Read THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Online
Authors: Robert Stephen Parry
How snowy white and stark it is, she thinks as she sits at her table, outdoors upon the veranda of the
Gasthof
, her eyes surveying the majestic scenery up here in the clouds - of sunlit peaks and dark wooded valleys and, in the midst of it, the endless procession of single-horse carriages climbing by slow degrees up the icy Tyrolean roadway to deposit another batch of passengers from the hotels below - this, prior to hurtling down again into the shadows just minutes later, skidding and sliding as they go, empty of their human cargo and with all the perilous speed and eager anticipation of any other cab driver in the world in search of another fare. And she wonders, too, at the antics of all the skiers who emerge from them, ever hopeful and always excited. Yes, skiing - that newest and most fashionable of pastimes for the rich. What a strangely futile scene of barely controlled chaos it is. She was once numbered among them, of course, all those noisy, distracted people with their red cheeks and woolly hats and their constant inane prattle and laughter.
Yes - the rich. No doubt a condition far better than being poor, she reflects as, wrapping her old black shawl more closely about her shoulders, her eyes settle once again upon the occupants of the neighbouring benches, the women in particular - for what levels of deceit must so many of them have to stoop to in order to secure their position? It reminds her inevitably of her former friend Rachael, whose wedding to Hugh she had read of in the German press only yesterday. It had hurt - and Rachael’s betrayal continued to hurt most of all. And for a moment she feels frightened for the future, frightened to be living alone in a world of such falsehood and duplicity - added to which, the letter she holds in her hand, posted express delivery to her hotel in Heidelberg, and subsequently forwarded to her latest location here, would surely indicate some renewed unpleasantness from her solicitors in London; and as she opens it, the official note paper therein with its familiar embossed heading fills her with an all too familiar sense of foreboding. She can almost hear the distinctive honeyed voice of young Mr Levine as she reads it.
‘We trust this letter will be forwarded to you in a timely fashion, since it contains important developments - specifically a message received by us just this morning from Mr Peters’s solicitors in which they ask us to inform you that Mr Peters has, with a recent memorial service, proceeded with a cremation of your daughter’s remains. The grave in Highgate will now stand as a memorial only, therefore. Also, we are obliged to inform you that Mr Peters, in order to
forestall any renewed vandalism to the site, has applied for an injunction to restrict your movements within a certain distance of the cemetery. Finally, there is still the matter of your fees outstanding to Levine & Sons. An updated invoice for our services, which currently stand at one hundred and sixty-five pounds and fifteen shillings, is enclosed, and we would appreciate it if you could forward a cheque or bank transfer at your earliest convenience. Unless this sum is paid shortly, I regret to inform you we shall be unable to offer any further services on your behalf.’
It could not have been worse news, all couched in the most formal and polite legalese, of course, but devastating nonetheless. A cremation! Not only was she not privy to this outrage, but also not even aware of the service itself, and so unable to attend even had she wanted to. Not only that, but the cremation will have destroyed the very evidence she had been relying on, ruined any prospect that might have remained of someday proving the body was not that of her daughter. It had been Deborah’s only hope, and already it was gone, quite literally gone up in smoke. And how utterly shocking, the solicitor’s behaviour, grumbling about a few measly debts. For nigh on a decade she has given them her business; always paying her bills promptly. And now, the moment she is in need of a modicum of support, they have deserted her - leaving her stranded overseas. And she wonders whether she will ever be able to trust anyone ever again.
But then, a moment later, she finds herself smiling - for there is in fact something here this afternoon that does comfort her and lifts her spirits. A well-dressed young man with fair, wavy hair and a handsome moustache emerges from inside, returning to her table after a brief absence with a fresh pot of coffee in hand, and his eyes with their usual perceptive genius seem to read her thoughts and divine her unrest straight away. ‘So why did you insist on coming here, anyway?’ Herman asks, taking his seat again with a note of familiarity - for he had finally succeeded yesterday, via forwarded messages and a timely telegram, to arrange their rendezvous.
‘Because this is where Poppy is supposed to have met her end,’ Deborah replies dispassionately, taking up their conversation where they had left off a few minutes earlier, ‘or at least not far from here. Later, if you wish, we could visit the scene.’
‘Ah, so I take it, you’ve been there already?’ he asks, pouring their coffee, his tone of voice steady with curiosity and concern.
Her answer, she feels, will no doubt sound strange to him, almost fanatical; and she is almost afraid to voice it. ‘Oh yes,’ she replies. ‘Every day for the past week. It’s just a charred ruin, of course, but every day I stand there in the snow and hope I will be able to find a path that will lead me to her. But there are no pathways, no clues as yet. I guess I need some of your special
Manny Magic
, after all, wouldn’t you say?’
He agrees, and as if to emphasise the point and wanting to lift her spirits, he reaches forward and with sleight of hand audaciously produces one of his calling cards from a place just behind her right ear, and this he twirls adroitly between finger and thumb before handing it across to her. She smiles as she takes it and reads the familiar slogan once again, its diminutive drawing of a top hat and magic wand included - just as she remembers it upon their last meeting, that rainy evening in London, so long ago, it seems.
‘Yes, you offered this to me all those weeks ago, a card just like this,’ she admits, aware of his having travelled so far and taken such pains once again to offer his assistance. ‘Am I to spurn your generosity again? I do not think I can afford to ignore anyone any longer, Manny. It was awfully kind of you to chase me here. You ought not to have …’
But he waves the matter aside, endeavouring to appear gallant - though in truth he feels deeply troubled. This is certainly not the Deborah Peters he remembers from the last occasion on which they had met, the confident and stylish woman he had spoken to in London that evening. He had been shocked when he had met her just a few hours ago at the railway station in the valley below. In the intervening days since leaving England, she has resorted to scarcely more than some ancient cashmere shawl and a well-worn crossbody valise to accompany her on her wanderings. Beneath this, her mourning black is still apparent, and smart enough and tidy, after a fashion, but in the absence of a regular maid or companion to assist her she has relinquished much of her former elegance. There is a slack, unshapely appearance now, something she would surely never have countenanced under normal circumstances - while her hair, or what anyone might be able to see of it beneath her wide-brimmed hat with its trace of mesh veil lingering across her eyes, is no longer bound in its tight chignon, but is instead styled much shorter and abandoned to a tangle of various protruding waves either side of her head.
‘Well, I think there’s every cause to be optimistic,’ he responds, keeping his misgivings to himself as the waitress brings them each a steaming bowl of broth and sets it down upon their table with a glass of Schnapps besides. ‘My voices led me here to you,’ he continues, ‘albeit with a little help from the German telegraph service. Why should they not lead us to Poppy, also?’
She concurs, humouring him with a dutiful smile but clearly not sharing in his confidence. But then her expression changes to one of curiosity as he takes from his briefcase the small painting he had discovered in Heidelberg, loose and unframed now for convenience and which he unrolls and spreads upon the tabletop between them. ‘Look, this is the painting I wanted to show you. You’ve seen it before, I’m sure. But look at the background. There is a landscape included, can you see? Buildings of some sort. Is it a real place, or a fantasy? I can’t quite decide, but there is something unusual about it, isn’t there?’
‘I certainly never thought I would set eyes on this again,’ she volunteers with a look of stunned amusement as she leans forward to examine the canvas, not much more than the size of a book cover, and gazes into it with the eyes of some would-be seer, wanting so much to draw from its surface the answers to her daughter’s vanishment. She regrets having let it go. ‘Some of them I had parcelled up and sent back to London,’ she explains. ‘But it was impossible to keep them all. And what with being short of money - my Cooks cheques ran out pretty quickly after the first week or so here - I came to the conclusion the street vendor was the only solution. At least it helped to pay for a square meal, and another night or two in a half-decent hotel.’
Clearly pleased to have one of her daughter’s paintings back in her hands, she continues to study the backdrop as he suggested - and which does, indeed, indicate an urban landscape of some kind and, roughly rendered in the background, a cathedral-like structure. All very distinctive, no doubt - but really, she reflects, as she returns it to his safe custody, they are surely just clutching at straws now, the pair of them.
‘Do you believe, Manny, do you really believe, there is any hope in finding her, even if we do put our heads together?’ she asks with an abrupt lapse into distraction, raising her face to a rare blessing of sunshine as the clouds part, and unable to concentrate on anything for long, it would seem.
‘Well, I should jolly well think so!’ he exclaims. ‘Why else do you think I would trouble to …’
‘I don’t know. I cannot imagine why else,’ she interrupts before opening her eyes and, in the way of local custom, taking up the schnapps and consuming it in one go. ‘Only I don’t trust people - and especially men. I don’t trust any of you chaps any longer.’
Examining her face with sympathy and concern, he continues to feel slightly alarmed by her illogical reaction to anything he might have to say. Recalling to mind the incident he had read about in the papers, moreover, of her going berserk in a Frankfurt restaurant just the other day, he feels doubly cautious.
‘Listen, Deborah, I am not speaking to you as a chap,’ he urges her, ‘just as a friend, an ally. Does that make sense?’
Not being at all familiar with the notion of any man of flesh and blood being ‘just an ally’ Deborah nods rather bleakly by way of response. She does, however, appreciate that he has not sought to capitalise on her misfortunes, or upon the repeated blows to her vanity of late by making merry or playing the part of the strong, rational male that would be so tempting in the face of her plight. Poor Herman. He clearly even felt embarrassed walking into the restaurant with her an hour ago, trying to avoid the astonished glances, the whispers of derision from the other customers.
‘I know what you are thinking, Herman,’ she begins again in more measured tones. ‘You are thinking I look a mess, isn’t that so? Well, you’re right: I probably do look a mess. I haven’t had a chance to avail myself of a proper dressing mirror for a while, so I cannot say for sure. You might not look so good yourself if you’d been through what I have lately - and I must tell you, I feel quite stunned by how rapidly things have turned against me in recent days. At such a distance from home it is not at all easy to release any of my stocks or bonds so that funds might be transferred, and so it’s not been possible to obtain any more credit with the banks here either. And no one, not one friend of former times, will venture to assist me in journeying home. Only the British Consulate in Munich has come to my aid and arranged for my passage, along with a handful of cash to smooth the way.’
‘Good for them,’ Herman declares, feeling buoyed up by her trust in him at last. ‘So you are all set to return to London. When …?’
‘Well, I don’t really know. I don’t know if I shall return,’ she replies, much to his astonishment. ‘I’ve already spent the money, anyway.’
‘Not go home - but for heaven’s sake, Deborah, why not?’
‘I can’t give up the search, you see: not even for a few days,’ she replies, a little tearful, he senses. ‘I might lose whatever leads I already have.’
‘Deborah. You don’t have any leads,’ he argues patiently - trying to be amiable but, again, flinching inwardly and with increasing alarm at her irrationality. ‘What you are undertaking at the moment - it’s not only unrealistic but downright dangerous, if you ask me.’