I’ve seen him, when I’ve been working there late at night, going down into the chambers where the girls stay, then coming out again later. I learned the rest from Hanno. He knew everything about how things work there, don’t worry. He knew everything because he used to take them away on jobs, the girls. You wouldn’t believe the kinds of people involved in this. It’s a secret network among some of the most influential men in Europe - and there are no boundaries, no borders - only secrecy. Secrecy is king. Even when they visit the castle, they always enter in hooded robes or after darkness, and we never see their faces. Von Spiegler is in charge. He’s in charge of everything. This is why he gets to sample the merchandise, so to speak, whenever it takes his fancy.’

  ‘By Jove - an enviable life, what!’ Herman responds, as if thinking aloud.

  ‘They say the girls are so trained, so skilled that they can keep a man inside them for hours and not countenance his satisfaction. They say a man can be transformed, his consciousness elevated by the torment - the torment of pleasure unreleased. This is where Rascham gets his powers - all this sex magic. Though of course I wouldn’t know.’

  Herman merely nodded his receipt of these revelations, conveyed not without a certain resentment on the part of his companion. Clearly they were already entering into areas of pure speculation, over which the intellectually driven Ernst had not only scant understanding, but also very little practical experience.

  Travelling as they were first class and on lines used for the Orient Express, there was no shortage of excellent cuisine available, and at the next convenient stop, they alighted and transferred themselves to the warmth and luxury of a dining car where, seated at a table with a fine selection of cooked meats, delicious cheeses and a glass of fine claret, the conversation had continued apace. In particular, Herman wanted to press his companion concerning the history of the castle, if only to satisfy his own curiosity.

  According to Ernst’s investigations, the original site was owned by a venerable family of Hungarian noblemen associated with the Habsburg dynasty, and it was they who also excavated a natural cave in the adjacent mountain and constructed the stone bridge. The bloodline died out in the 17th Century, he said, following which the building was taken over by various well-heeled families until acquired by STORM itself some decades ago. It is believed to house relics - a tradition going back centuries to the times of the Crusades - but no one as yet has been able to locate any of them.

  ‘What do you mean by relics?’ Herman enquired. ‘Holy relics?’

  ‘More likely unholy ones,’ Ernst chuckled, a shade irreverently. The wine was doing the job Herman had intended when he had suggested such a rare treat. The man was loosening up, revealing information he should perhaps have been keeping to himself - for alcohol was, of course, another one of the forbidden pleasures of Schloss Lethe.

  ‘You see, there are always the relics of the Holy Roman Empire scattered about this part of the world,’ he continues. ‘There are all the parts of saints and pieces of the true cross and all those things. More importantly, is the sacred spear from the Crucifixion - housed in the Schatzkammer in Vienna. These, they say, give powers to whoever possesses them. But at the Schloss there are apparently items used not for the salvation of mankind but for its affliction - namely one piece in particular, they say: the scourge used to chastise Christ prior to the Crucifixion. That is the legend, anyway. If true, it would be of inestimable value. I’ve been trying to find it for over two years already. I should say it has fair driven me mad, the search. Every spare moment of my time I look for it. I search in unused chambers, open up disused passageways, climb up under the eaves - and always nothing for my efforts but cobwebs and the bones of dead mice. Personally, I reckon von Spiegler and his friends already possess it, or Rascham. It would, in the way of holy relics, confer great powers - powers of anarchy and destruction. And this is what interests many of us, naturally.’

  ‘So darkness will overcome the light?’ Herman suggested, wondering if there was anybody housed at Schloss Lethe who was at all sane. ‘And the scourge - it would certainly be a potent symbol of our ambitions to change society, if you really could unearth it.’

  ‘Exactly. And sweep all this ... all this decadence away,’ the other man whispered venomously, keeping his voice low for obvious reasons in such close proximity to the other diners. ‘Oh, I long for the day when all these fancy, stuck-up people will be annihilated,’ he went on, gaining in excitement even if not exactly in coherence any longer. ‘Look at them, every one of them we’re sharing this carriage with - they all think they’re so special, just because they have money and they go to church on Sundays. Huh! They remind me of my parents. I hate them. Yes, soon it will all be over. The rich will crumble, the aristocracy with them, and every royal family wiped off the face of the earth.’

  ‘I say! Royalty, as well?’

  ‘Of course. The changes must be permanent, David. If you want to topple the status quo you don’t just waste your time treading on the toes of society, do you. You cut off its head. Yes - from Berlin to St. Petersburg, from London to Vienna, all the monarchies will perish, and all their filthy pompous ways, all the
ir elitism and snobbery. We can have new Gods, then - Gods of materialism and equality. Power to the people.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ Herman declared, wishing he could dispatch the revolting creature there and then to the same hell-hole as Hanno. The thought surprised him, the degree of his own inner aggression of late towards these people. To have killed ... he had already crossed the boundary; already done it to one of these despicable wretches. Why not another? Why not all of them? It was an idea he found increasingly appealing as the journey drew to a close - the final segment conducted upon a flimsy and rickety branch line once more until, each upon the back of a mule hired from the inn, they picked their way in the fading light up the mountain to the castle - a place that, for Herman, in view of all he had just learned, presented a new and even more forbidding aspect. His old life, his old absurd life of flirting with magic and the ‘Gothic’ - playing with coffins and macabre tricks and illusion - it all seemed so foolish and weak to him now. Suddenly here was the real horror of evil and damnation staring him in the face, almost apocalyptic in nature, towering above them in the gloom. And the dark side of life it represented was, for Herman, no longer quite so much to his liking.

  At last, Herman, letting his intuition guide him, has finally located the old theatre where Poppy is housed. Being stripped of any seating that might have once belonged here, it no longer resembles a theatre very much at all, he observes, and there is no stage either. It is a practice hall for yoga and meditation now, adjacent to what would presumably be Poppy’s living quarters, somewhere backstage. There is, however, a remnant of a gallery extending around part of the perimeter, accessed by a spiral staircase, and it is here where Herman resolves to place himself in a position from which he can survey the full expanse of the auditorium with its magnificent arches and vaulted ceiling, and at one end of which he can clearly discern, even in the meagre firelight, the figure of Poppy herself, seated cross-legged on her mat, immersed in a mild, inner radiance of meditation, and really most beautiful to behold. Unfortunately, she is not alone. Reclining on some cushions in front of her, and possibly asleep, is a stout, elderly woman - the venerable Frau Weiss.