‘There is a system of communication using cones - like loud-hailers,’ Marie, answers, indicating one of the tallest of the towers situated at the corner of the courtyard overlooking the valley. ‘I have seen this myself - one large cone, with two smaller ones either side. And there is another set the same down in the valley. They are not for making loud noises, but for listening to very faint ones. They are so aligned that if someone speaks into them they can be heard up here. Even a whisper. There is always someone stationed down in the village, and they relay all the news to whoever is in the tower.’
‘That’s Edison’s work,’ the American Andrew asserts proudly. ‘I never realised he had got it to function. Something I just have to see.’
‘You would have to get permission,’ Maria states bluntly. ‘I only happened to see it by accident. They keep it secure. But it is very impressive.’
From their elevated position on the walls, Herman can just discern what Maria is talking about - the top of at least one great cone through the open aperture of an adjacent tower. And, indeed, it does seem to be aligned in the direction of the village below, from which at present a thin plume of smoke is all that can be detected, rising into the still winter’s air. The narrow track leading up from the valley is clear of the heaviest of the snowfall today, and much more accessible compared to when he had struggled up it just a few days ago - a state confirmed a few minutes later as, coming over the brow of a hill, a team of mules appear, mounted in part by a number of cloaked and hooded figures. As they approach, many of those watching commence upon a spontaneous chanting of the Rascham mantra - only to be interrupted a moment later by a loud, grating sound of iron as the portcullis is raised and the visitors pass beneath - at which everyone hurries to the other side of the battlements to gaze down to the inner ward to observe their welcome.
Assisted down from his mount by a helper, and with a regal wave of the hand and a silent blessing bestowed upon the small congregation of devotees gathered about him, it is obvious who among the party would be Rascham. He is indeed a striking looking man, even if a trifle stout and ungainly. Distinguished by the long silver beard Herman recalls from the portrait he had seen, and by an equally long mane of silver hair protruding beneath the margins of the cowl, his face, what Herman can see of it, is perhaps a little less distinguished - relatively crude and even slightly gargoyle-like. But for Herman in his present state, the man’s arrival remains a most welcome diversion - the whole scene, amid the bright and dazzling snow and noon-day sun, possessing an ecstatic, almost dreamlike fascination after days of confinement indoors.
The great Rascham, in the meantime, and whose eyes seem strangely unfocussed as he goes from face to face among the assembled crowd, appears glad to have arrived, shaking the occasional hand, kissing the occasional cheek or brow with an aloof kind of beneficence until eventually allowing himself to be guided slowly and with all due ceremony towards the main entrance doors. And it is then when Herman realises - yes, of course - Rascham is blind - and has, he learns upon questioning the others, been that way since birth; his inner vision, they say, being all the more perfected as a consequence.
Meanwhile, in the midst of all the excitement, the usual strictures governing the three novices appear to have been relaxed, or else simply forgotten - at which Herman wastes no time in setting out at last to investigate as many features of his surroundings as possible. The range of the place really is astonishing, he reflects as he continues to walk upon the leads of the perimeter walls, the courtyard below being far greater in size than he had been aware of upon his arrival, and containing various ancillary buildings, mostly of an equal age to the castle itself - a testimony to more noble days in the past, no doubt. What would not have altered much over the years, however, is that the whole site clearly remains utterly impenetrable, the walls unbroken. And by this means he also discovers that the building itself is connected in a most spectacular way to the sheer face of another mountain nearby, almost adjacent to it and separated only by a steep and extremely narrow ravine. The connection is achieved via a stone bridge, a solitary span of no more than a few yards in length before penetrating directly into a portal in the rock face the other side. The near-end, meanwhile, with its origin somewhere beneath him in the rear walls of the castle, remains out of sight for Herman, but it is upon this extraordinary structure, just a couple of minutes later, that he is able to observe the welcoming party once again, and with Rascham still in their midst - crossing the ravine, walking silently and in single file, before vanishing from sight into the portal of the mountain. A heavy oak door by which they have entered is then slammed behind them, its sound echoing away into some vastly distant valley below to leave only an eerie and lingering silence behind.
None of this has taken Herman any closer to discovering the whereabouts of Deborah’s daughter, but at least the ‘Great Destroyer’ - or so he must perceive him according to the testimony of his Dr Gross in Bern - has arrived upon the scene, and the whole place seems different: full of activity, and alive with possibilities.
Chapter 27
With his glamorous wife seated opposite in the carriage, Hugh Peters dressed already in black tie for the dinner he is due to attend this evening in Greenwich, is driven at a modest cantor out from his Fleet Street press building up Ludgate Hill and eventually over London Bridge and through the ever-more decrepit, darkening and run down areas of Southwark and Rotherhithe, when the unwelcome and unedifying presence of sewer repairs and an accompanying diversion forces the coachman to steer their prestigious Landau down a warren of narrow side streets - a manoeuvre already suggesting the prospect of a late arrival.
‘Damn nuisance!’ Peters complains, as if thinking aloud to himself rather than specifically to his wife opposite, who rarely gives much of an impression of listening to him these days, anyway.
Impatient at the delay, he rolls down the glass as if to cool his temper. But the air here stinks: that disgusting mixture of hops from the breweries and stagnant water from the docks. What the hell is going on, he wonders with dismay? As always there is nobody at work on the obstruction; no one digging or repairing anything; just a jumble of half-dug trenches and potholes, the whole place in a constant state of dilapidation. It is an embarrassment to him, and a sorrow, because he remembers it in better times - an era when the streets were orderly, the houses occupied by respectable families. They have all fled now - out to Greenwich or across the river. And who can blame them. The indifference of the residents here to dirt and untidiness really is deplorable, and rats and stray dogs roam at will.
‘Why does nobody make an effort to tidy up the place?’ he grumbles, looking out at the largely unlit streets and the people, all so slovenly and grubby, some leaning in doorways, others - children mostly - at play amid the filth. And so, as if to cleanse his vision, he glances instead to the aspect of the exquisite, immaculately attired woman seated opposite him with her perfectly coiffured hair, her plumed hat and sparkling jewels peeping out beneath the furs of her coat, her face so clean and white even in the meagre light of the carriage lamps, almost like a creature from another world by comparison.
‘Probably no one tidies it up because they can’t afford to,’ Rachael volunteers as their eyes meet reluctantly, a response to his tirade that surprises him in its nonchalance, as if she were somehow not taking his observations seriously.
‘I am not convinced that is the case,’ he responds. ‘They have enough time on their hands, most of them. Really, one can only conclude it is impossible to reach inside the minds of anyone who could live like this, in such squalor and still not give a damn. I am of humble origins myself, may I remind you. But never did anyone in my family descend to this level.’
It was true enough. And as a consequence, Peters in his youth had been, for one brief spell of misguided idealism, a socialist at heart, zealous for the welfare of the working classes. This had especially been the case following his arrival in Britain where the poverty, like the riches everywh
ere on display, was somehow so much more visible than anywhere back home. He thought he had understood them then, the noble struggle of the workers and their trades unions, and nowhere more so than in his profession of the Print. But then, when advancement beckoned, and no sooner were their wages and conditions improved, when those very same people took their new found prosperity and spent it in the music halls, on gambling and gin, and trips to Vauxhall gardens to parade in their billycock hats and cheap Sunday suits and dresses like some gross parody of the rich of bygone times. They had betrayed their own class. And for Peters, watching the process unfolding, the foundations upon which he might build his newspaper empire had been as obvious to him as its exploitation was inevitable, aided in no small degree by just such inside knowledge. He understood his customers’ needs, their furtive appetites, their curiosity for celebrity tittle-tattle and for all that was sordid and macabre by way of news. And so, with his own paper, the News Chronicle, that lowest possible denominator of popular journalism, he resolved, without shame or compunction, to cater to every bit of it. And why not! That’s business. And that, he tells himself, is why he is here inside, seated upon the fine leather upholstery of his carriage, and they are out there in the gutter.
The journey, meanwhile, is still not proceeding at all smoothly. With the volume of traffic in the narrow lanes building up, his vehicle - just like so many others - gradually grinds to a halt. It soon becomes apparent, moreover, that contributing to the standstill is the presence of a group of pugnacious and unruly men just ahead who have set light to something in the road - or at least these are his first impressions from the little Peters is able to see by looking forward through his side window - the quantity of acrid smoke billowing past testifying to a sizeable bonfire. Scruffy and without collars to their shirts, their sleeves rolled up despite the cold, they are also in the process of extracting from various old cardboard boxes, numerous books and magazines and hurling these into the flames or - when possible - breaking the spines first in their angry hands.
Rachael, alerted by the noise, has turned in her seat to look out of the window herself and has seen it too. ‘Hugh, I’m frightened. Can’t you do something?’ she whimpers, turning to face him again, the jangling of her bracelets proclaiming her agitation as much as the tremor in her voice.
‘No, of course not. What the hell do you expect me to do?’ he exclaims with irritation, watching as a flickering red glow from the flames illuminates the walls of the buildings outside. Their own horses can be heard now, too, making unsettled noises. With no means in such a narrow space of ordering the carriage to turn, there is nothing for it but to wait - though he does note with approval that his own coachman and several others - hackney carriage men mostly - have already stepped down from their boxes and sent off runners to fetch the police.
But then Peters and Rachael jump almost out of their seats as there is a mighty bang on the roof of their Landau followed by the spectre of an ugly, red face of a man leering in at them behind the glass on the other side. ‘Upwards With Reason! All right mate?’ he bellows pointing to the same slogan emblazoned upon a lapel badge pinned to his jacket, before hurrying away with a sackful of books slung over his shoulder towards the ever-increasing blaze. And as his eyes meet those of his wife once again, Peters is aware of a chilling and deepening sense of terror upon her face - one that infects him with a similar sentiment, despite his best efforts to appear unconcerned.
Meanwhile, there seems no end to the sheer quantity of printed matter these men are finding. A Jewish newsagent nearby with a bookshop attached has been broken into - Peters can see the damage for himself on the door, and a window has been shattered. It has clearly been looted of many of its papers and books and these are being consigned to the flames as well - all fanned by a dusty breeze that continues to tear along the lane, driving the soot and cinders before it. The whole thing is turning into some grotesque carnival; the participants all jeering and swearing at the top of their voices, stumbling and staggering in an ecstasy of hateful intoxication. Those not engrossed in the violence themselves are busy feeding or drinking in celebratory fashion - one devouring a pot of jellied eels, another swigging from a bottle of stout that, once finished, he dashes onto the ground within the fire - leaping back theatrically out of the heat as the flames singe his trouser legs. Residents are peering down out of their windows. Spectators are gathering. Nobody witnessing the outrage wants to stare or gloat, yet nobody can take their eyes from it, not for one second.
And then - it had to happen - some fool just in front of them, relinquishing the safety of his carriage, climbs up alongside the driver at the rear and rings the bell - loudly, again and again, an impatient traffic signal - and this much to the driver’s obvious consternation, because he takes the bell in his hand as soon as possible and silences it. But all too late. It is precisely what the group of thugs - there are around forty of them by this time - require in order to raise their game. Together, they converge on the vehicle, screaming abuse - there to haul the driver and his passenger down and, with bricks and pieces of iron railing to smash into the glass and flimsy locks of the doors until they have hauled out the other unfortunate passengers - including one woman, who is shown scant courtesy as the mob begin to demolish the vehicle with their blows - its horses rearing up in anguish again and again.
Rachael is by this time becoming hysterical, screeching and clutching at her face, trying to shut out the horror of what is happening by attempting to draw across the curtains of their carriage - though Peters prevents her doing this, because in the meantime their own unfortunate driver has been identified and is also being attacked and pushed to the ground - his distinctive livery, top hat and obvious employment in a private carriage of someone of wealth being all the more worthy of the rioter’s wrath. And so it is, just yards away on the other side of the glass of their own hastily locked doors, that they must watch the poor fellow being punched, pushed and, a moment later, as he stumbles and curls himself into an instinctive but utterly futile attempt at self-preservation upon the ground, kicked viciously again and again.
‘Upwards With Reason! Power to the workers!’ one of the thugs roars, raising his clenched fist to the skies as he stamps and stamps again on the abandoned top hat, that most despised symbol of oppression.
‘Yea - give him a good taste of it!’ another goads him on, while others inevitably turn their attention to the occupants of the man’s carriage - their carriage! - until within seconds the fitful crimson glow of the firelight dancing across the walls that has hitherto illuminated the inside of their vehicle is eclipsed by all the sneering, bloated faces of the mob converging across the windows: visions out of some hideous nightmare from which they have no prospect of extricating themselves. Closer and closer they come, staring more and more menacingly inside - as if wondering whether they dare attack such a conspicuously prestigious vehicle. Rachael screams and screams again, hysterical as the handle of the door is nearly torn from its lock.
Then, to their surprise, all the heads outside turn as one - for the ringing and clanging of police bells can be detected in the distance, rising above the din. Everyone outside falls silent, their senses alert, almost sniffing the air like a pack of nervous animals. Then to a man, spontaneously without a word between them, they all take to their heels - to be followed seconds later, and running on foot since it is impossible to get any kind of vehicle down through the congestion, by the bobbies themselves, tall men in black uniforms with helmets, brandishing long batons and truncheons and hurtling past, down the narrow lane and towards the fleeing mob - until within seconds there is not a soul to be seen: and utter silence, apart from the occasional police whistle, shrill in the distance, and the groans of their driver and one or two others, kicked half to death upon the pavements outside.
To Peters’s dismay and utter disbelief, then, Rachael unfastens the carriage door and leaps down. Even in her tight constricting dress and coat, she hastens to their man - it would seem for the
purpose of tending to his wounds - though not being trained in any sense to perform such a service, she merely draws to an abrupt halt, learning over the bloody spectacle, wringing her hands, sobbing.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Peters curses under his breath, torn between leaping out to drag her back or of simply sitting tight and locking all the doors again. Finally, he lowers the glass and orders her to get back inside and wait until the police return. But she refuses - still hovering uselessly over the man, crouching with difficulty in her high heels she stretches out a hesitant hand, only to withdraw it instantly, motivated by some instinctive wish to help but utterly terrified of touching the wounded beast there beneath who continues to moan and writhe upon the pavement.
‘Rachael!’ he bellows again, his fobwatch in his hand. ‘I am going to lock these doors in precisely ten seconds. If those ruffians return, you’re on your own - understand?’
Distraught and confused, she merely looks back at him, still paralysed by her own helplessness - at which he does, indeed, roll up the glass and lock the door.
A fire appliance must have arrived, because more men in uniform appear next, hurrying past, unfurling a water hose as they go; then someone clearly in possession of medical training also shows up and quickly gets to work on one or two of the wounded - those lying on the floor first of all, including their own driver. He is obviously too badly injured to be of any further use, Peters calculates. They will need to make other arrangements for transport, damn it!
Within a few minutes, the bonfire is dowsed, and the walking wounded are shepherded away. Some of the police return next and slowly, the congestion of traffic begins to clear. Peters, without a driver, is ordered by one of the bobbies to climb up and take the reins himself - while Rachael, her skirt spotted with blood, staggers back to the carriage at last, her anxious eyes still darting this way and that in confusion - until her husband, climbing with reluctance up to the driver’s box shouts at her to pull herself together.
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 26
