THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (35 page)

‘Oh, hello dar-l-l-l-ling,’ Deborah drawls in mock imitation of the other woman’s Italianate voice, or her recollection of it at any rate - as, leaning on the back of an adjacent chair, she brings her haggard face down almost to tabletop height to stare upwards.

Sylvia’s eyes meet hers only with caution and reluctance, her features indignant and yet frightened all at the same time. Surely she could no longer pretend not to have recognised her?

‘No don’t get up, dar-l-l-l-ling,’ Deborah urges her, trying to shake off the many solicitous hands and clasps of restraint already entangled around her arms and shoulders as the staff of the
café
converge upon her, preventing her all the while from taking a seat next to her friend, as she would have wished.

For a moment she breaks free and again meets Sylvia’s anxious eyes.

‘Look Sylvia - outside!’ she demands and points to the window and the busy street. ‘All those people out there - do you see them? So civilised. Yes, but without their bellies filled three times a day, a thousand animals who would tear at your throat for a crust.’

Possibly there is some flicker of recognition then. But whatever vestige of native intelligence remains in Sylvia’s consciousness, so governed by its own self-importance and so weakened by the daily fight against advancing age, it is not sufficient to reach any firm or definite conclusion. It is all so amusing, Deborah decides, so she bursts out laughing. She cannot help herself. She laughs and laughs - until just seconds later she finds herself outside again, seated on the steps of a frozen fountain, yet still laughing. She laughs until she cries - because it wasn’t even Sylvia - no, not her after all! Deborah, glancing over her shoulder can see that now - just some other old girl with a blond wig that looks like her sat there in the window seat, and all the people attending to her tearful countenance.

‘Yes,’ Deborah thinks, ‘this mind of mine is definitely not behaving as it should.’ Most confusing.

Yet even now, she will not despair - no, never! Because the crumpled old envelope with its notes from the bookshop scrawled upon its surface is still in her possession. And this she takes once more in her hands just to confirm her findings, even fishing out one or two of the cards from her pocket as, one by one, she raises them and places them to her lips - the gaudy, brightly coloured one called The Empress. The one called The Chariot. The Wheel of Fortune, too - yes, the wheel of fortune turning, she is almost certain she can see it going round as she glances at it once again. And the glorious Star, her favourite card - rising once more with all its benevolence and protection, even amid The Lightning-Struck Tower, that one inauspicious obstacle to her joy. But it can be overcome.

And even as the snow falls upon the old envelope and makes the writing run, the truth is there for all to see, impossible to erase: that this is the day, at last, when Poppy’s destiny rises from obscurity.

‘Have courage, Poppy, wherever you are - you who are everything I shall never be. Soon you will be released from your dark prison. This I know,’ she declares aloud, her voice almost exultant.

But nobody is listening.

With scarcely any luggage save for a military-style foraging bag about his shoulder, Herman, in the company of a fellow passenger in the cab out from the station at Castle Douglas, is carried steadily, mile by mile along the narrow roads of the Scottish Lowlands closer and closer to his destination. With secrecy essential, he does his best to avoid the formalities of conversation. The beguiling rhythm of the horse’s march; the fir trees laden with icy droplets, their shadows long and unfathomable as the darkness falls, plus the recollection of his meetings with Poppy just a few short days ago, are all so much more intriguing and demanding of attention than any of the bland snippets of chit-chat emanating from his companion, a gentleman lawyer returning to his home from Dumfries, and whose comments mercifully become less and less frequent with the passing of time as Herman, deep in the tangle of his own private meditations, fails to respond to any great extent to his eloquence.

Is this recklessness, he wonders - journeying all this way to what must inevitably be a cynical, perhaps even downright hostile reception? Probably. Yet Herman knows that sooner or later he must make known his findings and enlist some practical support if he is to confirm his place within Rascham’s Inner Temple and return Poppy to safety. And so, with the pledge, accepted by those at the Schloss of a swift return, he has been given leave by the treasurer for a week’s absence in which he might ‘set his financial affairs in order,’ and thus he finds himself this evening journeying to the remote retreat of Craigmull in order to take the momentous and audacious step of speaking face to face with none other than Poppy’s father, Hubert Peters.

Based on his discussions with Deborah, he knows the publishing magnate is often to be found here at weekends, even in the depths of winter - the climate in this particular corner of the United Kingdom being surprisingly temperate, a maritime climate as they call it, and rarely troubled by heavy snows, so Herman is reasonably confident of finding the man here this Friday evening, and if not this evening, then surely tomorrow.

And how good it is to be back to ‘normal’ as well - to be dressed once more in his English tweeds and ironed shirts. His voices have kept faith with him, too, those strange, disincarnate entities confirming that he is still in some sense being watched over, guided in his mission. ‘Be ever alert to danger,’ is the latest message, more like an omen, repeated as a persuasive whisper again and again during the past thirty minutes - a little disconcerting, perhaps, as he draws ever closer - yet all the while consoled and encouraged by the recollection of his conversations with Poppy.

Yes, she had been there that evening; she had come just as he has asked her, out there in her long woollen coat, gloves and scarf onto the veranda outside the refectory of Rascham’s castle keep. It was an evening like this, in fact, deeply silent and calm as they climbed up to a chamber in a tower adjacent to the main chimneys of the building, a warm place to sit and rest their backs and where, she had assured him, they could converse at length with little danger of being discovered, for she would often come up here alone, she told him, to look at the stars. And so, seated together on a bench set into the wall, with the moonlight reflected off the snow outside, and with fervent whispers of secrecy between them, she had told him her story and of just how she had come to be there in such an extraordinary and yet utterly isolated place.

It had, she said, been during the final days of her summer term at Heidelberg University when she had been introduced to the group - the Society for the Teachings of Redemptive Mercies - in one of the popular bierkellers the students frequented. A kindly and inquisitive young German woman named Frieda had befriended her and urged her to explore the teachings of the organisation and to read the books that drew them both ever deeper into the realms of millennialist philosophy. Of a similar age and outlook to life, they were both restless and searching for something new and more fulfilling - particularly attracted by the Society’s ethos of emancipation and the prospect of a culture in which women and men were treated as equals.

Together they went firstly to Köln and then München to attend meetings - many of these led by the same Dr. Gross whom Herman had visited in Bern and even, on one occasion, incognito, by none other than the treasurer of the Society, Herr Walter von Spiegler, and who, according to Poppy, is a man of far greater importance at Schloss Lethe than Herman had hitherto assumed. It was the first time Herman had heard his name in full - Walter von Spiegler - this knowledge being a privilege enjoyed only by advanced initiates, apparently, those of the Inner Temple. The secrecy was due, Poppy believed, to his being a prominent figure in the business world.

They encouraged her by telling her she was possessed of rare and very special qualities, and that she was destined to become a follower of a great spiritual master who was as yet unknown to the world. His name was also to be withheld from her until she came to the Schloss, upon which she was told to sever all ties with her past; to be governed by a vow of secrecy and to undertake the initiation procedure, similar to that which Herman had undergone himself not too long ago. She had progressed rapidly, been awarded her silver sash of the novitiate within a few days, and thereafter they had told her she had been selected for the special disciplines that would allow her to approach a yet more elevated and exclusive order of sisterhood to which she must aspire: the votaries and temple maidens of the Divine Rascham.

But it was at this point in their conversation when a pall of doubt and confusion had fallen over Poppy’s lovely young face. She explained then that, even quite early on, she had become prone to doubts and to moments of indecision, due in part to experiences concerning her friend, the same Frieda, who had been just a few weeks ahead of her in her training.

‘It was some months ago, shortly after my arrival here,’ Poppy whispered with a certain rapidity to her voice, as if she dreaded more than anything there might not be time to disclose all of her story. Already, it was almost the hour of ‘lights out’ in the dormitories and common rooms all over the castle. Movements would be curtailed; doors and windows bolted.

‘Frieda was actually at the advanced levels of training, prepared for ordination into the Inner Temple,’ she continued. ‘Dear Frieda. People used to think we were sisters, we were so alike. We used to exchange clothing and all sorts of things. She was about to undergo an initiation procedure as Temple Maiden - I am not sure what this entailed, exactly - but it was around this time when she just stopped speaking to me. It was so puzzling. Then one morning I overheard what sounded like an argument between her and our mentor, Frau Weiss - you know, the ogress who trains us and supervises our exercises. Frieda kept on crying - I could hear it. Shortly after this, she vanished. I never saw her again. Some say once you have been accepted, you stay with Rascham forever in the mountain. I’m not sure if I believe that.’

‘Tell me, Poppy,’ Herman had asked, as instinctively they huddle closely together on their seat, ‘after being here a while, do you have any of the privileges reinstated that we newcomers are denied? I mean, do you have access to any news at all from the outside world - any papers, letters - anything smuggled in?’

‘Why, no of course not,’ Poppy had answered with conviction, and leaving Herman in no doubt of her being unaware of the chalet fire in Bavaria, and likewise of the humiliation in the English press of her hapless mother. Perhaps it was as well she remained in ignorance. ‘We are protected here against everything that is irrelevant,’ she continued, ‘all the lies and falsehood; the propaganda of the press; the corruption of the politicians. Here at our retreat we listen to the voices of nature and open our minds to a much wider consciousness. Our mission is to assist Rascham in bringing order and justice to the Earth. We need to keep our thoughts pure.’

‘But have you never wished to communicate with your family, your mother and father, for instance - at least just to let them know you are safe and well?’

Poppy cast her eyes down then, a little ruefully. ‘I did send a letter out once, in secret, to Mummy soon after I arrived. I wonder if it ever reached her. I certainly never received a reply.’

Herman did not need to dig at all deeply into his experiences of the way things were run at the Schloss to speculate on the fate of any such letter, but these misgivings he kept to himself.

‘Do you think they would be worried?’ she asked, her face so close to his as she gazed anxiously into his eyes.

‘I am sure they are,’ he replied, stunned by her naivety. Did she really ever doubt that they would be?

There was clearly some deep manipulation taking place with the young woman’s thought process. It seemed clear, moreover, that Poppy’s dear friend Frieda, with an appearance, age and outlook apparently so similar to her own, may well have concluded her young life in the flames of the chalet in Germany last year. If the unfortunate girl had refused to become the Temple Maiden of Rascham, and refused to be deprived of her sight in whatever barbaric or perhaps even strictly clinical way this was achieved, her death would have seemed the preferred solution for those in charge, maintaining the Society’s secrecy while providing at the very same stroke a convenient means by which to engineer Poppy’s ostensible demise. And suddenly their insistence on taking custody of all personal effects such as jewellery and passports began for Herman to take on a new and terrifyingly logical significance. Were these not the very items of Poppy’s found at the scene of the fire? Yes, of course. Whoever was in charge of recruitment and the silencing of discontent here was as clever as they were ruthless.

‘Anyway, may I remind you, you still haven’t told me how you know my name?’ Poppy had asked him then. ‘In this place, I am known as Penelope. Only my closest friends and my mother would ever have addressed me as Poppy.’

Agreeing to explain, he reached into his jacket to present her with the rolled-up canvas of her painting, the one with its background of Cologne Cathedral, and which had led to the discoveries that had eventually brought him here. ‘I suspect you might just recognise this. Am I correct?’ he said, unfurling the little painting and allowing her to take it - there being just sufficient light from the moon for her to recognise her own work. ‘I found it in Heidelberg,’ he continued, responding to her mystification. ‘Your mother journeyed there to clear the apartment of those possessions you left behind. Your mother is a friend of mine, and it is she who, as you rightly say, refers to you always as Poppy.’

A tear formed in her eye then, and she seemed most contrite. His explanation, together with this most demonstrable proof of his sincerity, was clearly bringing everything back to her, all the denial of her past they insisted on here, all her self-imposed and convenient
forgetfulness
.

And yet if it was true that by that stage in their conversation she was wavering just a little in her resolve, and that there might be at least some hope of her abandoning her new-found obsession and to return to the safety of the outside world, it was equally clear to him she would have already been primed for such an eventuality and of precisely how to resist it.

‘Poppy, I have to leave here tomorrow, just for a few days - something I have to see to back in England,’ he stated, rolling up the canvas again and returning it to the security of his jacket as if to emphasise the gravity of his announcement. ‘When do you anticipate being initiated as temple maiden? I trust it’s not imminent?’

‘Oh, heavens, no. I still have heaps of study and special training to do beforehand.’

‘Promise me then … that you will be safe if I go away,’ he urged her.

‘
Safe
- whatever do you mean?’ she answered, bewildered, but then irritable as well. ‘Whatever could make you say such a thing? I am not in any danger. Oh, I understand - this is you or whoever has sent you, trying to persuade me again to abandon my new life. Well, sorry, I am not even going to consider it.’

‘Poppy,’ he whispered patiently and, taking her gently by the hand, placed an arm behind her shoulder hoping to draw her closer to his side. ‘I told you earlier today, I have not been sent by anyone. I just want you to listen to what I have to say and …’

‘No ...’ she protested and tried to free herself, but he could see how the greater part of her wanted to stay, and to continue being held close for those few precious minutes remaining to them. Eventually, she rested her head on his shoulder and sighed for one glorious moment of surrender.