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

by Robert Stephen Parry

  ‘Get onboard, Rachael,’ he demands. ‘Seeing as I am to be your cabman now, perhaps you could at least do me the courtesy of stepping inside this time,’ he adds, furious still, especially at having to demean himself by taking the reins, a practice in which he is not at all competent. But there is no time to argue. They must ‘get a move on,’ the Bobbie states, brooking no refusal. The rest of the traffic behind is waiting.

  As soon as they have turned a corner or two, however, and regained the main highway, Peters stops the carriage - intent on abandoning the vehicle at the earliest opportunity as he flags down a hackney.

  ‘Stupid little fool!’ he curses under his breath as he opens the door for his wife so she might step down and transfer to the other vehicle. ‘You could have been murdered back there, messing around like that.’

  Rachael, without another word, scrambles inside, and he follows. It is a terribly smelly and shabby vehicle - so unlike their own private carriage. They are late, very late for the dinner, but at least they have a driver once again and are on the move. All is well, and gradually Peters feels he is regaining some measure of equanimity. But Rachael, for her part, can only stare at him as they continue on their way, examining his dour, pallid features in stunned silence, a look of incredulity still lingering upon her tear-stained face.

  ‘Have you got what you wanted now?’ she finally speaks. ‘Is this the world of reason you wanted? Burning books? What next, Hugh - where do they go from here - burning the people who have written them? Will you be satisfied then?’

  ‘Shut up!’ he cries, and leaning forward, giving vent to all the pent up rage and humiliation still tormenting him, he partly raises a hand as if to strike her.

  And cowered into silence, and having had more than enough of brutish behaviour for one day, the beautiful Rachael dries her eyes, sets to work rubbing the blood from the hem of her skirts and says no more.

  Chapter 28

  Of all the days since his arrival here at the Schloss, this is surely one of the most momentous. Held over from yesterday due to the surprise arrival from their leader, it is the day of the much awaited ceremony of initiation for Herman and his two companions into the grade of Novice - a service consisting of a kind of pseudo baptism with some cool, brackish water, and which is conducted not in the main hall as Herman has assumed, but inside what must have been the original well house of the castle, a holy well they are informed, but which in truth seems to Herman little more than a outdoor chamber of dank smells, lichen and dripping walls - and upon whose ancient glazed tiles can be seen the most curious representations of various fierce and exotic creatures, whales, basilisks or serpents, in the process of devouring various young women whole - and who, oddly enough, appear anything but distressed at being thus consumed. One such maiden is occupied combing her hair as she stands quite happily within the jaws of the monster; another, bare breasted, is intent on reading a book; another strumming upon a musical instrument as she goes to her doom. These depictions, the provost overseeing the ceremony explains, as a libation of holy water is pressed upon the forehead of each of the supplicants, allude to the process of integrating spirit and matter, a process integral to the first stage of enlightenment they are entering upon today as novices. The rest of the ceremony, meanwhile, incorporates a lot of kneeling and chanting, culminating in a kind of blessing from the provost and the presentation of a signed photograph of Rascham himself - or, as they are exhorted to refer to him from now on, ‘Lord of the Darkened Way.’

  ‘What’s that, then - Lord of the Darkened Way?’ Andrew, the ever-cynical young American, enquires.

  By the tightening of his shoulders, the provost appears more than a little irritated over such an outburst of petulance, but a second later draws upon his face a look of appropriate stoicism as he duly explains: ‘The Darkened Way means his path is obscure - not manifest to the eyes of the profane,’ he explains, not all that helpfully for Andrew it seems who has been fidgeting the whole way through the lengthy ordeal and is still clearly uncomfortable with having to endure yet another litany of repetitious mantra-like prayers punctuating each and every stage of the ceremony until its conclusion.

  ‘You each have an appointment with our lawyer next,’ the provost declares, bidding everyone to rise from their kneeling position, ‘He will advise you of your commitments as candidates to the higher grade - that of the hallowed Inner Temple.’

  ‘No thank you,’ Andrew remarks, much to the shock of all present as he gets to his feet and reaches for his hat and coat. ‘I’m off now, if it’s all the same to you. I shan’t be continuing. May I have my belongings back, please?’

  ‘What belongings? You have no worldly goods in this sacred place,’ the provost responds icily.

  ‘We were told, when we arrived, that our personal effects would be returned whenever we should leave,’ Andrew reminds him. ‘I have a valuable Cartier watch.’

  At which, looking most irritated, the provost holds out an arm indicating a pause in proceedings while he speaks briefly, whispering to a colleague who then swiftly vacates the chamber, as if on an urgent errand.

  ‘Andrew, come now,’ the provost begins again, returning to the discussion in a more friendly way, ‘this really is most irregular, you know - to accept your initiation, then to disappoint us all by leaving straight away. Listen … why don’t you just have a little chat with one of our colleagues first? He will be with you in just a moment. He can counsel you before you make your final decision.’

  ‘I am in no need of counselling. I have already made up my mind,’ Andrew insists, surprised over the obstinacy of the man.

  ‘Of course you have, Andrew. Of course you have. I understand,’ the provost replies, just as Andrew’s progress is halted by the sudden arrival of a dour and unwholesome-looking man, his skin sallow, almost cadaverous in appearance and clothed in the same rough, blue-serge uniform worn by the staff who had admitted Herman to the castle the other evening.

  ‘Ah, here he is!’ the provost declares with relief. ‘There’s really no need to be hasty, Andrew. Look - won’t you just have a word with Hanno first?’

  And at this mention of the name, Hanno, Herman feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end - for was this not the very name he had heard on the lips of Deborah as she lay on the ground beside a carriage in the Tyrolean mountains one afternoon not too long ago? And was it not also the name of the man she had discovered in Poppy’s apartment in Heidelberg when she had journeyed there shortly after her daughter’s supposed death? - for she had confided as much to him just the other day.

  ‘Come with me, friend,’ Hanno says, taking Andrew by the arm.’ His accent is of some central European tongue. ‘Do not despair of your life.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Andrew demands, appearing unnerved at having his arm seized, none too gently it seems, as he struggles to extricate himself - to no avail however - and with a thin and grudging smile still upon the face of his unpleasant new companion he is led out of the building and away.

  ‘What time is our appointment with the lawyer,’ Marie asks, if anything even more keen to proceed, especially in the face of any alternative that might entail a similar tête-à-tête with Hanno.

  ‘Tomorrow at noon for you, Marie,’ the provost replies cheerfully. ‘And at 2 p.m. I believe for you David,’ he adds turning to Herman. ‘You may henceforth both wear the new sash of the novitiate about your shoulders or waist, as you prefer, and you may consider yourself at liberty to wander about the castle at will and to eat in our refectory where hot meals are served until 2 pm every day, and again anytime after 6 in the evening.’

  And, taking with gratitude the proffered sash, this time one of a silvery-white silk brocade, and inspired even more so by the prospect of a decent meal after so many days of enforced austerity, the two remaining novices need little further stimulus to take their leave and to put the ghastly vestibule of cold water and mouldy walls behind them.

  ‘May I just ask you, Marie, what i
s the difference between the women’s training and ours?’ Herman inquires of his colleague once they are seated together in the dining hall, and after he has summarised his own experiences to her over a welcoming luncheon.

  ‘Oh, not so much. It all sounds about the same,’ she replies, becoming untypically reticent for a moment, he thinks, and accompanied by the appearance of a blush upon her otherwise pale cheeks. ‘Books to read; private writings by Rascham. Some exercises, meditation, stretching and ... things. I’d prefer not to talk about it, really.’

  He tries not to show his disappointment. It is, in any case, a most agreeable experience to be sharing a hearty meal with someone relatively normal for once. The place in which they are seated is also pleasant enough, at least by Schloss Lethe standards, with a welcoming log-fire, and windows that, despite being thickly recessed, are nonetheless draped with curtains and topped with elaborate swags of purple velvet. There are chairs and bookshelves all around, too, all embellished in the Gothic style, and a long central table on which they and several others are seated. There is even a grand piano in situ (though what manner of entertainment it would ever be coaxed into playing in such an austere environment, he cannot imagine). The food is good, and judging by the menu, surprisingly varied - the produce carried up the mountain by mule, along with other supplies from the village below. The consignments often come with visitors included in the party, apparently; so Marie is amused to discover that Herman had arrived on foot.

  ‘I suppose I was rather impatient,’ he tells her by way of explanation. ‘Anyway, Marie, would you treat what I am about to say to you in confidence?’ he asks, and when she nods in the affirmative, he ventures to show her the photograph he has of Deborah’s daughter, posing the question as to whether she might have come across anyone resembling her lately.

  ‘She is very pretty,’ Marie replies but shakes her head. No, she has not seen her. ‘They say there are other young women here, though,’ she adds with a hopeful turn, ‘but that they stay somewhere else.’

  ‘Do you mean over the other side, in the mountain?’

  ‘The mountain - what do you mean?’ Marie asks.

  ‘Have you not noticed? There is a bridge at the rear of the castle walls, and it goes straight across to a doorway in a mountainside close by.’

  No. She has not noticed it, she replies, and appears, in fact, suspicious over his curiosity. She has not felt any need to disobey orders and to explore unnecessarily, she states. And this time, therefore, perceiving her reluctance to pursue the subject, Herman concentrates on the rest of his meal in silence.

  Both wanting to have a word with Andrew before his departure, they take themselves outside, onto the veranda to begin their search, a large paved area with magnificent panoramic views, and where, it would seem, tables and chairs would be placed in more clement weather, for there are still one or two of these, upturned, in situ. They do not tarry for long, however, because, there is no sign here of their fellow novice - nor, likewise, below in the courtyard; no sign of anybody waiting to leave; no activity reported from the stables, nor any record of anyone having availed themselves of the side door. It’s a mystery - so that Herman is left wondering in all seriousness, and not for the first time, whether the tall walls and ancient fortifications surrounding the property might not be so much for the purpose of keeping people out these days, as for keeping them in.

  ‘Actually, I think you ought to leave with Andy if you can,’ Marie volunteers abruptly as they make their way back to the main building. It comes as a surprise to Herman, that she should suggest such a thing.

  ‘Why? Why do you say that?’ he inquires. ‘I think it’s wonderful here.’

  ‘Because I do not believe they want men to enter the Inner Temple. They will allow you to try, maybe, and to pay them much for it. But this is as far as they go. It is a tight hierarchy, the male population. Unless you have something special, like a lot of money - and Andrew does, apparently, so I have heard - they will not let you progress.’

  ‘Really? What makes you so sure, Marie?’

  ‘One of the women told me. The disciplines practised here are not just mystical and yogic - they are Tantric. Sexual magic. That’s what I am beginning to understand. They don’t need the male energy, because Rascham already embodies it to such an extraordinary degree. The energies must be equal, yes? So they take more women.’

  They walk on in renewed silence for a moment. What a peculiar young lady! She is clearly still suspicious of him, and yet wants to voice her misgivings all at the same time. She is probably right, though. Other than the registrar and provost, Herman has yet to encounter a single other male wearing the distinctive purple-coloured garments of Inner Temple adeptship. Any male encountered is usually just clad in the blue serge uniform signifying an ancillary worker - one who would be regarded as little more than a menial in this place.

  ‘Um …you might well be right. Perhaps I need to come up with something just a little extra, eh - to make them keep me on?’ Herman remarks, smiling to himself, and much to Marie’s puzzlement. But he says no more before they part.

  With still a good few hours of daylight available, and proudly displaying his new brocade sash about his shoulder, Herman takes advantage of his new freedoms by commencing upon a renewed exploration of the castle and its environs - the ancient complex of courtyards and battlements, stairways and onion-domed towers. Even now, there are very few people to be seen, and certainly no one bearing the least resemblance to Deborah’s daughter.

  After several circuits of the inner ward, he feels he has just about determined the layout of the place mentally - apart, of course, from whatever might lie behind the closed door on the other side of that bridge, the mountain peak just a few yards away across the ravine where Rascham had entered just yesterday and where, no doubt, he continues to reside. The question is, who else might be there with him? Is this the location of the Inner Temple they are always speaking of in such reverential tones? And if so, could it be where Deborah’s daughter might be housed? He knows only that he must find the answers to these questions, and soon. And then, as he returns to the main courtyard, and just when he would have least expected it, he comes upon his fellow student, Andrew - hurrying from beneath one of the arched doorways, his eyes squinting against the low winter sunshine as he emerges - and appearing distracted and unsettled, startled at the sound of Herman’s voice, and almost jumping into the air at the kindly hand upon his shoulder.

  ‘Hello Andy - still with us? We have been wondering where you were,’ Herman inquires, as together they set off towards the new rooms that have already been assigned to them - high up in the east wing of the castle - spacious and warm, and which even have window-seats with views over the courtyard and wooded valley below. And it is only now that Andrew ventures to answer Herman’s question.

  ‘Oh, we - er - had a slight altercation, me and my new friend Hanno,’ he states merrily as they enter - though his voice, Herman notices, is trembling, and his face paler than ever. ‘I’ve been locked away with him all this time, would you believe.’

  ‘Locked away? What do you mean?’ Herman demands, shocked.

  Upon which the hapless fellow, and after making sure there is no one in the passageway outside, motions Herman away from the door, and actually begins sobbing. ‘I wanted to leave,’ he goes on, ‘but he took me to a chamber, downstairs somewhere where the dogs are kept in cages. It was dark. The door was locked. He told me my soul would be damned forever if I broke the vow of secrecy. I told him again I wanted to go. I said I wasn’t about to break any bloody vows or anything. He kept on talking and the dogs kept snarling. Then he ... he tried to strangle me. No, listen, I’m not kidding. He put his hands round my throat and pushed me down over a bench - some awful butcher’s bench they must use for chopping meat for the dogs. It was awful, being pinned down like that. I thought he was going to bugger me, to be honest. He said he would keep tabs on me always, and he would always find me if ever I told anybody abou
t what was happening here. Anyway, I don’t even want to talk about it any more. This is not a nice place, David. You realise that, don’t you. There is something terribly evil about things here.’

  ‘Evil?’

  ‘Pure evil. Believe me. Anyway, I am not going to stay here another minute. I must go. I’ve probably already said too much. I mean, I can trust you, can’t I? You won’t tell him, will you? You won’t tell Hanno?’

  Herman assures the poor young fellow of his discretion and of his friendship, too. And he begs him to wait at least until morning before setting forth. It is late, he reminds him; there have been fresh falls of snow, and the long walk down the mountain to the village would be anything but safe. But Andrew does not care. Any fate is preferable to a repeat performance of what he has just had to endure, he says, as he dons his overcoat and stuffs a few belongings into a rucksack - so that within just a few minutes he is packed and gone; and Herman, from his vantage at the window of their room, can only watch in pity as the side door of the Gatehouse is opened and the slender young man, so smartly dressed and yet so pathetic and vulnerable with a rucksack on his back and an overnight case in hand, scurries through the opening, and in the already gathering gloom of the afternoon is seen to be almost running as he descends the snow-covered track towards the valley below. Herman notices him slipping a couple of times. But still, uncaring of the consequences, he continues - if anything even faster and with the look of a man possessed in every step, until he finally turns a bend in the pathway and is vanished from view.