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

by Robert Stephen Parry

  ‘For God’s sake go careful with those!’ Ernst interrupts, sensing the doctor’s feeble grip on the delicate glass container, which seems anything but secure, merely held between the finger and thumb of one trembling hand. ‘If that were to fall …’

  Taking heed, and giggling in an inane kind of way, the doctor prudently replaces the item into its steel tubing and secures the lid with a rapid twist, holding it close to his ear and seeming to rejoice in the tiny metallic click that indicates the precision of its design.

  ‘We must ensure everyone is present, Walter,’ Rascham adds, voicing the obvious as he turns to von Spiegler.

  ‘Indeed, yes, your Grace,’ von Spiegler concurs. ‘And to this end, I suggest we announce that you yourself, sir, shall lead them in a special meditation before your departure - just prior to the release of the toxins, which I propose should be at eleven fifteen exactly. Check, please, everyone, that all of our timepieces are synchronized. There is no room for error. I have it now as precisely ten twenty-one. Good. Then fire the place - in accordance with Omega phase two. Don’t forget. Effective as the contents of our little vials are, the bodies must be difficult if not impossible to identify afterwards.’

  ‘There is an incendiary device installed above the main hall,’ Ernst adds for Herman’s benefit, continuing to relate all the lurid details without pleasure. ‘It has been in place, for months for just such a contingency and can be set remotely with a system of wires, battery powered, from the yard below. There is a similar one here in the administrative areas. These are my responsibility - and with your agreement, Herr von Spiegler, I will set these for eleven thirty precisely.’

  Herman looks on with barely restrained horror as von Spiegler nods his consent. It would, Ernst explains as he prepares to leave for a moment to set the timers, be an explosion of dynamite and nitroglycerine in the ceiling of the assembly hall where there are also tanks of kerosene and bitumen in storage. The vast burning shroud will quickly plunge down and engulf the whole lower keep. The administrative offices here within the mountain would be similarly cleansed of any incriminating evidence.

  Utterly dismayed over the complacency by which these clearly well-rehearsed plans are being discussed, as if dealing with a plague of unpleasant insects, Herman becomes anxious that his cover might slip, if only on the psychic level; and so he disguises his fury with a display of concern for his own welfare. ‘But we will all of us be out by then, won’t we?’ he asks. ‘All of us?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ the treasurer replies, laughing at the Englishman’s base priorities of self-preservation. ‘All the initiates, including yourself, should be well away by then, don’t worry. We have a second carriage and sufficient packhorses. More than enough for everyone. But yes, you are right, Mr Wilson, it would not do to be left behind. The exit through to the castle will be sealed by the debris preventing any escape.’ At which he stands and proceeds to confirm with the doctor the precise timing of the chemical release.

  Ernst returns, confirming his instructions and that the herald will announce another assembly in the hall at twelve noon - again, attendance compulsory.

  ‘Very good,’ von Spiegler states. ‘The rest of us will, I propose, station ourselves outside between the hall and the main gate. I will ensure the portcullis is raised, and once a short prayer is concluded, and Lord Rascham has instructed everyone in their meditations, all the doors exiting from the hall shall be locked, by which time we ...’

  ‘My friends, hear me!’ Rascham pipes up in an absurdly loud and strident voice - and to everyone’s surprise, since there can no longer be any pretence as to the utter irrelevance of the man, other than the need to humour him still so he might deliver a convincing final oration to the flock. ‘Our work here is not yet complete. To ensure our success and preservation we must convene a final ritual. Come with me to my oratory behind. We must evoke the Great Ones together.’

  With one or two of those present exchanging looks of apprehension over being detained, they follow only with the utmost reluctance into the smaller inner chamber behind the dais, the place where one afternoon not too long ago Herman had looked on in amazement at the orgy of flesh that Rascham based his pretensions to extraordinary powers upon. There are no beautiful young women here this morning, no dark angels naked upon the matting. Only the unprepossessing Frau Weiss is present in the ashen light to make up the female contingency - yet the air is charged with that same remarkable energy he recalls from the last time; the deep resonant sounds of the hot spring water coursing beneath the flagstones, every bit as unsettling as before, so once again he senses himself slipping into a drowsy, almost helpless state of receptivity. And if that were not already enough, an incense of pungent herbs is lit by the doctor upon entry, and this, like some demonic and demented priest, he swings this way and that from the chains of a massive thurible as the atmosphere grows ever more thicker and more intoxicating.

  ‘Where are my disciples, my dark angels?’ Rascham demands, sensing their absence - and his next words send a chill down Herman’s spine: ‘There must be a sacrifice. Bring me one!’

  ‘They have all been sent to the castle hall already,’ von Spiegler replies. ‘With respect, your Grace, there is no time to …’

  ‘What? In view of the novices?’ Rascham exclaims, interrupting angrily.

  ‘Yes, but it matters not. Their confusion upon seeing them will be put to sleep soon enough, sir.’

  ‘But we must sacrifice …’ Rascham repeats, somewhat distractedly by this stage. ‘The female energy …’

  He seems confused, disappointed and yet excited all at the same time, his hands and fingers clutching again and again at the vacant air.

  In some disarray themselves, meanwhile, and trying their best to placate the man, suitable prayers are uttered, and chanting of the Rascham mantra rises spontaneously as every candle bar-one in the chamber is extinguished and the occupants endeavour to settle down and arrange themselves in a rough circle upon the floor - with Rascham still standing in front of the stone altar and where, taking hold of a kind of staff, capped with a crystal, he inscribes a circle in the air, all the while uttering more strange incantations or prayers - while Herman, for his part, tells himself he must at all costs stay alert; that he must discover some means, fair or foul, of preventing the appalling massacre due to take place within the hour. But how for God’s sake? How?

  Chapter 43

  ‘Come, fill our sacred space! Confirm in us your divine presence!’ Rascham cries in an ecstasy of enthusiasm, his face upturned, his arms outstretched in what is now almost total darkness.

  To Herman’s surprise then, the air turns cold, with a dank, fetid stench as the smoke of the incense, ever thickening, congeals and creates an almost tangible presence spiralling outwards towards the darkest corners of the chamber. It is not easy to breathe. No matter how hard he endeavours to control and relax his diaphragm, the breath feels suspended in his chest, and his stomach begins to knot in revulsion - so for one awful moment he feels he might actually have lost consciousness. He shakes his head and surfaces from his reverie only to experience the sensation of being trapped, his whole body enmeshed in a thorny hedge of sensation from which he cannot extricate himself. He senses a powerful and genuine presence - and one he finds most disturbing. The smoke is so widespread and dense he fears there could be a fire of some kind already under way, were it not for the equally cogent sensation that they are, by this stage, no longer inside the chamber at all, but outdoors, in darkness, at another time of day, another place on Earth. He is in turmoil, and might well have panicked, had he not felt himself frozen, immovable by the mesh of thorns - thorns so invisible and yet so very real - though whether this is his own perception, or whether the others are experiencing it, as well, he cannot tell, for none of the shadowy figures seated on the floor around him appears perturbed, while von Spiegler, oddly, seems to have vacated the space already and is nowhere to be seen.

  But at that, there is a terrible s
tirring and commotion and he becomes vaguely aware of Poppy’s mentor, Frau Weiss being seized, of unseen hands covering her face and throat as she struggles and fights to break free. Some of the other purple-robed men are standing now, assisting with what seems a dreadful familiarity with the process - until within seconds they have hauled her upon the altar and her clothing has been ripped apart. Most terrible of all, and he hardly wishes to acknowledge it even as a dream or hallucination, is the spectre of Rascham standing above her, a huge sacrificial knife held in both hands - and this, as if guided by unseen forces, he slowly raises above his head ready to strike.

  ‘Lord of Darkness - confirm us in your wishes!’ Rascham cries - so loud! - like an explosion. Horrible. Meanwhile, the structure of mist has further coalesced to become strangely serpent-like, writhing across and within what remains of the circle just as a mighty wind starts up, howling and swirling all around.

  ‘Yes - strike - kill!’ comes the gruesome sound from Rascham’s throat, but somehow it is not his voice they hear this time. Something is speaking through him, a frightful hissing sound in the midst of a noise like a tempest shaking the whole area and screaming above a landscape of distant trees and hills. ‘End all that has been my vexation. Destroy!’ the monstrous voice commands.

  But all of a sudden Herman is no longer there; no longer enmeshed in thorns. He feels himself travelling, flying across distance, the scenery changing again and again as if upon some mighty journey until, through the mist he sees upon a barren heath the figure of a woman, couchant, cloaked, the folds of her garment wrapped about her head, obscuring her face. And as he comes closer, and the cloak is unfurled, the face of Deborah, haggard and drawn, is staring out at him, skull like. Terrible. Her eyes, ringed with blackness - and they flash, incandescent with anger as she speaks: ‘Wake up, you fool!’ she cries, admonishing him. ‘Get out! Get out now!’

  To his surprise, then, he discovers he has the strength to dispel the whole vision. He dismisses it from his mind - and with the power of an arrow shot from a bow, abruptly finds himself back in the chamber, seated on the stone floor again, immersed in an atmosphere of thick, acrid smoke. Everyone is still present, encircling the altar, a group of stooped and agitated men amid the continuing screams and the smell of blood, a palpating heart held aloft in a trembling hand, as Herman rolls over sideways across the ground, ignoring the horror - and claws his way out along the floor until he finds the beaded curtains of the doorway. And here, as he struggles to his feet, he can just hear the sounds of Rascham’s voice far back inside the chamber, concluding the ceremony with yet more elaborate calls and salutations, banishing the forces he has summoned out of heaven-knows what remote and evil vault of darkness.

  He has reached the doors leading up from the presence chamber, the place where just a few minutes ago the chilling details of Plan Omega had been discussed. And here, with a wild and spontaneous instinct, and knowing exactly what he must do, he draws forth a number of the toxic glass vials from their containers and, pushing the doors partly closed behind him, lodges as many of these as he can within the hinges and beneath their bases, so whoever opens the doors next from inside will crush the vials and release their terrible contents. Hurriedly, for there can be only a matter of seconds available to him, he makes his way up the sloping passage and traverses the hall, closing every door behind him as he goes, then across the bridge, locking the castle doors with his key - then quickly along to the dining hall where the neophytes, the young blind women and one or two uniformed staff are already assembling to await what they believe is to be a special prayer meeting led by Rascham - and where, already emanating from some secluded vault of the ceiling, there is the distinctive stench of kerosene. The mechanics of the wretched Plan Omega are obviously unravelling even now. Who knows how many minutes there might be before disaster?

  Leaping up onto the table, he shouts to all present: ‘Go from here, all of you! If you value your life at all, leave this place at once!’ At which, watched still by all the astounded faces, he jumps down and hurries through the hall and up the stairway to his chamber in the East wing to release Poppy.

  But Poppy is not there.

  Out into the courtyard he goes, and here, discovering how very few of those inside have troubled themselves to leave the building after all, he mounts the steps to the communications turret and hurries into the observation chamber at the top, almost wrenching the door from its hinges as he enters.

  ‘Quick - out of my way,’ he declares to the woman on duty as he storms into the tiny circular room.

  Unsettled, the woman in blue serge can only shake her head in confusion. ‘What’s wrong?’ she demands. ‘We have to go to the main hall again in a moment - all of us.’

  ‘Major emergency,’ Herman replies as boldly he eases the young woman aside and puts his lips to the mouthpiece of the loud-hailer - there to speak at full volume to the whole of the community of Schloss Lethe: ‘Attention, attention. Major alert. Imminent danger of explosions and toxic chemicals. Evacuate the buildings! evacuate the grounds! All external gates to be opened immediately.’

  This last remark is clearly also directed to the young woman who, Herman knows, in addition to having access to the fire bell, also has command over all the keys. With a look seeming to waver for some seconds between an instinct to vacate the turret and her duty to stay, she finally hurries over to sound the fire alarm, a loud high-pitched electric bell used for no other purpose and which assails the ears with renewed anguish. And that is the last Herman sees of her - because, her duties discharged, and clutching all the keys, she is already half way down the steps in her own personal flight, slinging her cloak about her shoulders as she goes.

  Hoping the alarm will have proved sufficient to alert Poppy, he races down and into the courtyard once more - and here he almost collides with her, having fled his apartments, she tells him, some time ago at the sound of all the commotion. She is in the company of several of the young blind women whom she has already sought out and guided from the building. All accounted for, she says. Moreover, the portcullis has already been raised. Thank heaven!

  ‘Hurry, everyone!’ he cries as, all together, they start running, making for the exit straight away, and where, joining the throng already gravitating towards the tower of the gate house, Herman continues to berate them, stirring them up with remonstrances and waving of his arms to compel them through. There might only a few minutes left until an explosion inside the hall, he tells them. And there is also no way of knowing how powerful the toxic release back there within the mountain might be. And so, with Poppy still adhering to his side, they race beneath the portcullis and out into the snowfields.

  People are scattering now, running pell-mell in all directions - weaving in and out of the rocks, trudging or stumbling down the slopes or along the mountain track - a degree of healthy panic driving them on, at last. Even the temple maidens, their hands still linked, are making haste, aided by others who, though curious and troubled by their appearance, continue to assist and to guide them away from the terror.

  They are not the first to flee however. In the distance Herman can see, to his disgust, a single horse and carriage already some way down the track, almost certainly being driven by von Spiegler, the coward. Then, with a terrible ferocity, a piercing beam of flame shoots from the upper windows of the building behind, exactly above where the banqueting hall would be and where, still glowing brightly long after the initial flash, it continues to spread downwards and out in a terrible rolling motion of searing flame. Although there is no great noise accompanying the flames, Ernst’s incendiary device has surely been ignited - if anything a little early, along with all the supplies of kerosene and lamp oil nearby, because the ground seems to quake then, like a thunder in the earth, then several other more-audible explosions follow close behind: the fuel stores no doubt - or perhaps even from within the mountain.

  Confined behind the thick walls of the building, the smoke and heat inside would be utter
ly horrific. If anyone were to get out of there alive it would be a miracle - beyond even the powers of Rascham to summon up. And in the absence of any practical fire-fighting service within miles, the entire membership of the Inner Temple and their leader - the only remaining occupants, Herman is confident - would surely by one means or another have already perished.

  ‘What is it? What has happened?’ Poppy demands at last, her face full of distraction, and shivering with a mixture of cold and shock as she turns for the first time and watches everything she has thought of as home and salvation for the past six months being consumed in flames.

  ‘Be assured,’ Herman declares, turning her shoulders towards him and cradling her tearful face in his hands, the very passion of victory commanding his voice, ‘there is nothing more to fear. You are free, Poppy. You are free!’

  At first, she hardly seems to comprehend - as, more sedately now, for all the danger is surely past, Herman leads her away, urging upon her again and again that all is well.

  ‘But where are we going?’ she asks, still tearful despite his assurances.

  ‘First of all, we are going to the village down there, Poppy,’ he replies, ‘where the people are at least sane. With their help, we are going to make sure you are well and able to travel. Then, if at all possible, we are going to find your mother. Pray only that we are not too late.’

  Chapter 44

  It is less than one week following the headline-making events at Schloss Lethe when, arm in arm, Poppy and Herman enter the isolation ward in the small seaside town overlooking the English Channel where Deborah has already been confined for some days.