‘Probably that I just never had good enough knees for all that praying lark, know what I mean?’ he laughs.
‘Can’t you be serious for once?’ Peters urges with exacerbation, throwing the poker down. ‘Just for once, let the cockney sparrow performance drop, will you!’
‘Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir,’ the editor replies straight away and this time with much more confidence.
‘But why? Why not?’ Peters demands with a bemused shake of the head as he leans forward, elbows on knees as if wanting to examine the other man at even closer quarters for once, to gaze into his soul - exasperated, too, that for the first time in his life when he wants to speak about something deep, his present company’s schedule is not synchronised, and probably never would be.
‘It’s like you say - because of the role,’ Skinner answers with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Like something on the stage … it’s become the man, if you see what I mean. I couldn’t drop it now even if I tried, not after all these years. What would people think of me?’
Peters understands - he understands all too well, and so he waves the matter aside. And with that, waves the editor and his presence aside as well as he gets to his feet. Time to depart. ‘You know, Malcolm, you really are my kind of man,’ he remarks as the editor stands in readiness for his required exit. ‘We are far more alike, than ever I realised. Maybe that’s why I hate the bloody sight of you.’
Skinner smiles and nods his cheery compliance, pleased that a more familiar mode of discourse has returned: the safe banter of rudeness and profanity that has sustained the two of them together all these years. ‘Will that be all then, boss?’ he inquires, piqued by the prospect of the bitter night outside and, having to depart almost as soon as he has arrived, it will have to be the Glasgow to London sleeper service for him his evening, and no pleasant overnight stay in the luxury of Craigmull as he had secretly hoped.
‘Yes,’ Peters replies, ‘my wife and her friends will be returning before midnight, and there are just one or two things I need to attend to prior to that.’
Upon which, with a rather forlorn nod of resignation, the editor, accompanied by his employer to the front doors, is reunited with his cold, dripping raincoat and hat, and with the aid of a chaise and a groom, the only remaining servant available from the stable block outside, allows himself to be driven away back towards the station - leaving Peters totally alone at last, the first time this evening, in fact, and with a momentous resolution coming once more to the forefront of his mind. And he finds himself wondering whether he really will succeed in getting everything accomplished in time.
Chapter 36
‘So, what’s your game, then?’ Hanno demands of Herman, with an unnerving command of colloquial English as the two men stomp their way along a frosty path towards the shores of the loch, and where, Herman is astonished to discover, the rogue has arrived by a small row boat - an additional precaution, he says, so as not to be detected, were anything to go amiss.
‘My game? Just the same as yours, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Herman replies equally disdainfully. ‘Just looking after myself, and trying to make a bit of spare cash,’ he adds, deciding his only hope of concealment would be to play the villain also.
Apparently, the boat had been purloined during Hanno’s last visit some weeks ago, taken from the many similar ones available at Craigmull, and had been hidden up. No one has noticed its absence, Hanno assures him as they prepare the little craft for their brief voyage over to the other side and where, he says, there is but a short walk to an alternative train station and a branch line connecting to the main north-south route.
It all sounds plausible enough. But still, Herman is anxious. He cannot help speculating on just how much of his earlier talk with Peters Hanno might have been privy too. The impenetrable darkness of the evening, for the Moon has set by this time, reveals nothing of his face as he pushes the vessel down from the shore and they jump in.
‘So we make a deal, yes?’ Hanno suggests, turning up his flimsy jacket collar about his ears once he has settled. ‘I will keep quiet about it, if you do the same - yes?’ he adds, taking up a solitary oar and paddling with hardly a sound, negotiating some bracken and reeds before edging out into the waters of the narrow but no doubt exceedingly deep waters of the loch itself - the shoreline being only distinguishable by the glow of distant, nebulous lights of Craigmull away to one side.
‘Damn it!’ he curses after a bout of his habitual coughing, aggravated by the cold air, no doubt, and spitting up a little phlegm for good measure.
‘You should get that seen to, Hanno,’ Herman volunteers. ‘It could be something serious.’
‘It is serious,’ Hanno replies tetchily. ‘That is why I make sure I enjoy my life, what is left of it. That is why I don’t give a damn about anyone or anything.’
‘I see,’ Herman responds, though failing to evince much sympathy. ‘But you are a mystery, Hanno. I am intrigued that you should engage in blackmail. Hardly ethical, after all. Don’t you care much for the higher ideals of the Society?’
‘What, all that garbage about the spirit and finding the light? Ha! Give me darkness - that is my medium. That is what Hanno likes. Anyway, they would not want anybody like me, would they. Hardly the sensitive, academic type. No, Hanno just does the dirty work - and, believe me, there is plenty of that to keep me busy. Oh, Rascham - he is a clever guy, make no mistake. He binds himself to his dark angels by magic, so they are kept to him for life. But usually it is a short life. He gets Frau Weiss - you know that old bag in charge of the girls - to groom all the best looking ones and when they get to be difficult he has them silenced. But not before he blinds them and has his fun. Oh, he has all kinds of reasons for it: for enlightenment, inner vision and all that kind of shit. Truth is, they wouldn’t go anywhere near the ugly bastard if they could see him, would they? He doesn’t run the show back there anyway. It is von Spiegler - you know, Walter. He is the power behind the throne - which is all just a front, anyway, for pimping off the girls. Yea, I get to figure out the great Walter von Spiegler a long time ago. But I know, also, how I can be useful to him. And he useful to me. They can rely on Hanno.’
‘I say, what do you mean about pimping off the girls?’ Herman inquires, utterly repulsed by the unerringly rough manner of the other man.
‘Yea, that is what it’s all about, my friend - the whole charade back there at Schloss Lethe. Big time pimping. And I mean really big time. Think about it, my friend: if you are in the public eye, politics, royalty, whatever, and you want sex, you want to indulge your little perversions - you don’t want the girl to recognise you do you, or identify you afterwards. Sure, there are lots of ways around the problem - always have been. And every madam in every classy whorehouse knows the ways - disguises, masks, false names, darkened rooms. But Spiegler and his friends - they have hit upon the ultimate means of anonymity. Take away their sight first, the girls, and always the most beautiful girls, then pimp them off. Usually it is hotels in Vienna where we take them for their little meetings with the great and the good. Sometimes we take them abroad, also - to Paris, or even once or twice to London. Sometimes, in the summer, the men even come to the castle. I’d say von Spiegler is one of the most powerful men in Europe because of this. He has everybody under his thumb - keeping all their secrets as long as they cooperate with his plans. They are all sick, anyway. Most of the men running the world are sick. Normal sex - it does not interest them. And I know … I know, because I am the master pimp of all pimps, my friend - it is my job for years. And the punters, they tip well, believe me. Don’t get me wrong, though: I am always ready to earn a bit extra. Sure. And Peters back there ... well, the guy is in a tight corner right now, you have to admit, and I am not going to let that slip by. I like seeing bastards like that squirm, see. And blackmail? Yea, maybe - though I prefer to call it a bonus - ha ha!’
The waters of the lock lap about the perimeter of the craft as they go, and Herman can feel the cold, damp humo
urs of the night seeping into his bones already, an unpleasant feeling not mitigated in any sense by Hanno’s chilling company.
‘So by what means exactly does the Society silence the girls, as you put it?’ Herman inquires, trying to sound chummy, one heretic to another, yet fearful in his suspicions that this repellent creature might well have some part in the process. It is not easy even now, even with his eyes accustomed to the darkness, to discern his features, but it seems to Herman that by way of reply he slowly and deliberately draws a finger across his own throat in an act of slitting, then shows a row of irregular white teeth, reminding Herman of some awful predatory animal perched there in front of him at the narrow stern of the boat.
‘No questions asked,’ he continues. ‘The girls - and one or two boys sometimes - they meet with unfortunate accidents. Anyone who threatens Spiegler’s secret empire does. Like your friend Andrew the other day - remember? Yea, well in case you are wondering, he never did make it down to the village that time when he left the castle. No one can recall him arriving. Maybe we find him when the snow melts, eh?’
Herman understands now - all is abundantly clear.
‘So you have the girls all to yourself for a time, eh? Before you finish the business?’ Herman observes, trying still to ingratiate himself with this despicable creature by endeavouring to appear every bit as unpleasant. ‘Sounds like - er - interesting work.’
‘Yea, sometimes,’ he chuckles and again Herman catches the glint of sharp white teeth. ‘Anyway, one more shag’s not gonna hurt them, is it. That’s all they do all day long, anyway,’ he adds with chilling frankness. ‘It is like when I was a kid. They said I was cruel. Maybe they were right. Not just because I used to pull the legs off spiders and things. Lots of kids do that. But I did other things, see - like with mice or rats. Then, as I got older, I would get hold of foxes or stray dogs, and kill them. I graduated in my own special private school of cruelty. These days, nothing matters to me - it is all the same.’
‘No difference between a young woman and a rat?’
‘None - not to me. Not to Hanno. Though one is maybe more interesting than the other, eh?’
‘Do the girls struggle, like the spiders?’ Herman asks, lost in the horror for a moment.
‘Depends on how quick I want to finish the job,’ Hanno continues. ‘Depends on how it has to look. Sometimes, if it is outside, it is made to look like an accident. Sometimes a suicide. The Society usually does prefer a good catastrophe with some fire. No suspicion, no evidence left behind, see. We did a fire last year in a chalet in Bavaria, a place they went to study. One of the girls was proving awkward and knew too much. But at times like that ... well, poor Hanno. He does not have much chance for anything nice. But then if Hanno is lucky and gets to do his work at the castle, then it is different. Yes. Then Hanno does plenty. Hanno buries them later under the flagstones. Von Spiegler leaves it to Hanno, most of the time. He is very good to me. Unless …’
‘Unless what?’ Herman demands, whispering with an insistence that he hopes will be construed as macabre enthusiasm rather than a mounting disgust that churns his stomach.
‘Unless one of his rich business friends wants to get in on the act,’ Hanno answers in suitably disparaging tones, his voice descending to a rasp followed by a renewed but heavily muffled bout of coughing. ‘Oh you know how it is. They are all crazy back there. It is like a sacrifice to Lucifer, or something - call it what you like, the fancy ways these people have to justify themselves. Anyway, I do not get invited to the ceremonies, so I would not know. I just clean up afterwards and feed the dogs.’
A terrible silence ensues, in which Herman can only wish he had not heard what had just been said.
‘Anyway, my friend, do you know the reason why we are still out here on the water?’ Hanno asks, his voice becoming more of a murmur by this time, moving the oar skilfully from one side to the other, and always with accomplished silence, hardly a splash. ‘No? Seems like a long way round just to get to the other side eh? Well, I will tell you. I have one more job for tonight, see - some unfinished business with our friend Mr Peters back there.’
And as Herman strains his senses to listen to the by-now almost inaudible voice of the other man, he becomes aware that the utterly ghastly Hanno has all the while been steering a course along the shore, returning towards the lighted windows of Craigmull until they are soon very near once more, leading Herman to the conclusion that this is certainly not the first time his companion has manoeuvred himself in this way and sneaked up on the building by such means. It is then, to Herman’s consternation, when Hanno, having put down his oar, begins unpacking some contents from a long fishing bag he has apparently had on the floor of the boat all the while. But this is no fishing tackle: it is a crossbow, and Hanno sets about assembling it with astonishing rapidity. It is a wholly modern, variant of the weapon, an up-to-date sharpshooter’s version - telescopic sights attached - not only lethal, but silent and accurate, as well.
‘Yes, you get the idea,’ Hanno remarks, as if their thoughts are perfectly attuned - while with one crisp click, he slots the metal trigger mechanism into place. ‘Orders from on high. Do not ask why - I do not know, either. Only I was thinking on my way here, maybe I could just screw some more cash out of him first like I did a couple of weeks ago And I was right. Nice work. Pity it has to end. But, like I say, there are controlling influences. And they pay better. I was going to arrange to meet him somewhere remote - but look, how lucky I have been. Only I wonder if that guy - the one who arrived as we went out - if he is still around? That would spoil things. A carriage left ten minutes ago along the road. I heard it. That was him maybe. So ... we go closer, eh, just to make sure.’
Herman looks on helplessly as their craft drifts ever nearer to the towering walls of the building. Through the windows of the conservatory and those of his study, Hugh Peters can be seen quite alone - at his desk, or else pacing the room, deep in thought, agitated, restless. And yes, the visitor, the man in the gabardine coat is gone. The whole place is deserted apart from its owner, and only the slightest noise would be necessary to pique his curiosity, to coax him to open up or to venture outside to investigate - an easy target, especially with this, a weapon with a range of many times the modest distance envisaged. Hanno has extra bolts ranged upon his lap. And if the first bolt only wounded, another would be sure to follow within seconds. Yes, it would be easy.
‘Where did you learn these things, Hanno?’ Herman inquires, desperate to somehow delay proceedings, and resolving to shout out in a moment, anyway, to warn the man inside.
‘Where do I learn? Oh, my home ... in Serbia. There is always fighting to be done there. My father, he fought the Hungarians; my grandfather, he fought some place else. We learn at an early age how to survive in my country. And languages: German and English, and Russian, too. Ha - every slave does well to learn the language of his masters.’
‘And how to hate, too, eh, Hanno?’ Herman suggests, only to be met with a tetchy silence as Hanno looks back at him, his features becoming more illuminated now by the lights of the building.
‘Yea - all right, to hate, too,’ he finally confirms, his voice a rasping kind of whisper still. ‘In my line of work it can be useful. And when you have Satan on your side, it is no problem,’ he adds, as if thinking aloud, as if speaking were a means of steadying his nerves. ‘Like all the others back there at Schloss Lethe, I made my faith with him early on, with Satan. And he never lets me down.’
Herman looks on with increasing desperation as the utterly mad Hanno - mad, yet with all the dexterity and skill of a professional at his work - continues to prepare his instrument of doom by placing in a bolt. Everything is happening so fast.
‘You do not speak any more, my friend?’ Hanno enquires. ‘Do you not wonder why Hanno is telling you all this?’ he adds as he releases what seems to be a kind of safety catch on the weapon, the whites of his eyes, as Herman can see, darting constantly across to the victim, Peters,
still walking about the lighted room. ‘Come, tell me. Do you not wonder?’ he insists once again, almost playfully.
‘All right, then - why?’ Herman finally responds irritated beyond all measure by the churlish little tyke.
‘Because Hanno is going to kill you first,’ he replies matter-of-factly, his voice chillingly casual. And Herman can see plainly that the weapon is, indeed, aligned in his direction, pointing at his chest, a finger already on the trigger. ‘At this range I guess you will not feel anything much,’ Hanno continues. ‘The bolt will pass right through and probably finish up in Edinburgh, for all I know, ha ha! And no sound, either - or not much, anyway - the beauty of my plan, you see. For even if you make a noise, even if you cry out, it will only fetch Peters to his doors for arrow number two.’
‘But why, Hanno? I’m on your side,’ Herman protests, his voice trembling, wondering just how much time he has to prepare himself, and frightened almost beyond sanity.
‘Sssh! Not so loud,’ Hanno whispers merrily. ‘I have a very nervous trigger finger. Better to have five minutes more of life than five seconds, eh, Herman my friend? Oh yes, that’s right. I know your real name, Herman,’ he continues rejoicing in his knowledge. ‘I know all about your connection with Deborah Peters, too - that you want to take back her daughter. I am already in trouble for not finishing her off that time in the Tyrol. That really must be my next little job, after this, eh? Also, I am thinking for a while already, you could be a rival for Hanno. You see, Walter - von Spiegler - he likes you. Yes, that’s right. It is not every day someone with money and brains comes into the Society. Impressive combination. And Hanno cannot have you becoming their favourite, can he? That would be very bad for Hanno. No … you first, then our man up there. Oh, and in case you are thinking of it, Herman, my friend - I would not bother jumping over the side. You would not last two minutes in this water. Too cold, too deep. Better to go this way, quickly, eh! Are you frightened, Herman?’
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 36
