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

by Robert Stephen Parry

  A solitary policeman can be seen loitering near the doors, keeping watch as per instructions - a futile exercise on the part of the authorities, for even they must realise it is of little use questioning the poor woman any longer over the shooting of Bob Small, the reporter who has just emerged from a coma in a similar establishment in Switzerland and has accused her straight away of the crime. It is futile because, as the nurse has just informed them in the time-honoured, moderate and compassionate way of those trained in such matters, Deborah most likely has only days, if not hours of life remaining to her frail and broken body. Even after the police had located her and pulled her off the streets in Vienna, a lethal assortment of viral infections had already begun to take hold, and pneumonia has set in. It is, they say, amazing she has survived so long.

  Her rescue came via an unlikely source: a certain Joseph Beezley of Peters Associated Press who, as soon as he had learned of the whereabouts of the former Mrs Peters in Vienna had arranged in tandem with the present Mrs Peters, Deborah’s former friend, Rachael, to escort her by train back to England and to this airy, peaceful sanatorium overlooking the sea - an unexpected gesture of kindness and humility from the acting representatives of the very organisation that had once pursued her with such venom and animosity.

  ‘Is there really nothing that can be done?’ Poppy pleads with the doctor when he arrives. But the learned man in his white coat shakes his head and mumbles things about advanced pulmonary infection and organ failure. It is too late, the nurse confirms in more direct terms, before indicating to them how to put on the white protective masks, if they so wish, before entering the ward.

  ‘Will you come in with me, Manny?’ Poppy asks her friend and lover, holding his hand tightly, her eyes downcast as if she feared it would be cowardly to need him.

  ‘I’ll go with you to the doorway,’ Herman replies as they begin to walk. ‘Then I think you should speak to her alone if possible.’

  It is agreed, and with trembling heart they go - Poppy with her tall, upright stride, her head held high despite her grief, an exultant mistress of a new world of liberty and freedom and immaculately dressed now in her tailored jacket and skirts and her most-fashionable leg-o-mutton sleeves, with Herman proudly at her side, a smart gentleman in tweeds - walking the length of the long corridor of the building with its endless rooms with their sea-facing balconies, wondering just how far it is or how long it might be until they might reach the one where Deborah has been placed, the final destination and the only point in time either of them can ever imagine existing. But it comes soon enough and, with careless disobedience, discarding the masks they have been given, they stand at the door and look inside.

  Deborah is in bed asleep as Poppy hastens in and entwines her arms around her tiny body - so thin to how she remembers it, and her hair all flecked with silver.

  Deborah is aware of her presence, but chooses still to rest her eyes and to keep within her private space a little longer - a landscape once of darkness but now all at once much brighter and full of contentment. And she is able to tell the darkness to be light, and paints the space with leaves and flowers and blue skies - all of which mirrors, she knows, the sunshine outside her window, the growing fields of spring, already green, and the blue seas beyond with their white-crested waves in the distance.

  ‘Mummy, wake up,’ Poppy murmurs with the faintest gasp of desperation, and at last Deborah opens her eyes.

  ‘I am awake, Poppy,’ she whispers, with strength at last to speak. ‘I haven’t really been asleep. Just resting. How good it is to see you again, my angel.’

  ‘And how good to see you, too,’ Poppy sighs, removing her gloves and hat, but disturbed a second later as her mother closes her eyes once more. There really is so much to ask, but as Poppy attempts to speak again Deborah raises one weak and hesitant hand, just a little in protest, anticipating her enthusiasm already.

  ‘Yes … so much to tell, that’s right,’ she murmurs, sensing the other’s disquiet. ‘But you should know, dear, I am quite easily tired these days. Forgive me if I seem drowsy,’ she adds, almost apologetic as, reaching out to caress her daughter’s hair, she acknowledges at last with the faintest of smiles the presence of Herman at the doorway, he who has returned her Poppy to her. A single tear of immense gratitude forms in her eye, her face that has born the resignation of immense sorrow already changing to one of complete contentment. And it is then he knows he can leave them.

  The face of Deborah is free of cares; it has changed even in these last few minutes. ‘Be happy my darling,’ she sighs in a voice that is soothing. ‘I have carried you in my heart for so long, even though we have been so far apart. But now, you know, I think I shall be with you always.’

  ‘And I with you,’ Poppy replies, looking up and laughing at her own tears - because she feels so desperately sad, and yet so extraordinarily privileged all at the same time; to be so honoured in the presence of death, if indeed this is what it is - the miracle and mystery of death.

  The silence of the room fills the space now as Poppy continues to sit with her, quietly - for how long she cannot tell, for the time passes without trouble as she finds herself looking back on the life of her mother, thinking of all she has achieved, all the admiration and love she has been part of. And yet she will be remembered, more than anything, for that one final act of determination and bravery, which has already inspired so much interest in the public imagination and over which it sometimes seems the whole world is talking. Now fully vindicated, did she know that the papers and magazines were all competing for her story - no longer to denigrate her faith but instead to praise her courage? Did she know that the public were clamouring for the charges against her to be dropped, and how the best barristers in the country were already lining up, eager to take on her case if a prosecution were to proceed against her? Though, to be sure, the need for any such embarrassment seems unlikely now.

  Poppy realises she should feel sad. And yet, even as she places a gentle hand upon her mother’s forehead in the hope of somehow passing vitality and healing to her ailing body, she senses herself becoming strong, and with a bold new vision of the future that is anything but sad. There are reflections on her future life with Herman and of the children she too might bring into the world one day. But this is not the summation of her worth - for there is more. There is communion with the mysteries, the part of herself that is not visible but which this wonderful woman, here at the end of her own journey has already bequeathed to her in abundance. This is Poppy awakening now she tells herself, as if hearing Deborah’s voice inside of her, and even the compassion she feels becomes part of this new flowering - for every daughter reaches back in time into the life of her mother, just as every woman carries that gift which will one day belong to her daughter. How can it be otherwise? And with this wonderful knowledge at her command, what might she herself not be capable of achieving?

  And so the reflections come and go, and so too do the minutes turn into hours. At one stage she is aware of Herman at the door. The sky outside is much darker. Seeing her transfixed by the bedside, he goes away for a while, but soon is there again, looking at her with renewed concern. A lamp has been lit in the room, she notices, without her being aware of it, and there are other lights outside in the corridor, too.

  ‘How is she?’ Herman asks at one time rather pathetically and, of course, utterly needlessly, as she rises and steps to the door, for he has come to take her away, she suspects - if only for a while.

  One of the nurses enters then and applies herself to Deborah’s needs, smoothing the sheets and adjusting the pillows, just as Poppy has done a dozen times already - and at which Deborah’s chest heaves in the throes of a silent, painful gasp, without even the breath to cough properly it seems. The nurse is concerned, and conveys her misgivings with a despairing glance.

  ‘Dear?’ Deborah calls to her daughter, softly, but with great clarity - at which the nurse withdraws and Poppy returns to the bedside to hear. ‘Go now, sw
eetheart. It’s getting late.’

  Her voice is strong then, almost conversational in its way - like Poppy remembers it from childhood. Clearly, she is meant to be following orders. And it makes her smile.

  ‘I’ll come again tomorrow,’ Poppy declares cheerfully, taking her hand for a moment. ‘Would you like that?’

  But Deborah merely lowers her eyes. ‘If you’d like, dear, yes. Only, if I am not here, don’t worry. I shan’t be going far, just a step over into somewhere very near and, I must say, not at all unpleasant,’ she says as she reaches out her other hand in a bid to dry a tear on her daughter’s cheek. ‘Go now, and be happy,’ she adds, with a brief flicker of the eyes in Herman’s direction.

  And as Poppy passes through the doorway, with Herman already several steps ahead of her down the corridor, she turns once more to glance back inside. Her mother’s eyes are closing - but they open just once more in curiosity at the sight of her daughter still gazing back. Why are you waiting? her face seems to ask. Go now, and get on with your life.

  Poppy understands. But she lifts her hand, without quite knowing why, in a strange little gesture of farewell - and Deborah lifts hers too, waving goodbye, just for a short while it would seem. No more.

  Epilogue

  Once more, she is aware of the room about her, though this time only vaguely at first, her head resting upon the shoulder of the lovely young woman who cradles her in her arms as she gazes silently into the darkness, a blessed darkness yet one retreating all the while - for even the heavy chintz curtains of her chamber can no longer deny the presence of dawn, of sunshine dancing between treetops and upon the windowpanes as, inevitably the enchanted mirror loses its sparkle and surrenders its magic. It has been a night she thought would never end. But it has ended. The story of her past has reached its conclusion. And already a new and fateful day begins. The assignation awaits.

  ‘Oh my, I was surely as close to heaven or hell on that day as I have ever been,’ Deborah sighs as the paper from which the words and images have danced and tumbled in the glass is folded and, with a casual air, discarded by her maid gently upon the floor, and where it seems to dissolve into what remains of the darkness. Yesterday’s news.

  ‘It was not your time,’ Kristina murmurs, her voice as soothing and as placid as ever. ‘I gave you strength - for I was with you even then.’

  ‘Oh, then how doubly fortunate I have been,’ Deborah murmurs, as if thinking aloud. ‘To have survived all those horrors. To have regained my dearest daughter and to have experienced her love once more. Ah yes, Mr and Mrs Herman Grace they are now, and as fine a couple as you could ever wish to encounter.’

  ‘And your daughter - she has embraced her music once more, yes?’

  ‘Yes … that’s right. She has! And soon, to give her first recital. Nothing too grand as yet, but if talent and determination are anything to go by, she will succeed. The wonderful noble music of our age has guided her through. And now, of course, heir to all the fortune of her father. Hugh never did alter his will. Either he never had time, or perhaps even he suspected that his beloved daughter might return one day. And at the end he knew for sure, of course - knew that she lived. You have shown me this, my dear, along with so much I never experienced at the time. Now I understand exactly what he did, and why. So yes, Poppy has everything she could wish for. I am so happy for her.’

  ‘And yet you meet so rarely?’ Kristina observes, hardly needing to remind her mistress how long it has been, and to which Deborah surrenders to a lengthy sigh.

  ‘Sadly no,’ she murmurs, aware of Kristina’s calming hand upon her heart once more, for the absence of her daughter’s society is something she can seldom acknowledge without distress. ‘My daughter has no wish to probe into her mother’s depravity any more than is necessary, and the little she already knows of meets with her disapproval. Ah, but what else should I have done, Kristina? Tell me, my Oracle. You must have seen how hard I tried - all those years I struggled to lead the life expected of me, to be the perfect wife and mother, the polished celebrity and actress. I was sated with that life even then, long before everything went so terribly wrong. And when it was over, and with the miracle of my liberty and health restored to me, what purpose was there in trying to reconstruct the past? What was there for me amid all that wreckage? And so I became the infamous English Lady, with a life I never expected in my wildest of dreams - or nightmares.’

  ‘And the rest - there is just a bit more, is there not, ma'am? For you have continued to put your theatrical skills to good use.’

  ‘Really, you know that too? Oh well, I suppose you are referring to the work I do for a certain gentleman in the Foreign Office, passing on whatever information I can gather. But this does not make me a spy, does it - never anything as glamorous as that?’

  ‘Um … actually I believe it does, m'lady. You are too modest. You have done your duty to your country, just as you will do your duty this morning to your daughter and those who went before her into darkness - for even the duty of vengeance is a worthy action, and most beloved of the gods when undertaken dispassionately, without revelling in triumph. For then it is called justice.’

  ‘And what about forgiveness, is that not a duty, too, Kristina, beloved of the gods? Is it not a greater one even than justice? It must certainly be greater than vengeance.’

  But the young woman merely smiles. ‘Forgiveness is, indeed, superior to vengeance, but can you forgive with purity, unconditionally, without feeling good about yourself? Vengeance without hatred; forgiveness without pride; one who gives but does not proclaim the giving. How often do you meet with such treasures in this world?’

  ‘But where, then? Is there some great judge and courtroom in the sky where justice is dispensed? I can hardly believe that,’ Deborah sighs.

  ‘I think it would be very busy, if such a place existed,’ Kristina replies with a renewed flicker of amusement playing at the corners of her eyes and with a face that continues to gaze upon her mistress with the utmost care and compassion. ‘No, m'lady. You, alone, are responsible for what you do,’ she adds, more solemnly. ‘And you will judge yourself as harshly, and punish yourself through all your lives every bit as relentlessly as any god. It is neither right nor wrong, the course you have chosen this day; just as it is neither right or wrong, the life of decadence you have embraced these past few years, for it has been pursued not from lust or avarice but from a love of beauty. And your daughter - she may be more understanding than you think if you were to explain. For she, too, do not forget, is a woman of the world these days. And Herman is surely no idle lover.’

  ‘Yes … yes,’ Deborah chuckles, feeling immensely relieved by such a supposition. ‘I am sure he continues to work his Manny Magic in one way or another, even in the bedchamber. Oh really, but what fools we are, my dear - to see ourselves as tiny islands, each one belonging to us and to us alone. I know now we are all part of one another, all our lives sharing in every other life we ever encounter along the way.’

  ‘Oh, brave and learned lady,’ Kristina sighs and as Deborah turns her face towards her again, she discovers the forehead of her companion is all bejewelled and her face most radiant. And as their eyes meet, inevitably their lips meet also, very lightly for a time in the most tender of kisses. It is a kiss unlike any other she has ever experienced - a kiss without desire, without concupiscence, without intent of any kind. But in that moment she finds herself again enclosed in the marvellous vision that has so enchanted her all these hours - only this time it is different, with a perspective of such breadth and clarity that she wonders if she has, indeed, died - for it is no longer just a vision of her own life and its past, but is instead one viewed as if from the heavens themselves, one great panoramic vista in which the march of time appears without beginning or end across an infinite horizon in which nations and customs and music and words and people and all their beauteous variety and character of humanity fly before her amid all the stars and angels of the sky in one great passing
procession. She does not know how long this moment has lasted, only that she wants so much to reach out and hold it, to enclose it in her heart forever. And yet even as she wishes, the celestial vision fades, and soon it is replaced with the exquisite face of her companion once again, still so close to hers, smiling some deep and inscrutable smile of the ages that leaves her longing to dream again.

  The noises in the street outside draw her back then, the early-morning sounds of iron wheels on stone; the click of elegant heels and canes on pavements; plus that most recent of novelties, the whirring of the electric tramcars of the city, all springing into action.

  A knock at the door confirms the arrival of hot water at last, and a bath is run. The building is coming alive - all those tiny stirrings of wakefulness within the other chambers; the arrival downstairs of those who serve, to cook and to clean and to cater for their needs. A simple breakfast is brought in next upon a tray, followed by coffee. Then fresh clothes are laid out: chemise and corset and a dress of powder-blue and beige colours suitable for daywear - while at every stage, Deborah continues to be assisted by Kristina at her side - and this most professionally - the young woman instinctively comprehending every one of her most intimate needs. The dreadful weapon is duly stowed and concealed in the pocket attached to the inside of her skirts, and the large-brimmed straw hat with its extravagant plumes she will wear is placed on the dresser in readiness. Finally, Kristina attends once more to her mistress’s corset, lacing tightly as she stands, then to her hair, combing and binding it into a neat chignon. And then she leaves the room, to gather and put on her own attire.

  Alone with her thoughts, Deborah busies herself with her jewellery box, choosing from her personal collection of inestimable wealth the items, earrings, necklace and rings suitable for her assignation. Diamonds and rubies seem the most fitted to her purpose - a combination of hard and blood-red stones to sharpen and steel her resolve for what she must do. Oh, if only! If only she could be granted a summation of all her pent-up rage for that one vital moment, then there would be nothing that could stand in her way, no obstacle or force of nature she could not overcome in order to thrust to the heart of that hateful devil. The war between vengeance and forgiveness rages just as fiercely in her heart as ever. And at the present time, it is definitely vengeance that has the upper hand.