THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque

by Robert Stephen Parry

  ‘Indeed, yes!’ Deborah exclaims with amazement - not least at the mental picture of her friend in trousers. It makes her smile, and as she does so she realises it is the first time in days she has been able to accomplish such a feat.

  Feeling more settled by this time, they take a little sustenance and a fine glass of claret together at a restaurant in one of the better hotels. Here, however, and being removed from the merry streets and the daylight, Deborah feels an inevitable return of her sorrows. She just cannot help it. Sensing this, and her friend’s unaccustomed silence, Rachael leans forward from her seat at the table and gives Deborah’s hand a tender squeeze. ‘Sweetie - I suppose it might seem inappropriate to say this,’ she murmurs, ‘but one day you will be happy again. You know that, don’t you. None of us will ever forget your dear Penelope, but she of all people would not wish you to be so sad.’

  ‘Yes … yes, you are right, of course,’ Deborah responds, not sounding at all convinced. ‘But my only child, Rachael. My only child. How will I ever …’

  ‘Try to let go of all the grief even if just for a minute - a minute at a time,’ Rachael continues to advise - possibly recalling her own experiences upon losing her husband some years ago, ‘then the minutes will start to merge - until you will be able to let go of the pain for a whole hour; then for several hours at a time; then a whole day. And when you feel the time is right, when all the dust has settled … well, we could even take a break together - sneak off for a holiday somewhere. What do you think?’

  That her friend should even consider such a thing at a time like this, comes as a shock to Deborah. But she is not angry. Another glass of claret smoothes the way. The allure of the proposal reminds her of happier days, occasions on which they would journey away, just the two of them, boarding the Méditerranée Express to the gorgeous azure skies and pine-scented hills of somewhere like Menton or the bays of Cannes or Nice - and where, more often than not, amid all the walks and promenades, the street cafés by day and casinos by night, they would pursue adventures of a slightly risqué and amorous nature. Even during the early years shortly after her marriage to Hugh, even when some vestige of romantic attachment lingered, it was a prospect that invariably excited her.

  ‘It’s been a long while, hasn’t it, since we did anything at all like that?’ Rachael adds with an encouraging smile. ‘I reckon it’ll do you good - and me.’

  Deborah can only surrender to a smile of her own as well. It is impossible, in any case, to do otherwise, because Rachael is fluttering her long, dark eyelashes - a trick for getting her own way and learned, as she herself would freely admit, long ago as a child on her father’s knee. She is offering Deborah a prospect, no matter how distant in time, of finding a way back from her misery - and, outrageous as it might seem, it is probably exactly what she needs.

  ‘Only if you promise not to go around fluttering your eyelashes at every handsome face,’ Deborah states by way of condition.

  ‘Why, what harm does that do?’ Rachael demands, pretending not to understand.

  ‘Fluttering at the gendarmerie - fluttering at the hotel manager?’

  ‘Well, it got our room changed for us that time, didn’t it?’

  ‘That, my dear, was despite the fluttering, not because of it,’ Deborah reminds her.

  Upon which there appears at their side, as if their stolen moment of frivolity has conjured him up, the tall figure of a handsome wine waiter. And with the formalities of inquiring whether they had enjoyed their refreshments being completed, they flirt outrageously with him for a good while, asking various entirely unnecessary questions about the town and its attractions before they let him go.

  ‘No point in going on holiday if you can’t flutter a few eyelashes now and again,’ Rachael persists with her gaze following the unsuspecting man as he walks away.

  And there can, thereafter be no dispute as to their destiny, at least some time in the not too distant future. The Côte d’Azur it shall be. That domain of bright colour and forgetfulness where mourning black can be set aside without shame. If at all possible, they will do it within weeks, they decide, rather than months - and thus, by slow degrees, and much kindness and coaxing on Rachael’s part, Deborah is persuaded to retrace her steps and return, as return they know they must, to the building and the apartment where Poppy had once dwelt. It is an experience, however, that proves almost as harrowing the second time around as the first, as together the two women must now sift through Poppy’s papers and belongings - of which there are precious few remaining. Perhaps someone from the police or even that horrible young man, Hanno, would already have been here and removed a substantial quantity.

  Drying a tear from her eye as she works, Deborah glances with renewed interest at the sketchbooks and unfinished paintings her daughter had left behind, art being a newfound interest of hers and which she had mentioned in her letters. The works themselves are all in disarray; some tucked away in drawers, others against walls, most dictated by modern taste and fashion and failing to offer much insight concerning Poppy’s state of mind. But there are others, her more personally inspired pieces that eventually capture Deborah’s attention. She really must, she tells herself, return here some time when she has more leisure and decide which ones to keep, if any - for these, the most recent of her daughter’s efforts according to the dates upon them, are also the most disturbing - symmetrical, kaleidoscopic outlines with powerful central figures at the focus, figures drenched in lurid, gaudy colours, and always masculine in outline, a threatening supremacy to them, so that she catches herself wondering, just who or what it might have been, this insidious and possibly quite malevolent force presiding over the poor child’s imagination during her final days?

  Other than that, there is precious little to be discovered among her other possessions. Had she intended to be away a long while, Deborah wonders? It seems so. No food has been left in the larder, and the bed has been stripped. There is nothing much to be discovered in the wardrobe, either, apart from one abandoned evening gown, which clearly she would not have felt she needed upon her last fateful journey. As for any other kind of clue, a letter, a diary, a booklet, a poster - anything that might have betrayed an interest in some sort of cult activity, there is nothing - absolutely nothing; while any fellow students or neighbours, anyone who might have been acquainted with Poppy, and who might therefore have been able to provide some background information ... well, in the time honoured tradition of students the world over, they have long since departed for their summer vacation. The place is as empty as Satan’s heart, and to Deborah every bit as horrifying. And after just one further hour of fruitless endeavour in the grim and desolate building, she and Rachael take a cab out to the railway station and here, reunited with their luggage, begin the long journey to the port of Calais and thence across the Channel and back to England - a place where, at that very same moment, far ahead of them and carried with slow dignity from a train in Victoria station in the heart of London, the coffin of Penelope Peters, an extravagant wreath of red roses attached to its top, is taken off by four men in black frockcoats who then hoist it upon their shoulders and carry it with solemn dignity along the length of the platform.

  It is a grim, filthy evening - the early darkness of winter in England. A haze of drizzle mingled with a typical London fog permeates and blends unwholesomely with all the vapours and soot from the steam engines as the men are joined by two other figures, more distinguished in appearance but likewise dressed in most sombre black: Hubert Peters and his secretary Joseph Beezley, their top hats removed, positioning themselves to observe the modest procession as it passes - the red roses, amid the gloom of the station and its darkly clad travellers, appearing to be the only trace of colour remaining in the entire city - before they themselves turn to walk slowly behind, following the sorrowful spectacle across the concourse and out to the waiting carriage. The transfer goes smoothly, exactly according to plan; exactly as Beezley has arranged it. There are no waiting pressmen
this time; no flash of photography; no commotion or shouts of anger. All is dignified and orderly, even amid the noise and bustle of the city. And within moments, with the clatter of hooves upon the cobblestones of the courtyard outside, the carriage is spirited away at a canter, down into Whitehall and southwards to a place of seclusion and peace.

  Chapter 5

  ‘Pick a card - any card you like!’ Herman announces, making sure everyone in the lounge can see what he is doing as, with diverted gaze, he fans out the full deck and offers it to the elderly gentleman standing before him.

  ‘All right,’ says the gentleman, his walking stick tucked under one arm and tottering on unsteady feet. ‘I’ve done what you said. It’s the …’

  ‘No, no, don’t tell me what it is!’ Herman cries with mock exasperation, accompanied by roars of laughter from all the others.

  With its faded wallpaper, its dusty corners of potted foliage, and illuminated this dull afternoon by an assortment of lamps and candles, the William Blake Residential Home for the Elderly and Infirm is not one of his most prestigious venues, to be sure - and for the coffers of Manny Magic Enterprises not a particularly lucrative one, either, with a fee of precisely zero. But no matter. He loves coming along here to entertain the old folks. Ranged upon an arc of chairs and sofas in the lounge, they sit and applaud and laugh until the tears run down their wrinkled old faces. So easily pleased. This is, he knows, magic made easy. There are no expert eyes here; no would-be adversaries to scrutinise his every move for trickery or lack of innovation. And, what’s more, they love him. They laugh at his corny jokes, they tease him about his extravagant waistcoats and colourful neckties, and they sigh in admiration at anything he might care to mention concerning his dubious triumphs on the London stage or in the music halls of the East End. Sometimes, too, at the climax of a particularly clever trick, they all draw a collective intake of breath and produce a long ‘Ooooh!’ of amazement. It really is quite touching.

  Buoyed up by their approval, the young entertainer, with his handsome moustache and a wispy dusting of fair beard about his dimpled chin, brushes away a tangled lock of blond hair from his forehead and continues his performance, speaking with renewed gusto, holding forth both arms in typical theatrical fashion. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, I know many of you will have seen me do things like this on the London stage, but …’

  ‘No we haven’t!’ one of the old boys cries out from the rear of the room. ‘Our memory don’t go back that far, Manny!’

  And there is yet more uproar.

  ‘All right, I accept that my appearances on stage might seem a bit few and far between lately,’ the entertainer responds, undaunted, ‘but listen everyone, I should tell you that I am due to make a comeback shortly - yes, at the end of October, in fact, when I am booked for a really top event, entertaining the nobs at a special dinner dance on Halloween. That’s right - all the nobs - wealthy people just like you lot. All exclusive and rather hush, hush. So don’t tell anyone. It’s a big chance for me - with lots of other famous individuals from …’

  ‘What, famous, and you as well?’ the old boy interrupts again, indefatigable.

  ‘Shut up you silly old fool!’ an elderly lady in a pink frock shouts, turning angrily to look over her shoulder towards the heckler, her various chins wobbling in agitation. ‘You’re the greatest, Manny,’ she adds, turning her unsteady, bespectacled gaze vaguely back in his direction and wagging a demonstrative finger. ‘They’re lucky to be having you - and so are we.’

  Applause actually breaks out at this.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you, one and all!’ Herman declares, with a bow and warming to this latest piece of audience participation - especially their use of the shortened version of his name - Manny - the one they tend to use more and more often these days, due to the increasingly unwelcome Germanic connotations of Herman. This is important - since the German race, as every loyal reader of every national newspaper well understands, is the very devil incarnate and, what is worse, an industrial power growing in might to rival that of the British Empire, which just won’t do at all. Being as English as anyone could ever be, however, he is more than content for this gradual change of name to take place and has even incorporated it into his publicity slogans - the celebrated ‘Manny Magic’ as proclaimed on his calling cards and brochures.

  ‘And now, ladies and gentlemen,’ he continues, ‘with regard to the performance of our little trick: I want you, sir, in a moment to show everyone present in this room the card you have chosen. I’ll turn my head away, so there is no possibility of my seeing what you have in your hand. That’s right, show everyone what it is - put that monocle of yours back in if you need to - then return the card to the pack. That’s right, don’t show me. Jolly good.’

  Herman waits patiently until the card is restored to the deck. Then, seconds later, to everyone’s amazement, the magician, turns round and, reaching into the old gentleman’s lapel pocket, instantly withdraws the very same card, which has somehow miraculously managed to transport itself there - six of diamonds, adroitly displayed between finger and thumb and held aloft for all to see.

  ‘Sir! Is this the card you chose?’ he inquires loudly, chin in the air and confident that it is. Success. Everyone roars their approval. They are entirely under his spell now, and he concludes the morning’s entertainment with an equally amazing feat of mind reading before actually producing a bunch of carnations from out of a top hat, and which had previously been shown to everyone present as being utterly empty until tapped on the side thrice with the tip of a magic wand.

  Afterwards, and as is customary here upon the conclusion of a typical ‘Manny Magic’ performance, the curtains of the lounge are drawn back to allow the full daylight in and all those present rise and take their places among an assortment of hastily rearranged tables and chairs to take tea - another well-rehearsed routine, in fact, because there is, it should be recorded, always lots of tea at The William Blake; lots of cakes and biscuits, and salmon sandwiches not too demanding on the dentures.

  Herman invariably finds this part of his visit the most daunting: the clattering of trolleys and tapping of walking sticks on tiled floors, the reek of vanilla and sticky buns, mingled with the ever-present fragrance of antiseptic and carbolic soap that hangs about the place and, for that matter, likewise clings to the clothes of most of those present. Yet he cannot help but admire them, all these wonderful old folks - cannot help but marvel at their bravery; at how smart the men always appear, time travellers from some bygone age in frock coat and cravat, their shoes immaculately shined. And the ladies, as well: amazing with their crimped hair and floral dresses - their thin, shrunken lips on a continuous collision course with this or that buttered scone or home-made jam tart. And he knows, too, sadly, how it all looks when he isn’t here. He knows they just sit around then, most of them, dozing, waiting for their next meal, or next spoonful of medicine from an array of mysterious pink bottles. At least they become more animated when he puts on his shows, or so the staff always assure him.

  This morning’s socialising is shaping up to be a particularly challenging event for Herman, because he has been cornered at a table by two of the most belligerent of the men in residence, namely Jack and his brother, Smudge - both strong characters, former soldiers and often critical of the world at large with all its loose morals and decadent ways. The fact that Herman, is also their neighbour, living alone in a fine Georgian villa just a short distance along the banks of the river, renders him a permanent target of their curiosity, and today is no exception.

  ‘Well, we are all in awe of you, Manny,’ Jack remarks with a rare outpouring of deference, scratching his balding pate and taking a seat next to him. ‘How do you do it? This is what we can’t understand.’

  ‘Well, it’s just that I’ve been doing it a jolly long time, Jack,’ Herman replies modestly and with a smile he hopes would not appear too condescending. ‘All these uncanny abilities of mine are really just a rigorously crafted pie
ce of trickery, an exercise practised over and over again. It’s all perfectly easy, once you have the knack. My grandfather, for example, he had the knack. He was on the road with the fairs and the circuses for decades. And my father, too - he had it passed on to him, then down to me when I came along. None of us has ever really made the big-time, as they say, but it’s something we’ve always enjoyed. So I suppose you might say I’ve got magic in my veins, eh!’

  The two old fellows, approving of all these references to ancestry, each nod their understanding, and Jack even goes so far as to tap the side of his nose with his index finger in a gesture of complicity, as if glad to be in on the secret.

  ‘So what’s this you say you’ve got coming up - Halloween you call it?’ Jack inquires, a look of suspicion on his face. ‘What’s that, then?’

  ‘Halloween - oh, basically it’s just All Saint’s Eve, but with a modern twist. Lots of fun and games with spooky things, masks and dressing up. It’s a new idea from America …’

  ‘America?’ Jack echoes, his brows furrowed deeply. ‘Listen, mate: nothing good ever came out of America.’

  ‘Yea,’ the silver haired Smudge concurs with additional disapproval. ‘The youth of today, eh! Dressing up? Ha! What we need is another war, I reckon. Dress 'em up in a bit of military kit and send them off to fight in the Crimea. That’ll soon teach 'em.’