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

by Robert Stephen Parry

  Voices, she is sure, are all about her by this time - voices which she suspects are not real but just dreadful recollections, memories buzzing in her head - voices of Hugh and Rachael, the voice of her solicitor Mr Levine - all laughing at her. Yet still, in one way or another, she continues to attack the grave, to molest its hateful presence in whatever way her frail body will allow, trying to push it over. And eventually it does start to rock a bit - by which time there are even more voices to be heard - and these not inside her head any more. These seem more real, shouting somewhere in the distance. And then there is the noise of people running - running towards her on the gravel paths, harsh, loud noises mingled with cries of protest and outrage - men in uniform among them, carrying lanterns. Hands clutch at her as she protests and struggles free, but only for a moment. They are trying to take her arms, trying to remonstrate with her, but she cannot understand what they are saying - so she strikes out: someone’s chin, someone’s chest. Then something smelling very strong and repugnant is held beneath her nostrils and it makes her dizzy. There is even greater darkness then; deep impenetrable darkness; and she remembers no more.

  Chapter 11

  ‘Observe, Herman, there are twelve angels not of good but of evil,’ the voice whispers. ‘And at their feet are lamps not of light but of darkness and these stand before the throne of one who is the destroyer of light. In his left hand is a sceptre of violence and falsehood, and in his right the skull of many nations, their sons and their daughters.’

  Extraordinary. It has happened again - that voice. He can hear it so plainly. And this time here in his own study, at home. An elusive whisper from some hidden realm of nature - what could it be? Normally he would ignore it, filter such intrusions from his mind. This one, though, he has to admit, is different, especially cogent and even slightly messianic in tone. Surely, too, it would be related in some way to that unfortunate woman, Deborah Peters - it being so very similar to the one he had heard that evening at the Savoy. And so he rises from his armchair and goes quickly to the bureau to make a note of it, lest it be forgotten - the exact words if he can, if for no other reason than it was so very strong and unsettling.

  It is a beautiful morning, unseasonably warm for the time of year. And with the river at the foot of his garden shimmering in the sunshine tempting him to stroll, it is not long before he has donned his old Norfolk jacket and sallied forth through the gateway of his villa for his customary morning ‘constitutional’ - keeping to the old towpath as it meets with various locks and bridges along the way.

  The mighty and illustrious river Thames, that most evocative and historic of waterways - it is always an honour to meet with it wherever he goes. Here, however, it is not the Thames of commercial London, or the Thames of the busy dockyards to the East End, or even the Thames of wide estuaries and salt marsh as it flows to the sea. Instead it is the tranquil and beguiling Thames of the Home Counties, gently flowing, bordered by clumps of willow leaning out across the water, populated with kingfishers and swans; while upon its sloping banks the spectre of great stately buildings and even the occasional palace can be seen in all its pomp, set amid swathes of perfectly mown lawns or the gardens and paddocks that surround them. A walk along its shores is therefore a journey through history, as well. With each step he feels connected to the past in a way which is never quite equalled anywhere else. And that is important to him.

  Yet this morning he cannot relax and absorb it. Instead, his thoughts keep returning to Deborah Peters. He simply cannot dismiss her from his mind. Why, he wonders, had she not got in touch with him? She had said she would telegraph him, but this she has manifestly failed to do. And as for himself - fool! - why had he not insisted on having some details of hers that evening after the show - an address, a place of work - anything? There is simply no possibility of being able to correspond with her. The link is broken.

  Returning home a few minutes before noon, he picks up the mail from the gate and then retires once again to his study where he often takes a light luncheon and reads the papers. He always has two newspapers delivered: the austere Times, in which not one photographic image would ever sully its front-page of closely spaced columns, plus a more popular ‘lowbrow’ alternative, the News Chronicle, a veritable picture-book of a paper by contrast and which keeps him up to date with all the gossip from the world of stage and entertainment. In the hallway, on his way in, he waves a greeting to his housekeeper, a lady whom he has come to address fondly over the few months she has been in his service simply as ‘Mrs H,’ and then, taking a seat in the study, he pours tea from the pot she has set in readiness for him and settles down to read.

  ‘Finest Assam brewed this morning for Mr Grace,’ she announces through the doorway, popping her face around to address him in her usual forthright manner. ‘And a good bit of scandal in the papers, an' all,’ she adds with a fruity smile.

  ‘Oh really? Good-oh!’ he responds, trying not to sound too disinterested.

  Dear Mrs H. - not young by any means but exceedingly capable and well organised. He rather suspects she watches for his appearance at a distance along the towpath as he walks back, for she usually manages to anticipate his return and to arrange the tea with unerring accuracy. He has to admit, it is most reassuring to have another living being moving about the place. And although she is not resident, she does have a key and her occasional presence in the otherwise large and empty building has been his salvation in many respects since the parting of the ways with his former fiancée. And so, thus reassured, and sipping at his tea, he turns his attention to the papers - at which abruptly everything changes, and he can scarcely believe what he sees, because the News Chronicle’s shocking front page banner headline this morning is all about Deborah.

  ‘Gossip Queen Arrested at Grave-Smashing Spree,’ it proclaims with brazen audacity. Turning quickly to the other paper for confirmation, he notices that even the more sedately worded Times gives it a mention inside. Hardly top international news, he reflects with dismay, but the Chronicle has gone overboard. Being the paper Deborah’s husband manages, naturally it would jump on this incident with glee - a lengthy article, accompanied by a harrowing image of Deborah herself stumbling from the doorway of a police station in North London, endeavouring to hold onto a railing with one hand and to cover her face with the other, but obviously caught in the barrage of the latest flash technology that the News Chronicle, in particular, has pioneered in recent times. It is a most unflattering image - her dreadfully altered, gaunt and haggard features laid bare for all to see, and probably all the worse, he imagines, for a night in custody. And if it is true, as they say, that the camera never lies, then he is astounded at the change in her appearance that has taken place in so short a space of time. Letting forth an inevitable sigh, he reads on:

  ‘Deborah Peters being discharged this morning after being detained at Highgate cemetery where her daughter is buried. It is understood that a head stone was damaged and several bystanders assaulted, including a police officer and a verger. When asked by reporters where exactly he was during the incident, the verger replied, “on my backside, sir, because she struck me.” Deborah Peters has not been far from the headlines in recent months, since the tragic demise of her daughter, Penelope, 21, in an anarchist cult suicide in Kaiser Bill’s Germany.’

  How very unpleasant - for them to have made so much of what is surely an unfortunate misunderstanding. Just like the unfavourable treatment in the English papers lately of anything remotely German (Kaiser Bill being a favourite topic), Deborah this morning also appears to have become the target of an insidious process of character assassination. They even have a doctor’s report next.

  ‘According to brain expert, professor Brendon McPherson who specialises in the new science of psychiatry coming from Vienna, Deborah Peters is clearly suffering from what is termed a neurosis due to her inability to come to terms with the loss of her daughter. This can happen, says McPherson, in cases of sudden bereavement and especially in inst
ances where the grieving parent, in this case the mother, identifies so closely with her lost child that it is impossible to believe the one to be dead while the other is living. It is a bond of such an intense nature that it overcomes rationality and can lead to mental instability of varying degrees when broken.’

  This is becoming worse by the minute, Herman reflects as he shakes his head in disbelief. A neurologist’s verdict - whatever will this do to the unfortunate woman’s career and reputation! At which the article concludes with a summary of exactly how long Deborah had been in custody and a line or two of futile speculation over where she might be at present. There will be charges pressed. And a statement, issued by a senior source on behalf of Peters Associated Publishing, confirms that reparations will be sought from the accused, not only for criminal damage, but also the level of distress caused to Mr Peters himself by such a ‘wanton act of vandalism.’

  Herman casts the paper to one side. He really has had more than enough, he feels. How dreadful! Poor woman. Once such an admired and prominent figure but now simply one of ridicule - her mental stability being questioned and analysed in the pages of the gutter press. It is awful, degrading - and would foster only one idea in the mind of Joe public: that Deborah Peters has taken leave of her senses. He only hopes the unfortunate woman herself has not been reading the same papers this morning - though the coverage will, of course, reach her eventually.

  By what strange command or fate he does not fully understand, but he feels even more anxious than ever to speak with her. Only how? In desperation he dresses for town, resolving to journey to the offices of Peters Associated Publishing at once where he will ask for assistance in locating her. A mailing address; a telegraph destination, anything will do. They might refuse. They probably will. But he knows he must at least try. And with this resolution he takes his hat and umbrella and hurries along the road to the station and the earliest train into Paddington.

  ‘Sorry,’ the receptionist replies as Herman leans across the counter in the foyer of the prestigious building in Fleet Street, examining the features of the stern faced gentleman on duty for any sign of concord. ‘Mrs Peters no longer has any significant connection with the company. Her weekly column in the Chronicle has been terminated, and we only publish one or two of her former titles through a subsidiary - and that is not based here in London.’

  At which the man casts his eyes disdainfully down once again to his desk. He has one of those shirts with epaulettes at the shoulders, very officious.

  ‘But surely you must have some means of conveying a message to her?’ Herman protests.

  ‘You can try writing to the New York publishers of her books,’ the man suggests at length, looking up with an expression of immense fortitude as he hands Herman a card, ‘since it is just possible she will remain in touch with them. But here we have no instructions to forward any more fan-mail …’

  ‘I am not a fan,’ Herman insists, an assertion met only with a sceptical raising of an eyebrow.

  ‘We - er - do tend to hear that rather a lot, sir,’ the fellow states at length, ‘especially from the gentlemen,’ he adds, making Herman feel like some kind of sinister prowler. And with that, he suspects, it is definitely time to go.

  In complete contrast to the brightness of the morning, it is already overcast by the time he leaves the building. Feeling somewhat deflated and gauche at his attempt at tracing the famous woman, and with the rain beginning to fall, he walks briskly down the street to Ludgate Circus and to the café where he hopes to at least revive his spirits if not necessarily his fortunes with a decent cup of tea.

  Built partly into the walls and pillars of the railway viaduct, it is a place where the very tables and chairs sometimes vibrate in sympathy with the almost constant thunder of the Farrington railway above. But is no less popular because of that. Many of the denizens of Fleet Street, the printers, editors and journalists, all the ‘inkies’ and ‘hacks’ and any number of other slightly self-derisory terms used by the fraternity to describe themselves, congregate here - in other words, all those closest to the source of the news, if not, sometimes, the makers of it themselves. There is always the chance of picking up on some valuable gossip, therefore. And it is, indeed, the incident at Highgate that seems to be the topic on everyone’s lips; the matter of the attractive society lady fallen from grace being naturally something the men here would be fascinated by - and with the added spice that the lady herself has apparently gone off 'er 'ead, as he hears someone say. Irresistible fare over tea and biscuits. It is then, as he sips at his own cuppa, and continues to contemplate the sorry affair, that he overhears one particularly illuminating line:

  ‘Probably left the country already, I shouldn’t wonder,’ one of the men speculates. ‘Mitchell from the Mercury reckons he saw her on the platform at Victoria - Dover Express.’

  At which Herman is delivered of the most persuasive conviction. Yes - of course. With nothing but vexation and ridicule to contend with here at home, and surely more determined than ever to find the answer to her daughter’s disappearance, Deborah would surely have left the country by now. She would be en route to Germany - somewhere like Heidelberg or Munich, perhaps, searching in earnest for clues as to her daughter’s whereabouts among all those places where the young woman had lived and studied. It is not exactly a disincarnate voice that has told him this, nothing quite as exotic this time, but rather a fellow in a bowler hat eating his sandwiches on the neighbouring table. But it will do.

  So, Herman reflects, where is all this leading? How should he react? Out of idle curiosity, no more, he finds himself sitting back and glancing through his diary ... just to see whether it might be free of any pressing appointments for the next few days. To his surprise and growing sense of anticipation, it is.

  Chapter 12

  Nothing has altered this time, no unpleasant surprises, as Deborah opens the door to her daughter’s silent apartment in Heidelberg. Recalling the horrid spectre that had awaited her on the first occasion, the despicable young man standing here when she had arrived with Rachael, she proceeds only very slowly into the hallway. Again, it feels so strange, the atmosphere - so unlike any conditions under which she would have ever wished her daughter to have lived. She wonders for one awful moment whether the dreadful man had left some baleful kind of presence, some curse upon the place that even the changing of locks and the passage of time has not banished - so much so that she finds herself inspecting every hidden corner, looking in every cupboard, investigating under the bed, until she is satisfied that she is alone and safe.

  ‘What should be done with the place?’ she wonders as she draws open more of the curtains to let in the light - this eerie set of chambers where no voice ever sounds, no laughter is ever heard, no wine is ever poured or meals served. It has been weeks now, and still on this her latest journey out of London to the old university town where Poppy had studied and dwelt these past two years, still Deborah cannot bring herself to terminate the rental contract and relinquish the place. It is becoming a ridiculous shrine, and she knows it - these shut-off rooms where she alone comes, and where, in the very same building, by contrast, so many bubbly and joyful young people, students, apprentices and office workers have already long since returned from their summer vacations to populate the building with laughter and song.

  And yet, in the silence of this one isolated space, it is surely just possible, she feels, to sense the life that once flourished here - especially if she closes her eyes for a moment and fills the space with memories of Poppy and of the child she has once cherished with such hopes - memories of those bright summer mornings when she and her daughter would play together in the garden of their home, when Poppy would rush around, everywhere with such curiosity, such enthusiasm. Sometimes, she herself would perceive her mother’s unease, for she would hurry to her then and climb upon her knee, to show her love and that everything was really just fine.

  ‘What is it you're searching for, Poppy,’ Deborah would as
k, not really expecting much of an answer from the young girl. ‘Don’t you worry, mummy,’ she had once replied with amazing seriousness upon her tiny furrowed brows. ‘When I find it, I’ll be sure to fetch it back and share it with you.’

  Then there were the school days, the discovery of her musical talents. ‘So naturally gifted.’ That’s how her teachers used to describe her - until one day, that untidy mop of dark hair upon Poppy’s head became replaced by rich silky locks, and her deep brown eyes gazed out at the world with a sensuous, knowing kind of look. Poppy had grown into a vivacious young woman, wanting to study and to explore. The house in Hampshire where they lived became much quieter then, empty of Poppy’s melodious voice. And somehow Deborah had gotten on with her life, being always there for her daughter if she should ever need her. And how quickly, how naturally they had become the best of friends then, almost like sisters. Even as she embarked upon her first notable adventure, taking up her language studies overseas like this - a rare undertaking for any young woman - Deborah had tried to be there at least in spirit, always ready to write, to receive her visits back home - and always doing her best to be brave and to ignore the perils. But it was never easy, knowing the dangers facing a young woman alone in a foreign country - while realising all the time that she, herself, in her show of indifference, was just playing a role for Poppy anyway, and not really brave at all.

  ‘Oh, Poppy,’ Deborah whispers aloud, as if calling to her daughter, ‘you are the one who must be brave now, braver than ever. I cannot reach out to you any more; cannot smooth away the cares from your brow or wipe the tears from your eyes. That amazing, joyful life that once came into mine. Wherever did it come from. And now, wherever has it gone?’