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

by Robert Stephen Parry

  Chapter 16

  A little nervously, Joseph Beezley enters the sumptuously appointed study and library of Craigmull with its views over the quayside and loch and the wooded hills of that most temperate part of Scotland known as the Southern Uplands, and as he does so coughs decorously to arrest the attention of his master, Hugh Peters who at just that moment is busy fondling the shoulders of his beloved new bride, Rachael - her arm, in turn, around his waist.

  ‘Oh, Joseph, it’s you,’ Peters says, breaking free, untypically confused and endeavouring, not altogether successful, to wipe the salacious grin from his face before turning back to address his wife. ‘Could you maybe just leave us for a moment, my love?’ he says, his voice one of strained formality urged upon him by the arrival of his working colleague.

  She understands, of course. It being utterly impossible for the head of Peters Associated Publishing to allow the commercial side of life to lie dormant for too long, for Hugh the mixing of business with pleasure is an inevitable consequence of having already been absent from his office for over a week. And so Rachael, dressed today just a little more rustically than is normal, in her cashmere cardigan and plaid skirt, and still quite dizzy with joy over everything that is happening to her, obeys her husband’s request with the utmost alacrity, sweeping out between the doors of the study to the conservatory where another exit takes her down a flight of steps to the stone quayside and the water’s edge, surrendering as she goes, to a smile of self-congratulation.

  How wonderful to be treated with such respect, such deference by the man she has always admired so greatly - no longer, these days, as some menial obeying orders, but now as a wife and equal - the new Mrs Peters, and already one of the country’s most envied of women. At least this is how it is perceived in certain circles - the aristocratic strata of society being perhaps the exception, she knows. Yes: ‘A little tasteless,’ some have gossiped; ‘unseemly,’ that her husband should have presided over a memorial service for his daughter two weeks ago, followed by a marriage the next. But for her part, Rachael could not have disagreed more. Had they not already mourned the child enough? Such morbid preoccupations cannot continue indefinitely. So after the service, they had gone to watch his horses at Chepstow, and then there was the marriage ceremony just a few days ago here at Craigmull - to be followed soon, in just a few days from now, by one of the largest and most extravagant of celebrations.

  Having taken charge of proceedings, and having already engaged the services of an entire army of caterers, butlers, nannies and groundsmen to minister to everyone’s needs, and with already so many of their friends and business associates converging on Craigmull from all over the world - by train and by boat; by horse and by carriage and even, it is rumoured, via that very latest of mechanical marvels, an automobile being shipped from Italy and due tomorrow - she expects the event to become the very focus of the social calendar. It shall be a party to end all parties, one for which no expense has been spared and which, she anticipates, might well continue, in one way or another, for the rest of her life.

  And so the minutes pass in pleasant meditations - the two men in the drawing room, just discernible behind the windows as she saunters past once again, still locked in conversation. She wonders when they might be finished because it is becoming a little cold outdoors and she is not entirely certain how to get back in from the quayside by any other route without disturbing them - and that, she feels, would never do.

  Her husband of course, she reminds herself as she wraps her cardigan a little more tightly about her shoulders, has a perverse liking for cold weather. Yes. And she understands that, too. The hardships of the Scottish climate, remind him of his native Canada; and since his daughter’s death, he has wanted to come here more and more frequently. And who can blame him? It is a fascinating place - the building’s exotic appearance with its conical towers and steep gabled roofs, owing as much to the French chateaux of the Loire valley, they say, as to the Scottish fortress on whose foundations it was once constructed - while inside, everything is so very homely with its mullion windows and vaulted ceilings; everything conforming perfectly to the sumptuous Gothic revivalism still so fashionable amongst those of wealth and taste. And so, as she wanders along the paved edge where the rowboats are moored, and as she gazes across the tranquil, unruffled water of the loch once more with its reed beds and golden branches of bare willow, the world to her appears as a perfect paradise - even if just a little on the chilly side at present.

  Inside, meanwhile, the already buoyant mood of the head of Peters Associated Publishing has already risen to yet greater heights by virtue of the newspaper story that has just been placed upon his desk. It is his own daily, in fact - The News Chronicle - which has launched itself upon one of those typically tenacious campaigns of unadulterated falsehood and vindictiveness for which the paper itself is so universally famed. And to be able to read aloud the news of Deborah having been thrown out onto the streets just a few days ago following an overnight stay in a German police cell is simply music to his ears.

  ‘Nice!’ he exclaims with laughter, taking a seat at his desk and holding the paper admiringly at arms length as Beezley, the bringer of these glad tidings, continues patiently to stand nearby, allowing his master to continue his words of appreciation, which he likes to think might just occasionally be directed towards him but which he knows, in reality, are most likely not. By way of consolation, he pictures in his mind all those other men working for the firm at this moment, all those hard-grafting souls miles away down there in the busy, inky and sweaty editorial offices in London - almost in another age and time compared to the glorious setting in which he currently finds himself. That at least is one of the more pleasant aspects of the job, he reflects, the occasional sojourn to Craigmull - just near enough to the main railway from London to Glasgow to enjoy all the boons of modern transportation, yet remote enough to be blessed with fresh air and inexhaustible opportunities for walking, hunting and fishing. The perfect playground, in fact, the perfect gem of self-indulgence.

  ‘She’s put her head in the noose now, that’s for sure,’ Peters continues with glee - or as much cheer as his long, dour features will ever allow - which is, in fact, at present more ghoulish in appearance than anything else. ‘I particularly like the suggestion, once again, that she might be taking leave of her senses. That’s good. Very good. Something we might build upon over the next few weeks, Joseph, don’t you think? Yes, telegraph the desk right away. Tell our trusty editor, Malcolm, to keep at it, to hunt her down everywhere she goes. And pictures, understand? I want plenty of pictures to illustrate the inevitable decline. Don’t worry about the expense - tell Malcolm to put his best man on it, Bob Small again if he can spare him.’

  Beezley nods his understanding. And it is not without a certain wonderment blended with disgust that he watches as his master discards the paper to one side and reclines into his seat once more, a seat identical to that which he possesses in London, in fact, but from which on this occasion, as he swivels round to gaze out of the windows, it is not to survey the smog-filled skyline above the Thames, but the picturesque scene of winter sunshine shimmering on the fresh and pristine waters of Loch Craigmull. Leaning back, his hands behind his head, he seems content, a rare-enough phenomenon, Beezley thinks.

  ‘I was just wondering, sir,’ Beezley begins again with a decorous cough to indicate he has not yet left the room, ‘if you wish at this - er - joyous time to be reminded of the tragedy, but I do have some information that might be of interest to you regarding your daughter’s demise, a dossier I have prepared on the organisation most likely behind the terrible business.’

  Peters swivels back to face his man, and makes a quick and nervous adjustment of his cuffs as he flexes his wrists and sits upright once more - that all-too-familiar and instinctive gesture of his. ‘Information?’ he repeats, and with an obvious strained enthusiasm. ‘No, not at all, Joseph,’ he adds, reluctantly focusing his attention on the grim event
for the first time since the memorial service, but pleased nonetheless to acknowledge the work the other man has evidently done on his behalf.

  ‘My findings are set out in detail in the first part, followed by references and a summary,’ Beezley elaborates, handing over a bulky looking foolscap folder while lowering his head and making a nervous little adjustment of his pince-nez spectacles, as if not wishing to appear too self-satisfied over his achievements.

  ‘Ah, good,’ Peters responds. ‘And ..?’ he adds, clearly impatient for the bottom line.

  ‘Well, to summarise, sir: it would appear the shadowy organisation we identified some weeks ago, the Society for the Teachings of Redemptive Mercies, does indeed appear to be something of a movable feast, with no permanent headquarters and instead always travelling across borders - Austria one year, France the next, setting up lecture tours, retreats and so on at various out-of-the-way places, but never anywhere permanent, at least none as can be determined as yet. They employ an underground network for communications, issuing pamphlets for recruitment, these subsequently distributed not only among the more anarchic segments of the labouring poor, but also among university society: beer cellars, cafés and so on. They are reputed to be extremely wealthy owing to a policy of insisting that their more senior devotees surrender all worldly possessions to the movement: valuables, house deeds, bank assets, everything, upon initiation into the higher orders, as well as binding themselves to a code of utmost secrecy. Other than that, they do receive a degree of financial support from a certain Swiss philanthropic body I have identified: the Foundation for the Advancement of Culture and Environment, a registered arts charity. It is just possible the two organisations are in effect one and the same, or at the least closely allied - the one serving as a more respectable front for the other.’

  ‘Um ... I see,’ Peters reflects, his features now more typically morose and dark, flicking quickly through the pages of Beezley’s dossier as he continues to listen, seemingly unaware of Rachael strolling past the windows yet again, still exiled and obediently waiting to be let in.

  ‘This is good work, Joseph. Very impressive,’ he says, his mind turning over rapidly, full of conjecture. ‘So now we have a name for their backers, right - this, what do you call it, the Foundation for the ..?’

  ‘Advancement of Culture and Environment,’ Beezley assists, demonstrating his usual fortitude.

  ‘Right. Only, I wonder, where does their money come from? A charitable organisation, you say?’

  ‘Funded, in turn, from various reputable sources,’ Beezley continues, ‘typically banks, large corporations - in addition to a number of unnamed private individuals. I should just add, that as an arts foundation they do donate to numerous other worthy, bona fide causes as well as to this rather dubious one.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you Joseph, that will be all for now,’ Peters murmurs, already engrossed in the minutiae of the written report, which he takes to the light of the window seat in the conservatory and studies in detail for a good while thereafter.

  ‘Incredible,’ he mumbles to himself. He had hitherto believed that he had a pretty fair acumen for business; but these guys, he has to hand it to them, they really have taken it to the next level - so adroit in persuading their followers to part with every penny; and never to ask questions, never to demand a balance sheet, a statement or an auditors report. Ideals and illusions, it seems have no price limit, and there will always be suckers out there willing to pay for them - his own daughter included, unfortunately. And that is what really rankles. That these people have taken money from her - ultimately his money, then abused their powers so flagrantly. What could he possibly do to hit back at them, he wonders? How?

  And it is with these thoughts of studied vengeance that he lifts his face once more in search of something a little more pleasing to the eye - namely his wife if she is still outside. But no, she has apparently long since re-entered the building via another entrance. He can hear her voice somewhere in another room - that urbane, slightly treacly voice of his former head typist. He is still, even now, more than just a little infatuated with her, and the recollection of that altogether different voice, the one he alone is privy to when in their bed chamber where she sighs and whispers into his ear and reminds him of what an excellent lover he is, is an allure too seductive to resist, even now at this time of the afternoon. It is a slightly unsettling feeling - that he can never quite have enough of her, or of her approbation. Unable to concentrate, therefore, he flings the report down upon his desk, and goes to seek her out.

  Chapter 17

  How snowy white and stark it is, she thinks as she sits at her table, outdoors upon the veranda of the Gasthof, her eyes surveying the majestic scenery up here in the clouds - of sunlit peaks and dark wooded valleys and, in the midst of it, the endless procession of single-horse carriages climbing by slow degrees up the icy Tyrolean roadway to deposit another batch of passengers from the hotels below - this, prior to hurtling down again into the shadows just minutes later, skidding and sliding as they go, empty of their human cargo and with all the perilous speed and eager anticipation of any other cab driver in the world in search of another fare. And she wonders, too, at the antics of all the skiers who emerge from them, ever hopeful and always excited. Yes, skiing - that newest and most fashionable of pastimes for the rich. What a strangely futile scene of barely controlled chaos it is. She was once numbered among them, of course, all those noisy, distracted people with their red cheeks and woolly hats and their constant inane prattle and laughter.

  Yes - the rich. No doubt a condition far better than being poor, she reflects as, wrapping her old black shawl more closely about her shoulders, her eyes settle once again upon the occupants of the neighbouring benches, the women in particular - for what levels of deceit must so many of them have to stoop to in order to secure their position? It reminds her inevitably of her former friend Rachael, whose wedding to Hugh she had read of in the German press only yesterday. It had hurt - and Rachael’s betrayal continued to hurt most of all. And for a moment she feels frightened for the future, frightened to be living alone in a world of such falsehood and duplicity - added to which, the letter she holds in her hand, posted express delivery to her hotel in Heidelberg, and subsequently forwarded to her latest location here, would surely indicate some renewed unpleasantness from her solicitors in London; and as she opens it, the official note paper therein with its familiar embossed heading fills her with an all too familiar sense of foreboding. She can almost hear the distinctive honeyed voice of young Mr Levine as she reads it.

  ‘We trust this letter will be forwarded to you in a timely fashion, since it contains important developments - specifically a message received by us just this morning from Mr Peters’s solicitors in which they ask us to inform you that Mr Peters has, with a recent memorial service, proceeded with a cremation of your daughter’s remains. The grave in Highgate will now stand as a memorial only, therefore. Also, we are obliged to inform you that Mr Peters, in order to forestall any renewed vandalism to the site, has applied for an injunction to restrict your movements within a certain distance of the cemetery. Finally, there is still the matter of your fees outstanding to Levine & Sons. An updated invoice for our services, which currently stand at one hundred and sixty-five pounds and fifteen shillings, is enclosed, and we would appreciate it if you could forward a cheque or bank transfer at your earliest convenience. Unless this sum is paid shortly, I regret to inform you we shall be unable to offer any further services on your behalf.’

  It could not have been worse news, all couched in the most formal and polite legalese, of course, but devastating nonetheless. A cremation! Not only was she not privy to this outrage, but also not even aware of the service itself, and so unable to attend even had she wanted to. Not only that, but the cremation will have destroyed the very evidence she had been relying on, ruined any prospect that might have remained of someday proving the body was not that of her daughter. It had been Deborah’s
only hope, and already it was gone, quite literally gone up in smoke. And how utterly shocking, the solicitor’s behaviour, grumbling about a few measly debts. For nigh on a decade she has given them her business; always paying her bills promptly. And now, the moment she is in need of a modicum of support, they have deserted her - leaving her stranded overseas. And she wonders whether she will ever be able to trust anyone ever again.

  But then, a moment later, she finds herself smiling - for there is in fact something here this afternoon that does comfort her and lifts her spirits. A well-dressed young man with fair, wavy hair and a handsome moustache emerges from inside, returning to her table after a brief absence with a fresh pot of coffee in hand, and his eyes with their usual perceptive genius seem to read her thoughts and divine her unrest straight away. ‘So why did you insist on coming here, anyway?’ Herman asks, taking his seat again with a note of familiarity - for he had finally succeeded yesterday, via forwarded messages and a timely telegram, to arrange their rendezvous.

  ‘Because this is where Poppy is supposed to have met her end,’ Deborah replies dispassionately, taking up their conversation where they had left off a few minutes earlier, ‘or at least not far from here. Later, if you wish, we could visit the scene.’

  ‘Ah, so I take it, you’ve been there already?’ he asks, pouring their coffee, his tone of voice steady with curiosity and concern.