THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (19 page)

‘Herman,’ she continues, a tone of entreaty to her voice as, appearing to have arrived at an important decision, she reaches into her valise. ‘Look, here is an envelope in which you will find the keys to my apartment in Knightsbridge, along with a signed letter to my stockbroker. There is also a key, which will unlock my filing cabinet. Do everything you can, Manny, to release funds so that I may pay off my debts to the solicitors and the banks. You can telegraph me if you need any help. Use my hotel as recipient. Even if I am not staying there at the time, they will always keep messages for me to pick up or have forwarded. Once these deeds are accomplished you may, if you wish, rejoin me here and help in my search for Poppy.’

This really is absurd, he thinks, and he is far from keen on the idea, especially leaving her in such a state after only having just found her again. ‘But Deborah, listen, why not just come with me, then - just for a few days?’ he suggests, still at odds with her plan. ‘We can do this together, then return …’

At which her mouth trembles for a second before she bursts into tears, great loud, inconsolable, heaving sobs at the prospect of abandoning her mission - and it is this outburst that finally proves too much for the manager of the inn, a smart fellow in a bow tie who approaches and discreetly whispers into Herman’s ear that he really must take the poor woman away, and at once. Empathising all too well with the man’s predicament in such a public space, he complies, leaving their unfinished meal behind.

‘I am sorry, Manny,’ she grizzles, once outside in the porch and where, having taken his arm as if to steady herself, she has mercifully regained some measure of composure. ‘Selling my equity will take days, if not weeks until the money becomes available, and I cannot wait around in London all that time. You really can help me best of all, Manny, if you do just as I ask and go about these tasks for me back home.’

Though still indisposed to the idea, he is just about to agree, if only to placate her, when they are both stunned by the glare of a cameraman’s flashgun - so bright and so startling in the dim overcast gloom of the afternoon that they almost leap into the air with the shock of it.

‘Any truth in the rumour you might be going to Vienna for psychiatric treatment, Ms Peters?’ the reporter alongside the cameraman shouts with all the characteristic bluntness and over-familiarity so typical of the press.

‘It’s Hugh’s paper,’ Deborah whispers frantically, as she turns her head swiftly away from the onslaught and into the lee of Herman’s protective shoulder. ‘I know the chap, the one in the trilby - Bob Small - top journalist at the Chronicle.’

Herman is furious more than anything because he had simply not seen them waiting. The rogues will cobble up a story or two from this, he thinks, and a good picture too - what with Deborah all haggard and being led in tears from the inn.

‘Come on Debs!’ the reporter pipes up again, speaking amid a flurry of biting sleet. ‘Any truth in the rumour?’

‘No, there is absolutely no veracity in anything of that kind,’ Herman answers for her, trying to shield her from any renewed photographic assault - for that is what it had just felt like to them, an assault.

‘Oh, you must be the new man in Deborah’s life, eh?’ Small inquires with loud and brazen simplicity once again - and, it would seem, from the calculating look on his face, writing the headlines themselves as he speaks. One or two other journalists, celebrity hunters mostly, have also converged upon the scene by this time, like a pack of hounds catching the scent of their quarry.

‘I am a friend, that is all,’ Herman states adamantly, by way of reply, ‘and I would thank you, gentlemen, to leave the lady alone and not to harass us any longer.’

‘All right, but how about just one quick shot of you together, eh?’ cries the photographer. ‘Come on, put your arm around her, Herman,’ he adds, already on first name terms with him as well. The nerve! And how on earth have they managed to discover his name anyway?

‘Why don’t you just get lost?’ Herman replies, only to be met with another blinding flash.

‘Ah, that’s it. Nice bit of raw anger, eh!’ laughs Small - an appropriate name, Herman thinks in one odd moment of abstraction, since he is, indeed, small of stature - and busy on his feet, too, like a boxer, which has the effect of keeping Herman moving around also as he turns to address him: prey therefore to yet-more photographs. Herman is also perturbed that the fellow’s face does seem disturbingly familiar. Where has he seen that sharp little face before, he wonders?

‘Come on, give us the shot we want, arm in arm, eh?’ he persists. ‘Then we’ll leave you to get on with whatever you’ve got planned. Deal?’

‘I can’t give you what you want,’ Herman declares, approaching the man swiftly, ‘but by heaven I swear I’ll give you what you need - and that is a jolly good hiding if you don’t cease this harassment at once. Do I make myself clear?’

Surprised, the fellow staggers back momentarily before regaining his balance on the slippery pathway.

‘Cor! No need to carry on like that, sir,’ he grumbles plaintively, re-adjusting his coat collar as if he had somehow just been molested - just as his friend with the camera shapes up for another shot.

‘Don’t even contemplate it!’ Herman shouts, turning his wrath upon the photographer next and pointing in deadly earnest with his cane. And this time the man does desist.

Leaving the modest contingent of pressmen and, by now, several inquisitive bystanders who have been drawn to the fracas, Deborah and Herman hurry away towards the tiny rank of waiting carriages - an assortment of vehicles ready at this late hour, to convey their owners back down by the hazardous hairpin tracks to their hotels below. He can only hope there will be one for hire.

‘Thank God they’re not following us,’ Deborah states with a desperate glance over her shoulder, a hand straying to her hat against the biting wind, which with the approach of dusk is now sweeping in from between the mountains. ‘Bob Small is a thoroughly ghastly piece of humanity. I know him well - the way he works. And once he has his sights set on a story, he never lets up.’

‘I think I might know him, too,’ Herman ventures, happy for Deborah to cling to his arm as they go.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. It’s all coming back to me now. Do you remember the night at the Savoy? That awful Carrington Dubois chap, the way they tried to humiliate you?’

‘Yes …’

‘Well, there was someone there, backstage, a man who was giving Dubois his orders that evening, his instructions. I saw them talking at the stage door. And that man, I’d swear to it, was none other than your Bob Small.’

‘Really?’ Deborah remarks, burying her face in his lapels once more, for the icy wind is blasting them from all directions. ‘That would have been orders from on high no doubt - from my dear
ex
. How very unpleasant.’

Ahead, the black carriages are almost all that can be discerned in the gloom, the lamps being lit by the coachmen already - men all heavily cloaked and hatted and hardly visible themselves in the thick of it all.

‘It’s like a ruddy funeral procession,’ Deborah observes, to Herman’s mystification, as they approach and seek out a vehicle. To his relief there is one ready, a four-wheeled brougham, and he leaves Deborah for a moment as he goes forward to signal aloft to the coachman his intentions before scurrying back to the door to hand her in.

But just then there comes a terrible cry from the coachman above and, upon the road, the thunder of hooves and wheels approaching fast - a lone carriage accelerating downhill out of the snowstorm - its driver, brandishing whip for added speed, clearly intent on propelling its monstrous bulk straight towards anyone in its path. Deborah has seen it, but in terror is frozen to the spot.

‘Look out!’ Herman bellows with a loud warning cry of his own, and in a second has leapt forward, clasped her in his arms and rolled her to safety upon the ground to the rear of their vehicle.

The dreadful bulk of the carriage and its horse thunders past just inches away. There is a shower of slush and ice and within a few seconds it is gone - the awful black beast along with its wayward, utterly reckless driver already vanished around a bend in the lane, leaving Deborah trembling and staring into the space where only a few seconds earlier she had stood: a mesmerised victim facing death or serious injury, were it not for her friend’s quick reactions.

On their knees in the snow, he holds her close as their own coachman and others hurry to their aid and try to reassure them. It was surely just some maniac, and not one of the regular carriage men, their driver tells them, leaning forward. But Deborah does not respond or stir. Still cradled in the protection of Herman’s arms, she can only continue to stare along the length of the empty roadway, her trembling lips repeating again and again the one strange word, almost like some sinister arcane chant that neither man can understand at all: ‘Hanno,’ she groans again and again…
‘Hanno.’

It is evening at Craigmull, and every window upon its towering array of assorted turrets and ivy-clad walls is illuminated by a variety of candles, lamps and gaslight - the entire place alive with gaiety and sound. The garden and the approach along the sloping driveway is adorned with coloured lanterns - while just outside the portico even a decorated fir tree has been erected in celebration of a once-holy time when the world would proclaim the coming of the Saviour and the passing of the shortest day.

Such considerations are not, however, uppermost in the minds of those currently in residence at Craigmull, for here in the aftermath of the wedding of Hugh and Rachael Peters, yet another evening of extravagant feasting and raucous entertainment is on the menu; and for Hugh Peters himself, alone in his study, there is also the imminent arrival of two additional and particularly important guests to consider, men whom he has not even met as yet but who have been recommended to him by an old friend and business associate. They are due presently by carriage from the railway station. And the clatter of iron-shod wheels on the cobbled courtyard outside that announces their coming rouses him from a precious moment of repose. Escaping the demands of his guests, he has come here to see to some work - in truth, a welcome diversion from the surfeit of self-indulgence of the past several days, so that he almost resents the intrusion as he hears the latest arrivals in the entrance hall, scraping snow off their boots, and hears Beezley conducting them up the main staircase to the rooms that have been assigned to them.

How peculiar, he thinks - as he waits, seated in his private lair of opulence and luxury overlooking the dark waters of the loch, a glass of cognac in hand and listening in solitude to the sounds of festivities, of dancing and singing and also a piano tinkling away in the drawing room nearby, a space transformed for a few days into a ballroom. The sound of that piano … it’s just a little disturbing, he thinks, because it is probably the first time it has been opened and played since his daughter’s final departure for her studies overseas. Not that he has ever been all that fond of music himself, but Penny’s ambitions in that respect had at least always been something that he and his ex-wife could agree upon; that their daughter might one day become a professional in the field; able to command the highest fees. Unlikely as it ever was, they did try their best to make it a reality for her. The lessons, the journeys to music teachers in London and Paris. And the acquisition of that very same instrument, as well, he recalls, purchased for her when she was barely old enough for her feet to touch the floor from the stool. They had fetched it especially from France. And no expense spared. ‘Ha! Bad investment, that,’ he reflects, dejection darkening his brow. And how life has a way of kicking you in the teeth - the irony of it. His treasured daughter Penny is no more; and an almost invaluable instrument of quality, a French
Pleyel
concert piano from the saloons of Paris, and said to have once been graced by the hands of Chopin himself, becomes enlisted here this evening for a rendition of music-hall songs at a party in the countryside of Scotland.

But no matter, there are more pressing matters upon Peters’s immediate horizon - namely those two important gentlemen who, he detects, have already returned downstairs, so that within seconds there comes the anticipated rapping of knuckles at his study door that signals a re-acquaintance with the world of business and a good bit of old-fashioned wheeling and dealing once again - something that, as he gets to his feet in anticipation, he realises to his surprise, is not such a disagreeable way to pass the time, after all.

‘Good evening, gentlemen!’ he declares, greeting his visitors with hearty handshakes as Beezley shows the two distinguished European gentlemen in. ‘I take it your rooms are to your satisfaction?’ he adds, turning a discreet eye to Beezley to make sure that this is indeed the case.

‘Thank you, yes, most agreeable,’ answers the baron - German and somebody big in armaments, apparently, according to the briefing Peters has received.

‘Yes. Excellent,’ concurs the other.

In the presence still of Beezley, nothing beyond the usual pleasantries are exchanged, of course. Instead, all three men tarry by the French windows of the study for a moment, admiring the reflected lights of the building dancing on the waters outside.

‘We are indebted to our mutual friend Sir William for this opportunity,’ the baron declares as soon as Beezley has left the room and softly closed the door behind him. ‘Allow us to introduce ourselves. My name is Walter - Walter von Spiegler,’ he adds crisply, and there is an almost imperceptible clicking of the heels as he stands there. The taller of the two, he has a suitably impressive duelling scar, visible along his right cheek and which has rendered the corner of his mouth slightly lopsided, an inconvenience he conceals to some degree with the cultivation of large, old-fashioned mutton-chop sideburns.

‘And you must call me Klaus,’ says the other, pointing to his breast, a rounded barrel shape beneath his white waistcoat and in a voice that sounds almost English with his studied accent.

There is no need for him to supply his full name. Peters knows who he is already, and he can hardly believe the honour as he proffers cigars and indicates with an outstretched hand any number of seats to choose from - so that everything is very cosy all of a sudden - though as they take their repose, the banker on the settee, the baron on a comfortable ottoman, Peters restricts himself merely to the side of his armchair, the better to spring to attention at any time in order to minister to the needs of the others.

By the customs and formalities of their greeting, he already recognises them as brothers, albeit from some distant and unfamiliar European branch, but there seems more to them than that: a certain superiority of manners; an intriguing dimension of self-confidence that he has rarely encountered elsewhere, except maybe among royalty - their sombre though immaculately tailored attire, studded with little items of opulence, cufflinks, watch chains of gold and silver, all so reassuring, Peters concludes as he supplies them further, each with a welcoming glass of claret. Then, following a few pleasantries exchanged in regard to the provenance and the vintage, the baron clears his throat and getting down to business declares: ‘We have been keeping an admiring eye on the growth of your empire, Mr Peters and ...’

‘Hugh - call me Hugh, please,’ their host insists.

‘Thank you,’ says the baron. ‘We were also wondering whether you apply some element of foreign exchange dealing to your business, Hugh. Would that be the case?’

‘Why, yes, of course,’ Peters replies. ‘Not every day, but ...’

‘Do let me explain,’ the banker continues, taking up the thread of conversation, and entirely at ease now on the settee as he stretches out his legs. ‘We represent, how would you say, a small gentleman’s club, a discreet grouping of powerful players in the international currency and bond markets, yes?’

‘Small in number, you understand,’ Walter adds, ‘but not in capital. Only transactions in excess of several thousands of Swiss Francs are ever contemplated. Naturally, we do not present any unified face to the financial world, but collectively, among ourselves, we oversee movements usually amounting to several millions over a period of days.’

‘I see,’ Peters remarks, endeavouring not to sound too overwhelmed by the numbers - which, to his limited knowledge, seem to be on a par with the annual economies of many a small European nation. ‘I’ve never been much of a gambler, gentlemen, to tell you the truth,’ he continues, trying to provide himself with more time to assess the situation. He can only wish that his companion and intermediary in all of this, Sir William, might have been present to lend support, as arranged. Unfortunately, he has been delayed, and is not due back until much later tonight. ‘Speculation in the markets - it’s always just seemed a variety of gambling in my view.’

But Klaus the banker merely laughs. ‘I can assure you there is no gamble, Hugh,’ he declares. ‘With the leverage and momentum we are able to apply to the markets there is no element of uncertainty, and the resulting shifts in currency and bond prices are unstoppable.’

‘The money markets are, as I’m sure you are aware, Hugh, moved by trends,’ Walter continues, taking up the explanation and smiling with continued appreciation as Peters replenishes his glass. ‘The strategy of most investors, the smaller players, stock brokers, pension funds and so on, is to identify and to predict these trends. We, however, are the ones who set the trends. A small indication of economic weakness is all we need especially among any of the smaller economies. Or it might be a sector of the stock market or perhaps a minor currency. We attack it mercilessly. Then panic takes over - all the small fishes joining in, always swimming the same way: the way we dictate. And naturally we can just as easily reverse the trend at our discretion, whenever most advantageous to our purpose. That is the measure of our collective power. And the subsequent profits are therefore all the more satisfactory. You understand, yes?’

‘I think so,’ Peters replies, retaking his seat, more comfortably this time within the chair itself. He is not normally overawed by anybody in the business world beyond the realm of newspapers or publishing - but these men are different. They do, in fact, as his friend Sir William had intimated, seem to be in a league all of their own, and one, moreover, that he had until now only half-suspected really existed. He feels just a little diffident now, almost inferior in the presence of such a commanding force - a rare sensation for him.

‘As you will no doubt have gathered by this stage, Hugh,’ the baron begins again, ‘the purpose of our visit is simple. We wish to extend to you a special invitation, and to ask whether you should like to join us?’

‘I see,’ Peters responds.

Surprised by the abruptness of the offer, he endeavours to remain composed, his face impassive - but he knows that a gilt-edged opportunity is being presented to him here. Extraordinary. ‘But, gentlemen, naturally I’m curious,’ he continues, ‘I mean, what kind of people belong to your - er - club? Politicians, royalty? What sort of company am I to be among ... if I do agree, that is?’

‘Ha! Certainly not politicians, Hugh,’ the banker laughs. ‘We are talking here of the big players, remember, the ones who shape what happens in the world; the men who draw up the menu, not just the servants at the table.’

‘Yes,’ Peters concurs, though without much conviction. ‘But surely we all rely on a strong political system, to ensure stability?’

But this only engenders robust laughter from his two companions who exchange glances of complicity.

‘On the contrary, Hugh,’ Walter replies once he has regained his composure and taken a long draw of his cigar and appearing for the first time this evening entirely at ease now the formalities and purpose of the visit has been revealed. ‘Instability is precisely what we thrive on - the cycles of war, debt, economic restructuring, and so on. Until the next time around; the next war. It is precisely these episodes of volatility upon the world stage that help to keep the process alive and … well, we can anticipate many of those also. We can do this because we assist a number of small political organisations and groupings beneficial to our purpose. And while these bodies are not really aware of who we are, and would not always be sympathetic to the capitalism that, as they see it, we represent, they do co-operate with us when we ask and they do keep us abreast of their plans - the odd scandal in high office, for example, the odd riot here or there, or anarchist outrage. I should also tell you that even the occasional assassination is not entirely beyond our powers of - er - precognition. Thus we are privy to the news before it becomes news, if you take my meaning, and can profit accordingly.’

Stunned, Peters can only stare at his guests in silence now. The fortuitous business of gathering and disseminating news has been his profession for most of his adult life. The idea that news could be created at will, however, is more than a little unsettling. If any of what he has heard this evening were at all plausible he would need to re-calibrate his view of reality - and this to no small degree.

‘So you see, Hugh … ours is the ultimate self-fulfilling prophecy,’ the banker remarks, filling the silence with a little contrived merriment. ‘We are the infallible soothsayers of our times.’

Peters feels his heart racing with a certain inevitability to what is taking place. He particularly approves of that last statement, a clincher for him. It reminds him for a moment of all the fools like his ex-wife who dabble in the occult and who even have the audacity, some of them, to claim to be able to predict political trends from things like astrology. This, however, sounds like the real deal - far more dependable.