Ignoring him, she continues past and out between the already opened doors. ‘Whoever you are, don’t try to persuade me to return to that oaf in there,’ she states as he follows her outside. It is raining heavily and the doorman holds an umbrella aloft for her as she descends the steps. ‘I haven’t come here to be insulted by your friend Mr Dubois.’
‘Indeed, no, for I am nothing to do with that gentleman,’ Herman insists, politely handing her his card, which she takes but does not bother to examine. ‘Forgive my boldness, but I think I can help you discover what has happened to your daughter.’
And for an instant, standing there, hat in hand, in the pouring rain, this assertion sounds as bizarre to him as, he suspects, it probably does to her.
‘What! Are you mad?’ Deborah blasts back at him with renewed venom.
Her impatience over the absence of a cab at the door, urges her to head off alone down the street, and here, trembling with rage and already at a distance from the solicitous doorman, she struggles to unfurl her own umbrella. ‘My daughter is dead. Isn’t this what everyone keeps telling me?’ she states, still struggling just as Herman approaches her once again - and upon which she turns, sighs heavily and, hitching up the hem of her coat and skirt, walks on regardless, her elegant heels clattering upon the wet pavement.
‘I don’t believe that,’ Herman calls after her, still following.
Walking briskly, she reaches the busy thoroughfare of the Embankment before pausing beneath a street lamp, searching for any sign of a cab along the length of the road but, discovering none, is compelled to regard her pursuer with some modest degree of attention at last. The wide brim of her hat throws much of her face into shadow until she lifts her chin in defiance. ‘You’re Herman Grace, aren’t you?’ she asks, her voice harsh, almost as if voicing an accusation. ‘I was unable to see your act from where I was placed, though a friend did tell me it was not particularly original.’
She seems surprised, then, that he does not take offence - in fact he agrees. ‘You’re friend was absolutely right,’ he states. But please, Mrs Peters, will you grant me just a few minutes in which we might discuss this more calmly?’ he adds, taking the failed umbrella and, having succeeded in disentangling it, holding it aloft in most gallant fashion while urging her to walk once more, keeping her close that they might both stay dry. ‘A cup of tea somewhere and a bite to eat perhaps? Anywhere away from all this traffic and rain. I can explain then.’
At which, to his relief, she does not decline. At least not right away.
‘A cup of tea and a bite to eat?’ she echoes in a voice where amusement and despair combine in equal measure, and compelled by their close proximity to take his arm as they walk. ‘Your proposal is certainly made without any pretence at sophistication, Mr Grace. But don’t you think it might all seem rather an anticlimax for one having just fled the haute cuisine of the Savoy?’
‘I am sure it would,’ he agrees.
‘Anyway, Twinings will be shut at this hour,’ she states, ‘and I’m certainly in no mood to go down to some filthy cafe in Fleet Street to sit with the newspaper hacks, if that’s what you have in mind.’
Again, he can only agree. That really would be most inappropriate. He doesn’t want to take her to a common pub, either, yet he simply must speak with her somewhere quiet. The mighty steam engines puffing and grinding their way across Waterloo Bridge behind them add to the din as he ponders the dilemma. ‘There’s always Gordon’s,’ he announces in a moment of inspiration. ‘Finest wine, and just round the corner - Villiers Street.’
‘Never heard of it!’ she snaps back as they continue through the rain - which if anything is becoming even heavier.
He wonders for one awful moment whether he really has made an error in being so forthright in seeking to make her acquaintance like this, a terrible breach of etiquette, in any case without any kind of formal introduction. But, at length, she does agree.
And so it is here, at Gordon’s, down a short flight of steps, in the candlelit cellars and vaults of a building once lived in by Pepys, and surrounded by all the various curios and conversation pieces that furnish such places with a certain brave refinement, that they settle down opposite each other at a half-partitioned table covered in beer mats and ashtrays. It is dingy, smoky, slightly dank, but the Bordeaux he chooses for them is superb, and here in the seclusion and relative privacy of their surroundings where all the other customers seem intent on likewise minding their own business, they have at last an opportunity to discuss the subject at leisure. It is even warm enough in the proximity of a coal fire to remove their coats and to dry out.
‘I do hope you did not feel intimidated by those people,’ he remarks, placing his top hat aside on a neighbouring shelf and looking into her face with an obvious concern.
‘Don’t worry, I’m used to that sort of tripe from fools like Dubois,’ she replies. ‘He’s pathetic, anyway - a poor imitation of his betters. Most of the gentlemen there, in fact, are perfectly charming - and the women quite tolerable, providing one confines one’s conversation to horses and tennis.’
To which he smiles and they both sip their wine in silence for what seems like an inordinately long while.
‘I heard a voice this evening,’ Herman explains, sensing her impatience. ‘It told me your daughter is alive.’
‘And do you often hear voices, Mr Grace?’ Deborah inquires with more than a trace of sarcasm, he thinks.
‘Yes, as a matter fact I do,’ he replies, not altogether accurately and watching her as she attends to her make-up with the aid of a little mirror, making good all those places where rain and tears have run. ‘I have guides, spiritual guides. I rather suspect we all do, really. And sometimes it is by this means they reach us. That is my belief, anyway - though I don’t usually reveal this kind of thing, of course. A private matter, you understand.’
‘Yes, I’m sure it would be,’ Deborah answers, still a little unkindly, he thinks, as she snaps closed her compact and replaces it in her purse.
For all her cynicism, there is much about her he finds agreeable. Could it be the actress, her former profession; the entertainer in her that he sees? She has an engaging habit of raising her chin as she speaks, as if addressing some imaginary audience - that, or else looking around, observing without turning her head hardly at all, so the whites of her eyes often become unusually bright and dramatic as she examines the dimly lit room and its inhabitants. It is a most intriguing combination of refinement and sensuality that, for one absurd and overblown moment, he cannot help thinking makes the business of being a man worthwhile.
Then, as she returns to settle her gaze once more upon his face, she seems at long last to acquiesce, to relinquish her misgivings. ‘I really must apologise for my rudeness, Mr Grace,’ she says, her entire aspect becoming all at once far less severe. ‘I do appreciate that you are only trying to be kind. And because I have so seldom been the recipient of such an honour of late, its unfamiliarity has made me far too defensive. The fact is, and although I consider myself to be clairvoyant, I have always been mistrustful of voices, and of those who profess to hear them. But that is really of no consequence, since most of those in this room at the moment, if you were to ask them, would dismiss us both as being completely barmy, anyway. But what you have told me … well, I do believe it. I have to, because I have heard my daughter’s voice myself, quite recently - on the day I learned of her disappearance, in fact - as well as on at least one occasion since.’
At which she seems for a moment almost remorseful, smiling at her own candour - that she should confide in a stranger so readily and so much. Emboldened by it, he elaborates by explaining more of his beliefs, especially those associated with his profession - of how ‘magic’ must surely take many forms, from lowly stage trickery to the higher magic between people and their destinies, perhaps even including the influences of beings who might inhabit dimensions beyond the sensory plane. Usually, he is only vaguely aware of such possibilities,
but this evening the voices that came to him, and which referred to her plight specifically, had been more convincing than he had ever known; and so he simply had to act, had to approach her as he did, and share the experience.
She continues to listen, just occasionally surrendering to a look of pity, as if anxious for the poor creature’s sanity - but listening nonetheless - for, after all, has her own work not been based on similar convictions? So, yes, in her heart, she really does understand. Drawing on her intuitive faculty, she looks into his eyes, trying to allow the future that he might represent to come towards her, to reveal itself. And, reassuringly, her inner vision seems to fill with light. ‘Voices are all well and good, Mr Grace. But do you sincerely believe, as I do, that my daughter is alive?’ she asks him outright, a question softly spoken but insistent, drawing him to her and not allowing him to look away or to elude her gaze.
‘Oh, absolutely, yes,’ he answers, feigning nonchalance as, with her permission, he sets upon the comforting ritual of opening a tobacco pouch and filling his pipe, his favoured Calabash with its amber stem - realizing all the while he has no rational justification for conveying such an optimistic outlook - apart, that is, from a few odd goings-on in his head. What if all of this is really just one gigantic error on his part, a shared delusion with someone who is willing to clutch at any straw of consolation in her grief? Yes, he has been told he may help. And he must believe it is true. But how?
‘May I ask: what is your daughter like?’ he inquires as he strikes the match. ‘I mean, her appearance, her character. I know hardly anything about any of this, you see.’
‘Poppy - oh, she is a very rare and lovely young woman,’ Deborah replies, more affable by this time and glancing down with appreciation as he, with care, reaches across to replenish her wine glass. ‘Though I suppose I would say that, wouldn’t I? She has dark brown hair, like mine used to be, only far more lustrous, and she has remarkably large brown eyes. She is not especially tall, but she is slender and elegant, and also loves fashion and beautiful clothes. Oh, and yes, she plays the piano beautifully, as well. We did, at one stage, have hopes of her becoming a concert pianist, so blessed was she with musical talent. But when the moment came, when her schooling finished, she elected to further her education in languages instead.’
‘Was this why she went to Germany?’
‘Yes, that’s correct. Ancient languages - as well as German, naturally. Nothing if not ambitious. “One day I am going to understand Sanskrit, and I shall translate all the wonderful works of the past into English,” she once told me when she was very young. For some reason, I can’t explain, she always adored all the stories and fables of the East. It had always seemed a kind of destiny she was aware of - and apparently German scholarship is far ahead of us in this respect, embracing the mystical and the occult and drawing these subjects into the academic arena.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ Herman concurs, much to her surprise, as she raises her brows in a questioning glance. ‘Oh, sorry - let me explain: it’s just that I’ve studied those kinds of things myself. Comparative religion, mythologies and such like. Anyway, that’s all jolly encouraging, what you just said - I mean concerning the strength of your daughter’s character. It would help in doing a spot of psychometry - that is, picking up information, certain emanations one can detect from personal objects.’
‘Emanations?’
‘Yes. What I mean is if you could let me borrow an item, something that was close to your daughter, like a watch or a ring - something she would have held in her hands often - then we might be able to make a connection in discovering what might have happened to her. There might be some clues, some sort of resonance.’
Despite her pretence at ignorance, she does know what he is referring to. Psychometry - the psychic skill in which one might pick up information from the handling of personal objects. She has tried it herself in the past, and failed dismally. He seems sincere, and no doubt is. He might well be a genius at it. But does she really wish to allow this curious stranger into her confidence to such a degree, delving into her affairs so intimately even to the extent of actually taking possession of items her daughter once owned and cherished?
Still undecided, she continues to regard his face in silence for a moment: this well-mannered young dilettante. She observes his slightly unruly waves of blond hair; his rakish, upturned moustache - and a style of tailoring that certainly inclines more to the ‘shabby genteel’ than anything overly formal or smart. And she can well imagine the kind of life he would lead: idealistic and utterly impractical. The brass skull motif on his cane is also far from acceptable in terms of good taste. Yet, that apart, there is much that is strangely reassuring about him, something serene, almost ageless about his demeanour and his soft, dark eyes that seem to have the wisdom of centuries behind them. Above all, he does give the impression of being a gentleman. And that is perhaps more important than anything.
‘I certainly feel it’s worth a try, anyway,’ he adds with enthusiasm, wanting to break the silence and to urge her towards a decision. ‘Oh, and by the way, you can call me Manny if you wish - Manny Grace. Most folks do these days.’
To which she decides to inspect for the first time the card he had presented her with earlier, the one proclaiming his business credentials. There is a drawing of an upturned top hat and a magic wand in its centre and, indeed, the words ‘Manny Magic’ in a half-circle above - all rather vulgar she thinks as she twirls it between finger and thumb for a moment, pondering again the wisdom of associating with someone who, at bottom, deals in trickery and illusion for a living. There is something of the stage and greasepaint about him; the false glare of the footlights and the murky world of smoke and mirrors. All slightly disconcerting. Nonetheless, she does find herself confiding in him more and more as the minutes follow - telling him all about the meeting with the police in Munich, about the obstructive attitude of her former husband.
It is possibly quite foolish, she tell herself again, to give away so much. Yet a part of her dearly wants to do so. No matter how unrealistic, no matter how weird or simply daft it might seem, she wants to trust him. She wants so much to be able to trust someone.
‘I’ll telegraph you later in the week,’ she states abruptly, as if arriving at a decision, ‘and I can send you something of Poppy’s in the post - for your psychometry,’ she adds, reaching for her hat.
‘Splendid!’ he responds, getting to his feet with obvious satisfaction as he helps her into her coat. ‘I promise you I will do all I can.’
And with that they climb the stairs, away from the comfort of the warm cellar and, taking cabs, go their separate ways - at least in body, though they do remain in one another’s thoughts that night, and even, if they care to admit it, in their dreams and meditations a little, as well.
Chapter 10
A mounting pile of unanswered mail awaits Deborah on her office table, a pile that seems to be increasing exponentially - and including today, among those few she bothers to open, an officious letter from the bank, warning her of being overdrawn. And there are also a good few notes from jilted clients, grumbling over her neglect. Why hasn’t she sent her readings on time? Why hasn’t she wired back to confirm this or that appointment or interview?
‘Oh what nonsense!’ she tells herself as she continues, with irritation, to open a few more envelopes - only to hurl the bulk of their contents straight into the wastepaper basket. She feels she is fast coming to despair of it all - surfeit of perpetually scraping to these awful spoilt and idle prima donnas. All they ever wanted to talk about was sex and money. How much? How often? Who with? The important work of divination, the quest for the inner spirit, it all counted for naught with them. And what of all those plans she once had for herself, for all those important research projects she had wanted to undertake, the amazing individuals, the seers and philosophers and eminent teachers she had intended to meet - all placed into a permanent state of postponement, and precisely because of this sort of
nonsense - her dreams and aspirations smothered by the hopeless charade of her professional life and its web of demands and entanglements.
Wielding her paper knife as a petulant dagger, she resolves to open just one more and which, to her dismay, contains a letter from her ex-husband’s private secretary, Joseph Beezley, detailing - and it comes as a blow to Deborah - the official seizure of her share of the family homes in Scotland and Hampshire. It had been a threat for a long while, but now it is accomplished. Hugh has succeeded at last in taking full possession of both, claiming them as assets of Peters Associated Publishing.
In anger, and after a couple of stiff gin and tonics, and feeling she can no longer tolerate being indoors or having to wear black a moment longer, she takes from the wardrobe her much neglected maroon overcoat and a brightly trimmed hat. She then avails herself of a stole and muff of most flamboyant fox-fur and with these luxurious and brightly coloured accessories for all the world to see, and caring not one bit for the consequences, she storms out of the building.
Still in a state of disbelief, she walks around Hyde Park, tearful much of the time though trying hard not to let it show. The afternoon is grey and drizzling, but somehow quite appropriately beautiful, she feels, as if the whole world is weeping for her; and the cool air upon her face is a welcome relief, too. Then, the most peculiar thing ... a young woman, an itinerant flower seller approaches, replete with a trayful of bouquets and tussie mussies slung from her shoulders.
‘Flowers, flowers - who’ll buy my pretty flowers?’ she cries, as surely as she would have cried a thousand times already this day. She is directly in front of Deborah, and looking alarmed for some reason, Deborah thinks, so that she wonders whether she has been staring unduly. It’s just that her young face and melodious voice remind her so much of Poppy. ‘Pretty flowers. Flowers for celebration, flowers for a happy day, flowers for remembrance.’
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 9
