THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (41 page)

But then, without warning, a different sound - and as he turns his head it is to behold, approaching from the other end of the gallery, a young woman. She is dressed simply in a cotton shift and a long, brocade jacket and has a cane, which she taps now and again on the ground or skirting board as she advances, the typical sad and self-absorbed tapping of the blind. She becomes aware of Herman’s presence soon enough, though - aided in no small part by his deliberately clearing his throat and making as if to replace a book upon a nearby shelf so as not to alarm her at close quarters.

‘Can you help me?’ she says in a soft, genial voice, coming nearer and touching Herman on the arm with her fingertips. Her eyes are perfectly aligned, without any hint of a cast or a squint, yet totally unable to see. And for a moment Herman feels a distressing combination of sorrow and anger, that she should have no eyes to read a single one of these books; no eyes to see the world through the windows on such a glorious evening.

‘Why yes, of course,’ he replies, resting his hand upon hers. ‘What may I do?’

‘It has been such a long while since I have been outside to take the air,’ she explains, and in an accent that suggests perhaps a Scandinavian origin. ‘There is a walk, through a door, around the side here. But I cannot use it alone. It is too dangerous. Will you accompany me?’

And this he does, the way indicated to him by the young woman’s pointing, she adhering to his arm with the lightest of touches as together they thread their way up a spiral stairway of stone and out onto a narrow walkway, bordered by ramparts that would, Herman surmises, have served in bygone times as a kind of lookout because the extent of the view across the valleys is breathtaking, with vast overlapping swathes of larch and pine forest plunging into the steepest of ravines that seem to continue downwards forever - while high above it all, great snow fields and rivulets of ice appear to merge without boundaries into the very clouds themselves.

‘May I just ask you, something?’ Herman ventures after a few words and pleasantries have been exchanged. ‘Have you any knowledge of a young lady by the name of Penelope having joined you here recently? Penelope Peters.’

‘Penelope? No. We would know of anyone new here. Why do you ask? You
are
of the Inner Temple, aren’t you?’ she adds, a tremor of nervousness to her voice now, inquiring after his credentials somewhat belatedly, Herman thinks.

‘Oh, yes indeed,’ he replies, feigning a certain pride to his voice, though inwardly not without shame as well. ‘David Wilson, is my name. Just recently made up.’

‘I am Karamishna,’ the young woman states, introducing herself in turn. ‘This is not my real name, of course. We are given new names, special names, by Rascham when we become temple maidens. And we must not talk to anyone other than temple initiates,’ she adds, clarifying the reasons for her reticence. ‘That is why I asked. I hope you understand?’

‘Oh, absolutely, yes.’ he murmurs, which seems to pacify her, for she would not be permitted to show herself to students or newcomers, not to anyone over the other side of that stone bridge. How frail she looks, Herman thinks. Her skin seems to be void of blood it is so pale, drained of all vitality by the demon who controls her, and her voice is full of sighs; full of cares. What, he wonders, would a girl like this think of the people who belong here, those who have aided and abetted her mutilation and detention - and, according to the testimony of the departed Hanno, the provision of idle pleasure to any number of powerful men? He longs to ask, but cannot - and a moment later it is she, in any case, who poses the next question:

‘What is it like?’ she asks, her face no longer pale but instead illuminated with the colour of the sky which is altering rapidly, glowing so brightly with the approach of dusk. ‘It feels chilly.’

‘It is the end of the afternoon, and there is a glorious sunset,’ he answers with patience and care. ‘It makes everything red - the walls, the mountain peaks, all crimson and gold - even your hair. It is very beautiful.’

‘Oh, that’s good,’ she sighs, and then smiles, perhaps enjoying his mild flirtation, and seems able to draw upon memories of such scenes herself, even within the confines of her darkness, for she nods her head in recognition. Then, as she taps the ground once more to proceed, he offers her his arm properly this time, so they can walk side by side. He can well understand her reluctance to venture out here alone. Although the walkway is broad, the crenellated walls bordering it are in fact unusually low, well below hip-height, with a sheer drop over the edge, and the corners of the walk are none too easy to negotiate either. Despite this, and though feeling slightly queasy himself, he keeps to the outside, closest to the void, so she remains safe.

She is indeed an exceedingly fair young woman, Herman thinks. All the maidens of Rascham, he recalls, are of a similar outstanding appearance, exceptionally beautiful. What a terrible waste. But, after all, this is the currency of Schloss Lethe - the currency not of bogus spiritual ritual, but of youthful beauty and sexuality. And therein lies their immense influence.

‘Thank you, David. You are a person of sincerity,’ the girl whispers after they have walked up and down a few times in silence.

‘How do you know that?’ he asks, feeling guilty over his assumed name, and wondering at the immense trust she is placing in him, a perfect stranger.

‘I know,’ she responds mysteriously. ‘There are some compensations for not seeing. One of these is
knowing.
’

‘Has anyone informed you of how long you will stay in this place?’ he inquires with a relaxed air as they continue to retrace their steps towards the doorway, yet neither wanting to go inside - not just yet. The twilight chatter of birdsong rising towards them from the woods below is a delight that they can both share on equal terms; and there is a magic quality to the air, the fragrance of winter’s ending and of so much fresh hope and life being reborn.

‘I remain here forever,’ answers the young woman simply. ‘This is my destiny.’

‘And is it what you wish for yourself?’

‘Yes, of course - to fulfil my karma. What else could anyone wish for?’

‘Well, it’s a big wide world out there,’ he observes gazing into the vast distance of peaks and red-tinged clouds. ‘Full of possibilities.’

‘Even greater the space within,’ she argues, though gazing unseeingly upwards, for all that, as if wanting to see. ‘We make the best of our misfortune.’

‘Your misfortune?’

‘Yes. My procedure, to awaken my third eye … it went wrong. This is why I am blind.’

‘And the other girls, the others here - did their procedures go wrong also?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ she answers dismally. ‘It does not always work, they say. All of us who were unfortunate, who were harmed by it - we live here. The successful ones, the lucky ones, they are somewhere else: in another building, another country. We never meet the lucky ones. And anyway, our leaders do take us away sometimes - oh, to lots of different places. They never really tell us where, but it is always warm and comfortable. There is always fine wine and baths and beautiful food, so I assume it would be a wealthy household or a hotel. I am required to perform … certain duties at these times, you understand.’

‘Is that your karma, too?’ he asks.

‘Yes … I believe so. Sometimes the hands that touch me are not always kind, and sometimes it is quite painful, what I must endure. I accept it. No one ever said it was going to be easy.’

No longer bothered with the magnificent landscape beyond, which all at once pales into insignificance, he stands there and waits with her, watching her fine young face raised to the heavens until he, silently fighting back his tears, helps her safely back inside. Bidding her a good evening, he watches her pass along the gallery, then through another doorway off to the side - returning he suspects to her own quarters, the place where the ‘unfortunate’ ones dwell, until the tapping of her cane, becoming ever-fainter and more distant, is all that abides for a good while afterwards in his consciousness. And thus, left alone once more in the library and the gathering darkness, he resolves with even more determination than ever to put an end to all this evil, to find some way of destroying it utterly and forever, even if it were to cost him his life.

The initiation into the illustrious order of the Inner Temple that took place earlier today proved as comical to Herman as it was bizarre. Within the large ceremonial hall, in almost total darkness; with a number of theatrically dressed men and women in purple robes stationed about the twelve-pointed star; and to a background of dour music performed on the organ by one of the adepts, they together laboured through a series of rehearsed responses and chants while he, the supplicant, was led forward, naked, and placed in the centre. With a total company of around fifteen persons, it would have comprised just about every member of the Inner Temple, Herman surmised. But no sign of Rascham or any of his dark angels, who obviously had more important things on their mind. Meanwhile, Herman found himself becoming anointed with some revolting concoction on the forehead and genitals prior to undergoing a kind of investiture, being touched upon each shoulder with a ceremonial sword.

‘This is just ludicrous,’ he thought to himself - just some bogus charade, completely void of all genuine spiritual presence.

‘I hereby anoint and honour you in the name of the Society for the Teachings of Redemptive Mercies,’ the master of ceremonies intoned loudly. ‘In the name of the all-seeing all-powerful prophet Rascham, we welcome you David Wilson into the inner secret order of our illustrious temple. Say Amen.’

‘Amen,’ Herman responded.

‘Do you swear to uphold our mysteries above all others? Say I do.’

‘I do.’

‘Do you swear, David, to defend Rascham and his temple to the death against all enemies?’

‘I do.’

‘And be his foot soldier in the fight against the tyranny of our oppressors?’

‘I do.’

‘And to fulfil the divine plan of the extra-terrestrial intelligences who will guide the human race towards its destiny in the twentieth century?’

‘I shall,’ Herman replied, adding a bit of variation.

‘Say
I do
,’ the hierophant corrected him under his breath.

‘Oh, sorry - I do,’ Herman complied with suitable repentance.

‘So be it,’ the leader declared solemnly.

‘So be it!’ the other’s all cried in chorus.

At which, the ceremony reaching an end, they all hurried out in disorderly fashion, leaving Herman some way behind and clothing himself gratefully in his cassock before pursuing them into a far more brightly lit anti-chamber where he now finds himself enjoying a cup of coffee and commencing upon the task of making acquaintance with some of his new-found colleagues - though glancing around at the faces of the others, Herman notices that he is already familiar with most of them. There is the all powerful registrar and treasurer, Herr von Spiegler; there is the bald-headed doctor from the weird clinic he had stumbled upon recently, his nervous, slightly bulging eyes darting this way and that and not, it seems, at all comfortable in any sort of company. And there is Frau Weiss, sipping hot chocolate and who would have access and knowledge of Poppy’s whereabouts for sure. They ask the newcomer if he is feeling well for the experience, and he responds in the affirmative. But there are other, more urgent questions on everyone’s lips at present:

‘Has anybody seen the rat-catcher Hanno lately?’ one of the purple-robed adepts inquires. It is the Provost whom Herman remembers from his novitiate ceremony some weeks ago.

Herman does his best to appear unperturbed at the mention of the name - not easy, because being reminded this afternoon of the wretch’s demise at his own hand, he can barely contain his sense of agitation and guilt. Death is now something very real to Herman - as real and cogent, alas, as the world of the living had once seemed before he fell into this dismal crowd of ghouls.

‘He went on a mission, last week,’ the doctor states with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Does anyone have any information?’

All eyes then settle on those of an individual whom Herman has only noticed in passing a couple of times during his stay here, a fastidious, neatly groomed fellow with hair plastered flat onto his scalp with macassar oil and who, shuffling towards them with a lumbering gait has just come to join them. His name, Herman soon gathers, is Ernst, the librarian and cultural officer of the Society and someone they clearly regard as being the best informed on the subject. But he has, he tells them as he takes his seat next to von Spiegler, little information other than what the doctor has just conveyed. ‘The boy said it was to be a long journey, and that he would be away for some days,’ Ernst reports before turning to von Spiegler - who would, everyone seems to realise, have been the only one who could have sent Hanno on such a mission. ‘Perhaps you could enlighten us further, sir?’

Von Spiegler, however, appears unusually contrite, his eyes darting across towards Herman for a second before responding. ‘The truth is, it would appear Hanno has been lost to us. He was engaged on a special assignment. This did involve some personal danger. Whether he met a violent end, or has simply deserted, I cannot say. But it is most unlikely for the fellow not to communicate with us if he were in difficulty. His disappearance is irksome, because I was hoping he might accompany you, Ernst, on the vital journey you have scheduled for tomorrow.’

‘Oh, what’s that, then?’ Herman inquires putting a keen edge to his voice, and resolving to place himself on equal footing with his peers at once.

‘Actually one of the most crucial projects of our entire mission to date,’ Ernst replies, speaking in English as he takes the opportunity to introduce himself and to shake Herman’s hand across the table. He has a good command of English, with only the slightest trace of a Swiss or Austrian accent.

‘Can you elaborate?’ Herman asks him.

He looks uneasily at his companions for a moment, clearly not wishing to reply himself. Why is everyone so unforthcoming, Herman wonders?

‘Rascham has ordained the commencement of a new phase,’ von Spiegler volunteers, taking up the tale again. ‘No more minor incidents of disruption or petty terrorism. The time is right, he says, for a worthier statement. We have for some time been planning for a specially large explosive device to be detonated in the heart of a major city.’

‘We have decided upon Budapest,’ Ernst continues. ‘This being the second capital of the Empire, it is one of the busiest cultural centres in Europe. Ideal. Hanno was due to assist us. He has all the ruthlessness and bravery to succeed in just such an enterprise.’

‘To be honest with you,’ von Spiegler elaborates, ‘none of us here have ever liked him all that much, and he was never initiated into the Temple. But he did have his uses. Rascham assures us a fresh temple maiden will be in place in just two days time, and the astrological configurations are as favourable as they ever will be to synchronise these actions with his own powerful meditations. Everything is in place. The date has been set. Only what are we to do now - how will we manage without our trusty foot soldier?’

A glance around the assembled flock fails to elicit much enthusiasm for the role of stepping into Hanno’s shoes. Most, except for Ernst, are quite ancient, anyway, unfit and timid individuals, and their downcast eyes and conveniently hidden faces are less than encouraging.

‘Well, let me do it!’ Herman declares brightly. ‘I have all the qualities of your Hanno, and more. I am courageous and resourceful - and, after all, a trusty member of the Inner Temple now.’

‘Preposterous,’ grumbles Frau Weiss, speaking for the first time.

‘Impossible,’ echoes another. ‘You are untried.’

But Herman gets to his feet, feigning annoyance.

‘Well and good. But what of the alternative?’ he challenges them, desperate to take on the task so he might by some means disarm whatever awful device they have prepared or else inform the authorities of its location. ‘Are you going to report back to Rascham and say you have failed him?’ he adds icily, scowling at each of them in turn. ‘Shame on you! This is important - you said so yourself. The astral and psychic energies are perfectly aligned to create a major shift in global consciousness at this very moment. You have no other choice, gentlemen. Allow me to aid you in this task.’ At which he concludes his contrived demonstration of youthful impetuosity with an eager smile, a healthy albeit somewhat naïve enthusiasm that seems to impress the others sufficiently to at least waver in their resolve.

‘You will, I take it, be content to work only in the role of assistant?’ Ernst inquires. ‘And you will do all I say, without compassion or guilt for the consequences?’ he adds, fixing him with a penetrating gaze - not entirely of approval, Herman thinks, but having at least perceived the logic of his protestations way ahead of any of the others.

‘Why, yes. Yes, of course,’ Herman replies retaking his seat.

‘The outcome will be the death and injury of numerous citizens, men women and children,’ von Spiegler adds, without a trace of remorse. ‘Still keen?’

‘If it is Rascham’s will, I am ready,’ Herman asserts.

And so Herman is given his first job under the auspices of the holy order - though one that he is determined shall be, by any means possible at his command, an absolute failure. He will make sure of that.

Somehow, by stealth, by craft or occasionally outright duplicity - this last being the greatest of her regrets - Deborah has managed to prevent herself from starving and today has even managed to have telegrams relayed to her here in Vienna from the stationers in Germany where she had pledged Herman, so long ago, to check for his messages. She had thereby not only regained some understanding of his intentions but by various means also managed to arrange additional funding for her survival - not much, to be sure, but sufficient for the luxury of a few decent hot meals and a night of relative comfort in a cheap hotel - all the while buoyed up by the knowledge that Herman appeared by his messages to be close to locating Poppy - this was in the first of his telegrams, admittedly written some weeks ago; the second, however, composed just a few days ago, stated that she was certainly alive and well, and that he was en route back to England, hopeful of a resolution.

Thus all of her instincts were confirmed, for often she had sensed their togetherness, her daughter and Manny - though whether this had been merely her own wishful thinking or the very real and genuine workings of her intuition, she could no longer rightly tell. She has felt confused and forgetful lately; and this occurring too often to be able to trust any longer in that bright jewel of her intellect, once such a source of pride to her. It has coincided with a time in which her body has become weaker and sicker by the day, with a feverish cough that never seems to leave her - so she can only fear in her darkest moments that she may have contracted tuberculosis at one of the dreadful places in which she has been forced to spend her nights amid such squalor and filth. Yet still she cannot bear to contemplate quitting, abandoning her quest and returning to England. Even the discovery in the newspapers of her late husband’s demise has failed to move her. She will not cease. Never.

And so, remaining still in the magnificent city of the Habsburg Empire, with its stately buildings, and the occasional dusting of fresh snow upon its broad, skeletal avenues of trees and city pavements, she amuses herself by sneaking into music recitals or concerts, often without a ticket; occasionally even entering via the stage door of a theatre - her singular and eccentric appearance sometimes aiding her in this respect, for they would suspect her of being in costume and part of the cast. And here, seated in a sheltered stairway or sequestered near the warmth of a chimney, she would listen to the precious music, half heard, half imagined, and which was once so familiar to her. At one time, during the ballet, it would be the majestic and tragic music of Swan Lake; at another, during an orchestral concert, it would be the dream-like piano concerto of Brahms - all heard through walls, strangely muffled and yet always restoring to her mind some precious memories of Poppy, the music they would so often have shared together and some of which her daughter had learned to play most beautifully.

The music also reminds her of her affluent past, of days when, bejewelled and cloaked in the finest of fashion, upon the arm of her handsome husband or a favoured female friend she would glide majestically from their own carriage into the opera houses of London or Paris. Good times. But those glory days were long ago, not so much in time but in a distance of status and respectability. For now she is no longer respectable at all. Now she is a vagrant, a wretched despairing soul who sits in stairways and listens to music of unsurpassable beauty that would henceforth forever be denied to her. No flowers will adorn her breast, no smile will ever grace her lips, no joy ever fill her eyes until Poppy is restored to her. And if death is near, as she suspects it might be, especially at times like this when her health and strength seem to fail her, then she is ready to face it with all the obstinacy and resistance possible until that fateful day.