Then, to everyone’s surprise, there comes the chiming of a bell, somewhere outside of the room and, judging by Peters’s reaction, this is clearly linked to the main door.
‘Gentlemen, I will escort you both on your way,’ Peters remarks, still groaning somewhat but seeming to snap out of his remorse with amazing rapidity. ‘You see, I have another guest,’ he adds, as urbane as ever while handing over a brown paper envelope, no doubt containing a substantial quantity of bank notes, to Hanno.
The young man, however, not wanting to co-operate so readily, does not respond to his guest’s wishes straight away. Instead, following a self-indulgent clearing of his throat, he saunters over to the sideboard and pours himself a glass of the same port Herman himself had enjoyed earlier, and after drinking it down in one gulp, brazenly walks to his host’s desk and raids his cigarette case from under his nose. These small statements of defiance and supremacy being completed, he finally acquiesces and the men begin their long walk back to the front door. They keep out of sight of the new arrival as he enters - a tall, busy-looking fellow in a gabardine overcoat whom Peters ushers in with a similar enthusiasm as shown earlier to Herman. This was surely the person he was expecting all along, Herman surmises. And then they leave.
A few meagre snowflakes are beginning to fall as Herman, finding himself once more in the most unexpected and unlikely company of Hanno, begins his walk up to the roadway, wondering just how he might be able to deliver himself back to the train station in a timely fashion. Without the ability to wire for transportation, it is a discouraging prospect, and a trek of at least an hour on foot. Gazing into the quizzical face of Hanno, he wonders if the wretched man, who is obviously no stranger to the place, might have some answers to their shared predicament -though the prospect of relying on this disreputable little thug’s wisdom and leadership in the matter does not exactly fill him with optimism. It is a bleak and friendless night. And bitterly cold.
Chapter 35
‘Have you seen the Englishman? David Wilson is his name,’ Poppy asks, and asks again this evening as she wanders about the grounds and the castle, up and down the passageways and winding staircases, in and out of the various rooms and galleries. It has been a beautiful, sunny day, crystal clear. The snow had thawed a little - so that as it freezes again this evening the length of the icicles upon the gables and windows of the building grow just that tiny bit longer, reminding her of prison bars.
She wonders what it would be like down there in the valleys or in those other parts of the country where winter reaches its end so much earlier than here - contemplating it with an unfamiliar longing that surprises her, a fondness for normal human society recollected from a happier past. It is so often denied to her and must be shunned in this place; yet it would still exist, of course, somewhere out there, places where people would be heard laughing, where the conversation would be so much more entertaining. How good it would be to share such an evening with a friend - someone like her English gentleman, for instance, who although much older than herself was still, in a delightfully old-fashioned way, really quite dashing - and she wonders what it could possibly be that keeps her thoughts returning to him?
The teachings of the ancients tell of how messengers from the spirit world often enter our lives at times of importance or of crisis, and that when they appear it is in the guise of that which is most reassuring and attractive to the recipient. Thus, to one who is devout, the messenger would appear as an angel; to one engaged in warfare, as a mighty warrior, and to those whose lives are steeped in sensuality as a beautiful young man or woman - or an infinite variety of other guises: a cloud, a bird or a nodding daffodil. And her gallant English gentleman, steeped in all the traditions and mannerisms of the world she had left so far behind - how very tempting, indeed, her messenger has become to her already. And until she might learn whether it be of light or darkness, for good or ill, she will continue to feel drawn to it.
The fact is, from the first moment she had noticed him in the passageway in the castle, he had seemed familiar, as if she had known him a long time, though whether it was in this life or another, she could not rightly say. Nor does she altogether understand her own feelings at present. For if this is love, romantic love, then it is not at all as she expected. For a moment she is reminded of her mother’s words long ago, when they were walking in the garden along the banks of the delightful stream she remembers so well that ran along its border; and her mother had explained to her how real love, when it comes, is never like you think it should be.
‘The expectation is always derived from others,’ she had told her, ‘and it is built on their experiences, not yours. It may be gloriously romantic, like a poem by Keats, or exciting and intense, like a Beethoven sonata. It might be a love that goes with fast living and danger; or it might be something cosy and snug - but all of these are just examples of what somebody else calls love. Don’t worry. When yours comes along, and when it takes a-hold of you and shakes you … you’ll know.’
Yes, that’s it: a feeling of certainty; a kind of effervescence inside. An outlandish desire to be merry; to dance instead of walk; to sing instead of talk. There are echoes of long forgotten poems; joyful songs and melodies; a golden thread of memory leading her back to her home and her childhood - to all those times when she had sat with such pleasure at the keys of her piano, when she had been so enthralled and at one with her own true feelings. And her English gentleman - why, yes, of course she had seen him before! She had fallen in love with him all that time ago when she had studied and played her music and had simply wished for someone to share her happiness. Now she is certain. And she longs so much to reconnect that part of herself to him again. The only question is … where might he be now? If only she knew.
And so, this evening, and still without any news of his whereabouts, her spirits gradually begin to sink and fade. Had it all been some elaborate plot by the people here to test her resolve? How sad if this were the case. And how frightening, too, if her role in whatever the Society has planned for her is such that it requires so much suspicion and subterfuge on their part.
It is getting late, and she knows she must return to her chamber, that silent place where she must shut away her dreams for another day. And yet she does not return. Instead, she finds herself standing in the warmth and familiarity of the refectory, staring at the grand piano in the corner, and perceiving it for the first time since her arrival here all those weeks ago, not as some forbidden symbol of Western decadence but rather as something of a minor miracle, that it should be here at all.
‘No one plays on that, any more,’ they had told her. Just something left by the previous owners of the buildings, an unused and unloved relic of some bygone age when such things would have been treasured. ‘Yet why not again?’ she asks herself. Tempted beyond endurance, and before she can even think up a suitable excuse for not doing so, she has lifted the lid, pulled up the stool, adjusted it to the correct height and has commenced upon some scales - just routine stuff to check the tuning - and which, she is surprised to learn, is still quite respectable. A beautiful and robust instrument.
She begins to play some melodies, recalling some of those classical pieces she still knows by heart. How quickly all her abilities and skills come back. And within no time, she is playing pieces of Schumann and Brahms, floating from one to the other, blending together whatever snippets she can summon up from all those years ago when she had played daily.
Attracted by the glorious sounds, or perhaps simply curious over any kind of music being played in such normally dour surroundings, others in the vicinity begin to gather round to listen, drawing up seats or settling themselves on ottomans or cushions nearby, though she is hardly aware of them. It is bliss, magical and enchanting until …
A dark shadow seems to loom over her, and when she stops mid-flow in one of Chopin’s glorious nocturnes and glances up, it is to behold the morose, scowling features of none other than Frau Weiss.
‘You pl
ay beautifully, Penelope,’ she says, even if her narrowing, cold blue eyes betray a very different sentiment.
‘Thank you, Frau Weiss,’ she mutters, wondering whether she should rise.
‘We have not heard music like this here for many years,’ the woman continues. ‘It reminds us of what we have left behind, does it not? What we have overcome here at the home of Rascham - all the sentimentality and romantic falsehoods of the material plane.’
Naturally, it is impossible for Poppy to continue playing now - while all her listeners, similarly disillusioned, rise and disperse. Everything has been spoilt. And in any case, it seems there are other more pressing matters Frau Weiss wishes to speak to her about - because tomorrow, she informs her as they walk back together to her chambers down in the old theatre, there is an appointment for her with the doctor. He wishes to examine her and prepare her for an important procedure. Frau Weiss can make no promises at this stage, she tells her, but Poppy can guess well enough what it must be. The great honour itself is imminent - and due, she is surprised to learn, in just a few days’ time.
With a brush of some fast-dissolving snowflakes from his lapels, Malcolm Skinner, renowned editor of The News Chronicle, accepts with gratitude a stiff glass of whisky at the hands of his governor Hugh Peters.
‘Cor, what a night, eh!’ he exclaims with a typical barrow-boy salutation. ‘Cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey,’ he adds, striving for some kind of banter in the unfamiliar vacuum of silence, a brooding kind of silence that accompanies his master about the room.
‘I appreciate your responding to my message and journeying here yourself, Malcolm,’ Peters says, his voice soft and untypically genial. ‘I wasn’t expecting that - not personally, not at such a busy time. And of course, you will have been wondering why I have requested such a visit, all the way up here?’
‘Well ... seeing as you mention it, governor ...’
‘Yes, I must apologise, Malcolm, to have inconvenienced you in such a way,’ Peters interrupts, and again with the most uncharacteristic solicitude. ‘Tell me, have they remarked over my absence in London? I guess it must seem like I spend a lot of my time here these days.’
‘Well … yea,’ Skinner replies, watching the other man with interest, his countenance so typically suave and sophisticated, replete with silk tie and cufflinks, the handsome orchid in his buttonhole: as immaculate as ever, even here in his own home. Yet there is definitely something different about him this evening. It’s unsettling. ‘I suppose it’s like they say: a ship always needs a rudder, eh!’ Skinner goes on. ‘A team needs a captain …’
‘Spare me the philosophy,’ Peters interrupts reverting more to his usual brusque manner. ‘We are still trying to locate her, I take it - my elusive ex-wife?’
‘Still trying, sir, yes,’ the editor replies crisply. ‘But nobody’s seen her for weeks. I must say, we’re all missing Bob Small. He was the best. Never lost the scent once he was onto somebody. But they reckon it’ll be a long job, getting him right - even if he does come round.’
‘Yes. Bob Small. How many years has he worked for us? Good man,’ Peters mumbles, not really interested in a reply. ‘But anyway, I think we can lay off now, don’t you?’
‘Lay off? What: you mean, Deborah, not trying to nail her - the big picture you spoke about?’
‘Yes. That’s right … just drop it, will you. I really do think we have done enough. All those headlines about the Wailing Woman, and so on. It’s all ... all a little unseemly, would you not agree?’
Another long silence ensues. Surely, Skinner thinks to himself with dismay, this is not the reason for his having to travel all these miles up to the Borders? It really is most peculiar, he concludes, as he watches as his master pours them each another glass of whisky, adding a little ice to his own as he fixes his guest with a dark, scrutinizing gaze, his brows unusually narrow and concentrated, so that a deepening crease forms at the bridge of his nose.
‘We’ve failed, haven’t we?’ he murmurs, while at the same time proffering his editor a seat by the fire at last, which he gladly accepts. ‘The campaign, I mean - Upwards With Reason! It has been a failure.’
Skinner, leaning forward and warming his hands, makes noises of polite dissent, but because he can well perceive his boss is in a self-deprecating mood, and one not likely to alter, keeps the protestations short. News of his brush with the rabble south of the river the other evening soon got back to everyone on the papers. And the incident with the condom airship has already found a permanent place in the canon of legends comprising much of pub-land gossip along the length of Fleet Street and beyond. He understands his embarrassment.
‘Did you know, Malcolm, I once used to box?’ Peters continues, wandering still with slow measured steps up and down, his voice distant and vague as if his mind were occupied more and more with memories. ‘Yes - middleweight - southpaw. Oh, that was long ago, when I was just a kid, really. But I could deliver a fair old right hook in my day. Yes, I could sort anybody out then. No problem. And yet now ... now I am unable to strike out at all, even at my worst enemies; all those little squirts that once I would have just crushed and ...’
Realising his left hand has taken on a life of its own and is in the process of clutching the throat of some imaginary foe in mid-air, he catches himself, and his voice trails off. He can see, too, how none of this means very much to Skinner, who is, in fact looking as perplexed as ever, and even slightly anxious. ‘Anyway, Malcolm, you’ll be relieved to discover there is a reason you have had to come all this way,’ he continues, reaching into a drawer of his desk and handing over a large envelope, sealed with red wax, like a legal document. ‘This is far too valuable to be sent in the post. I want the contents of this envelope set and printed in the Sunday Chronicle as a special feature first thing, and you’ll probably want to repeat it in the Daily on Monday, so make sure they pass it over, will you, once they’re finished. Oh, and I would appreciate it if you do not break the seal or peruse its contents until tomorrow when you arrive back at the office, and also not to discuss it with anybody thereafter. Just make sure they run it - earliest edition possible, Sunday morning. Got it?’
Skinner stows the envelope into his briefcase. ‘Right-i-o,’ he says cheerily - and although curious, and realising it must, indeed, be something pretty important to have called for it to be personally collected like this, he leaves off pursuing the subject. ‘Anyway, where’s our old mate Joe Beezley, then?’ he inquires, instead, referring to his boss’s ever-faithful secretary who would normally have been charged with such a mission. ‘Seems a bit odd, to see you without him, sir?’
‘Beezley? Oh …he’s on holiday, actually. Just for a week. Even Joseph has to have a holiday sometime,’ Peters jests as he turns away from his visitor once more and continues to wander about the room in aimless pathways among the furniture. ‘Funny … how sometimes you fail to appreciate someone’s importance until you don’t have them around for a while. He always keeps me busy, you see. The busy Beezley. And in his absence I find myself poring over all sorts of peculiar nonsense - things I would not normally have time to think about.’
‘Ha ha! Yea,’ Skinner responds with suitable merriment, his eyes following the other man about the room. ‘I’m like that, whenever the missus goes off for a few days. I get up to all sorts of mischief then .. or imagine it, anyway.’
But Peters is not amused. He merely turns and regards his editor with a renewed sense of bewilderment, as if seeing him for the first time. ‘Tell me something, Malcolm,’ he begins again, finally taking a seat by the fire, opposite, and occupying his restless hands by taking up the poker and stirring the embers. ‘Do you believe in God?’
‘Do what?’
‘Oh, I don’t necessarily mean someone with a long white beard sitting up there on a cloud,’ Peters elaborates, waving such conjecture aside, ‘but rather a kind of … well, higher, abstract intelligence. A destiny that shapes our ends?’
The edit
or swallows a lump in his throat and ponders long and hard for a moment; his thick sausage-like fingers fumbling around his glass before lifting it to his mouth and draining it with an audible gulp. His brain, so used to a daily diet of advertising slogans and pithy news headlines, simply fails to function in the way necessary for such a line of enquiry.
‘I ask you this, Malcolm, because I never have, you see - never believed. Not at all,’ Peters continues, almost talking to himself. ‘It’s just that sometimes, just when you think you are in charge of things, running the show, something crops up, stands in the way - and you discover you’re not in charge at all, and never have been. What I mean is … right now I feel I’m trapped, bound up in chains of my own making. And it’s at times like this when you want to believe in something, to turn to something. Maybe even just to find a way out - some means of unlocking those chains and walking free.’
At which he glances up once more to examine the face of the editor. Seeking any kind of glimmer of comprehension.
‘Well …I consider myself a good Christian, if that’s what you mean,’ the editor asserts, still struggling with Peters’s earlier question and not having quite caught up with the progression of the other man’s ideas. ‘I mean, I don’t go to church, and I don’t say me prayers or anything like that. I don’t read the bible, and I couldn’t tell you what all them commandments are or the names of the disciples off-hand - but I’m still a good Christian, see.’
Peters continues to stare at the face of his editor, all rosy and golden in the firelight, regarding his pronouncements with something not unlike sympathy, wondering on how anyone could possibly have a faith and yet not have any involvement or practical experience of the things that comprise it. He says as much, but the editor’s response is all too typical, unfortunately.
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 35
