THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (38 page)

Skinner stows the envelope into his briefcase. ‘Right-i-o,’ he says cheerily - and although curious, and realising it must, indeed, be something pretty important to have called for it to be personally collected like this, he leaves off pursuing the subject. ‘Anyway, where’s our old mate Joe Beezley, then?’ he inquires, instead, referring to his boss’s ever-faithful secretary who would normally have been charged with such a mission. ‘Seems a bit odd, to see you without him, sir?’

‘Beezley? Oh …he’s on holiday, actually. Just for a week. Even Joseph has to have a holiday sometime,’ Peters jests as he turns away from his visitor once more and continues to wander about the room in aimless pathways among the furniture. ‘Funny … how sometimes you fail to appreciate someone’s importance until you don’t have them around for a while. He always keeps me busy, you see. The busy Beezley. And in his absence I find myself poring over all sorts of peculiar nonsense - things I would not normally have time to think about.’

‘Ha ha! Yea,’ Skinner responds with suitable merriment, his eyes following the other man about the room. ‘I’m like that, whenever the missus goes off for a few days. I get up to all sorts of mischief then .. or imagine it, anyway.’

But Peters is not amused. He merely turns and regards his editor with a renewed sense of bewilderment, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Tell me something, Malcolm,’ he begins again, finally taking a seat by the fire, opposite, and occupying his restless hands by taking up the poker and stirring the embers. ‘Do you believe in God?’

‘Do what?’

‘Oh, I don’t necessarily mean someone with a long white beard sitting up there on a cloud,’ Peters elaborates, waving such conjecture aside, ‘but rather a kind of … well, higher, abstract intelligence. A destiny that shapes our ends?’

The editor swallows a lump in his throat and ponders long and hard for a moment; his thick sausage-like fingers fumbling around his glass before lifting it to his mouth and draining it with an audible gulp. His brain, so used to a daily diet of advertising slogans and pithy news headlines, simply fails to function in the way necessary for such a line of enquiry.

‘I ask you this, Malcolm, because I never have, you see - never believed. Not at all,’ Peters continues, almost talking to himself. ‘It’s just that sometimes, just when you think you are in charge of things, running the show, something crops up, stands in the way - and you discover you’re not in charge at all, and never have been. What I mean is … right now I feel I’m trapped, bound up in chains of my own making. And it’s at times like this when you want to believe in something, to turn to something. Maybe even just to find a way out - some means of unlocking those chains and walking free.’

At which he glances up once more to examine the face of the editor. Seeking any kind of glimmer of comprehension.

‘Well …I consider myself a good Christian, if that’s what you mean,’ the editor asserts, still struggling with Peters’s earlier question and not having quite caught up with the progression of the other man’s ideas. ‘I mean, I don’t go to church, and I don’t say me prayers or anything like that. I don’t read the bible, and I couldn’t tell you what all them commandments are or the names of the disciples off-hand - but I’m still a good Christian, see.’

Peters continues to stare at the face of his editor, all rosy and golden in the firelight, regarding his pronouncements with something not unlike sympathy, wondering on how anyone could possibly have a faith and yet not have any involvement or practical experience of the things that comprise it. He says as much, but the editor’s response is all too typical, unfortunately.

‘Probably that I just never had good enough knees for all that praying lark, know what I mean?’ he laughs.

‘Can’t you be serious for once?’ Peters urges with exacerbation, throwing the poker down. ‘Just for once, let the
cockney sparrow
performance drop, will you!’

‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir,’ the editor replies straight away and this time with much more confidence.

‘But why? Why not?’ Peters demands with a bemused shake of the head as he leans forward, elbows on knees as if wanting to examine the other man at even closer quarters for once, to gaze into his soul - exasperated, too, that for the first time in his life when he wants to speak about something deep, his present company’s schedule is not synchronised, and probably never would be.

‘It’s like you say - because of the role,’ Skinner answers with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Like something on the stage … it’s become the man, if you see what I mean. I couldn’t drop it now even if I tried, not after all these years. What would people think of me?’

Peters understands - he understands all too well, and so he waves the matter aside. And with that, waves the editor and his presence aside as well as he gets to his feet. Time to depart. ‘You know, Malcolm, you really are my kind of man,’ he remarks as the editor stands in readiness for his required exit. ‘We are far more alike, than ever I realised. Maybe that’s why I hate the bloody sight of you.’

Skinner smiles and nods his cheery compliance, pleased that a more familiar mode of discourse has returned: the safe banter of rudeness and profanity that has sustained the two of them together all these years. ‘Will that be all then, boss?’ he inquires, piqued by the prospect of the bitter night outside and, having to depart almost as soon as he has arrived, it will have to be the Glasgow to London sleeper service for him his evening, and no pleasant overnight stay in the luxury of Craigmull as he had secretly hoped.

‘Yes,’ Peters replies, ‘my wife and her friends will be returning before midnight, and there are just one or two things I need to attend to prior to that.’

Upon which, with a rather forlorn nod of resignation, the editor, accompanied by his employer to the front doors, is reunited with his cold, dripping raincoat and hat, and with the aid of a chaise and a groom, the only remaining servant available from the stable block outside, allows himself to be driven away back towards the station - leaving Peters totally alone at last, the first time this evening, in fact, and with a momentous resolution coming once more to the forefront of his mind. And he finds himself wondering whether he really will succeed in getting everything accomplished in time.

‘So, what’s your game, then?’ Hanno demands of Herman, with an unnerving command of colloquial English as the two men stomp their way along a frosty path towards the shores of the loch, and where, Herman is astonished to discover, the rogue has arrived by a small row boat - an additional precaution, he says, so as not to be detected, were anything to go amiss.

‘My game? Just the same as yours, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Herman replies equally disdainfully. ‘Just looking after myself, and trying to make a bit of spare cash,’ he adds, deciding his only hope of concealment would be to play the villain also.

Apparently, the boat had been purloined during Hanno’s last visit some weeks ago, taken from the many similar ones available at Craigmull, and had been hidden up. No one has noticed its absence, Hanno assures him as they prepare the little craft for their brief voyage over to the other side and where, he says, there is but a short walk to an alternative train station and a branch line connecting to the main north-south route.

It all sounds plausible enough. But still, Herman is anxious. He cannot help speculating on just how much of his earlier talk with Peters Hanno might have been privy too. The impenetrable darkness of the evening, for the Moon has set by this time, reveals nothing of his face as he pushes the vessel down from the shore and they jump in.

‘So we make a deal, yes?’ Hanno suggests, turning up his flimsy jacket collar about his ears once he has settled. ‘I will keep quiet about it, if you do the same - yes?’ he adds, taking up a solitary oar and paddling with hardly a sound, negotiating some bracken and reeds before edging out into the waters of the narrow but no doubt exceedingly deep waters of the loch itself - the shoreline being only distinguishable by the glow of distant, nebulous lights of Craigmull away to one side.

‘Damn it!’ he curses after a bout of his habitual coughing, aggravated by the cold air, no doubt, and spitting up a little phlegm for good measure.

‘You should get that seen to, Hanno,’ Herman volunteers. ‘It could be something serious.’

‘It
is
serious,’ Hanno replies tetchily. ‘That is why I make sure I enjoy my life, what is left of it. That is why I don’t give a damn about anyone or anything.’

‘I see,’ Herman responds, though failing to evince much sympathy. ‘But you are a mystery, Hanno. I am intrigued that you should engage in blackmail. Hardly ethical, after all. Don’t you care much for the higher ideals of the Society?’

‘What, all that garbage about the spirit and finding the light? Ha! Give me darkness - that is
my
medium. That is what Hanno likes. Anyway, they would not want anybody like me, would they. Hardly the sensitive, academic type. No, Hanno just does the dirty work - and, believe me, there is plenty of that to keep me busy. Oh, Rascham - he is a clever guy, make no mistake. He binds himself to his dark angels by magic, so they are kept to him for life. But usually it is a short life. He gets Frau Weiss - you know that old bag in charge of the girls - to groom all the best looking ones and when they get to be difficult he has them silenced. But not before he blinds them and has his fun. Oh, he has all kinds of reasons for it: for enlightenment, inner vision and all that kind of shit. Truth is, they wouldn’t go anywhere near the ugly bastard if they could see him, would they? He doesn’t run the show back there anyway. It is von Spiegler - you know,
Walter.
He is the power behind the throne - which is all just a front, anyway, for pimping off the girls. Yea, I get to figure out the great Walter von Spiegler a long time ago. But I know, also, how I can be useful to him. And he useful to me. They can rely on Hanno.’

‘I say, what do you mean about
pimping off the girls
?’ Herman inquires, utterly repulsed by the unerringly rough manner of the other man.

‘Yea, that is what it’s all about, my friend - the whole charade back there at Schloss Lethe. Big time pimping. And I mean
really
big time. Think about it, my friend: if you are in the public eye, politics, royalty, whatever, and you want sex, you want to indulge your little perversions - you don’t want the girl to recognise you do you, or identify you afterwards. Sure, there are lots of ways around the problem - always have been. And every madam in every classy whorehouse knows the ways - disguises, masks, false names, darkened rooms. But Spiegler and his friends - they have hit upon the ultimate means of anonymity. Take away their sight first, the girls, and always the most beautiful girls, then pimp them off. Usually it is hotels in Vienna where we take them for their little meetings with the great and the good. Sometimes we take them abroad, also - to Paris, or even once or twice to London. Sometimes, in the summer, the men even come to the castle. I’d say von Spiegler is one of the most powerful men in Europe because of this. He has everybody under his thumb - keeping all their secrets as long as they cooperate with his plans. They are all sick, anyway. Most of the men running the world are sick. Normal sex - it does not interest them. And I know … I know, because I am the master pimp of all pimps, my friend - it is my job for years. And the punters, they tip well, believe me. Don’t get me wrong, though: I am always ready to earn a bit extra. Sure. And Peters back there ... well, the guy is in a tight corner right now, you have to admit, and I am not going to let that slip by. I like seeing bastards like that squirm, see. And blackmail? Yea, maybe - though I prefer to call it
a bonus -
ha ha!’

The waters of the lock lap about the perimeter of the craft as they go, and Herman can feel the cold, damp humours of the night seeping into his bones already, an unpleasant feeling not mitigated in any sense by Hanno’s chilling company.

‘So by what means exactly does the Society
silence
the girls, as you put it?’ Herman inquires, trying to sound chummy, one heretic to another, yet fearful in his suspicions that this repellent creature might well have some part in the process. It is not easy even now, even with his eyes accustomed to the darkness, to discern his features, but it seems to Herman that by way of reply he slowly and deliberately draws a finger across his own throat in an act of slitting, then shows a row of irregular white teeth, reminding Herman of some awful predatory animal perched there in front of him at the narrow stern of the boat.

‘No questions asked,’ he continues. ‘The girls - and one or two boys sometimes - they meet with unfortunate accidents. Anyone who threatens Spiegler’s secret empire does. Like your friend Andrew the other day - remember? Yea, well in case you are wondering, he never did make it down to the village that time when he left the castle. No one can recall him arriving. Maybe we find him when the snow melts, eh?’

Herman understands now - all is abundantly clear.

‘So you have the girls all to yourself for a time, eh? Before you finish the business?’ Herman observes, trying still to ingratiate himself with this despicable creature by endeavouring to appear every bit as unpleasant. ‘Sounds like - er - interesting work.’

‘Yea, sometimes,’ he chuckles and again Herman catches the glint of sharp white teeth. ‘Anyway, one more shag’s not gonna hurt them, is it. That’s all they do all day long, anyway,’ he adds with chilling frankness. ‘It is like when I was a kid. They said I was cruel. Maybe they were right. Not just because I used to pull the legs off spiders and things. Lots of kids do that. But I did other things, see - like with mice or rats. Then, as I got older, I would get hold of foxes or stray dogs, and kill them. I graduated in my own special private school of cruelty. These days, nothing matters to me - it is all the same.’

‘No difference between a young woman and a rat?’

‘None - not to me. Not to Hanno. Though one is maybe more interesting than the other, eh?’

‘Do the girls struggle, like the spiders?’ Herman asks, lost in the horror for a moment.

‘Depends on how quick I want to finish the job,’ Hanno continues. ‘Depends on how it has to look. Sometimes, if it is outside, it is made to look like an accident. Sometimes a suicide. The Society usually does prefer a good catastrophe with some fire. No suspicion, no evidence left behind, see. We did a fire last year in a chalet in Bavaria, a place they went to study. One of the girls was proving awkward and knew too much. But at times like that ... well, poor Hanno. He does not have much chance for anything nice. But then if Hanno is lucky and gets to do his work at the castle, then it is different. Yes. Then Hanno does
plenty
. Hanno buries them later under the flagstones. Von Spiegler leaves it to Hanno, most of the time. He is very good to me. Unless …’

‘Unless what?’ Herman demands, whispering with an insistence that he hopes will be construed as macabre enthusiasm rather than a mounting disgust that churns his stomach.

‘Unless one of his rich business friends wants to get in on the act,’ Hanno answers in suitably disparaging tones, his voice descending to a rasp followed by a renewed but heavily muffled bout of coughing. ‘Oh you know how it is. They are all crazy back there. It is like a sacrifice to Lucifer, or something - call it what you like, the fancy ways these people have to justify themselves. Anyway, I do not get invited to the ceremonies, so I would not know. I just clean up afterwards and feed the dogs.’

A terrible silence ensues, in which Herman can only wish he had not heard what had just been said.

‘Anyway, my friend, do you know the reason why we are still out here on the water?’ Hanno asks, his voice becoming more of a murmur by this time, moving the oar skilfully from one side to the other, and always with accomplished silence, hardly a splash. ‘No? Seems like a long way round just to get to the other side eh? Well, I will tell you. I have one more job for tonight, see - some unfinished business with our friend Mr Peters back there.’

And as Herman strains his senses to listen to the by-now almost inaudible voice of the other man, he becomes aware that the utterly ghastly Hanno has all the while been steering a course along the shore, returning towards the lighted windows of Craigmull until they are soon very near once more, leading Herman to the conclusion that this is certainly not the first time his companion has manoeuvred himself in this way and sneaked up on the building by such means. It is then, to Herman’s consternation, when Hanno, having put down his oar, begins unpacking some contents from a long fishing bag he has apparently had on the floor of the boat all the while. But this is no fishing tackle: it is a crossbow, and Hanno sets about assembling it with astonishing rapidity. It is a wholly modern, variant of the weapon, an up-to-date sharpshooter’s version - telescopic sights attached - not only lethal, but silent and accurate, as well.

‘Yes, you get the idea,’ Hanno remarks, as if their thoughts are perfectly attuned - while with one crisp click, he slots the metal trigger mechanism into place. ‘Orders from on high. Do not ask why - I do not know, either. Only I was thinking on my way here, maybe I could just screw some more cash out of him first like I did a couple of weeks ago And I was right. Nice work. Pity it has to end. But, like I say, there are controlling influences. And they pay better. I was going to arrange to meet him somewhere remote - but look, how lucky I have been. Only I wonder if that guy - the one who arrived as we went out - if he is still around? That would spoil things. A carriage left ten minutes ago along the road. I heard it. That was him maybe. So ... we go closer, eh, just to make sure.’

Herman looks on helplessly as their craft drifts ever nearer to the towering walls of the building. Through the windows of the conservatory and those of his study, Hugh Peters can be seen quite alone - at his desk, or else pacing the room, deep in thought, agitated, restless. And yes, the visitor, the man in the gabardine coat is gone. The whole place is deserted apart from its owner, and only the slightest noise would be necessary to pique his curiosity, to coax him to open up or to venture outside to investigate - an easy target, especially with this, a weapon with a range of many times the modest distance envisaged. Hanno has extra bolts ranged upon his lap. And if the first bolt only wounded, another would be sure to follow within seconds. Yes, it would be easy.

‘Where did you learn these things, Hanno?’ Herman inquires, desperate to somehow delay proceedings, and resolving to shout out in a moment, anyway, to warn the man inside.

‘Where do I learn? Oh, my home ... in Serbia. There is always fighting to be done there. My father, he fought the Hungarians; my grandfather, he fought some place else. We learn at an early age how to survive in my country. And languages: German and English, and Russian, too. Ha - every slave does well to learn the language of his masters.’