THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (20 page)

‘How much would someone in my position be expected to contribute?’ he inquires, trying not to respond too readily in the affirmative.

‘Entirely up to you, old boy,’ Klaus the banker replies, still taking excruciating pains to match his idiom to the demands of some bygone ideal of Oxford perfection - though this largely without success. ‘Naturally we would expect you to be ready to commit a six figure sum in pounds sterling at short notice, and this repeated in increments during the course of a campaign. I should point out that no actual cash would need to change hands. The brokerage firms - we will supply you with some suitable contacts - would simply require you to put up security or collateral for these amounts. You have a not inconsiderable capacity in this respect, we understand: your publishing house, the newspapers, even those funds set aside for payment of your shareholders, one would presume.’

‘I suppose it is possible,’ Hugh responds, thinking on his feet. ‘Everything is possible - though naturally I would need to check the legality of your last suggestion.’

‘Legality?’ Walter repeats, surprised - or feigning as much, at any rate, as if he had already anticipated the query.

‘Why, yes,’ Peters responds. ‘Forgive me for mentioning it gentlemen, but this kind of thing - it is lawful, I take it?’

‘Cartels are always frowned upon in any walk of life,’ the banker replies with a shrug of the shoulders and a fleeting glance to his friend at his side. ‘But they continue to exist, of course, in every walk of life. Technically yes, it is not strictly legal. But ...’

And both men leave the silence to speak for itself - a silence that seems to last for an eternity.

‘All we require is your verbal agreement at this juncture,’ Walter adds, increasingly confident that he has hooked his fish, ‘and, later, your commitment to respond to our signals. You will be linked into a chain of command composed of a number of influential players. None of their names will be known to you, nor yours to them. When our message is buy, you simply buy - we all buy. When we say sell, we all sell. Like all great ideas, it is remarkably simple. You are about to move up a grade, Hugh. In ten years you could be among the world’s wealthiest individuals - not just rich: but super rich. What do you say?’

Again Peters finds himself slowly nodding his acceptance. This really is extraordinary - an astonishing offer.

‘Do not, please, be anxious. We have used these processes already on many occasions over a period of some years,’ Klaus the banker intervenes with renewed enthusiasm. The wine is making him more liberal. ‘But that is nothing - nothing compared to what should be achieved with the approach of the next war - which will be a world war, by the way; a war on a hitherto unprecedented scale. Everything will fall into our grasp then, because we are anticipating something so dreadful, you see, with social upheaval on a scale so extensive that it will leave nothing but utter devastation behind. Religion and the Church as we know it will collapse, along with much of the aristocracy, resulting in a vacuum of chaos and utter cynicism. It is already happening, Hugh, albeit on a modest scale - but soon our victory will be complete, with total control not only of the work force but - with help from those such as yourself - of the media that shapes their opinions, also.’

At which the banker pauses and, catching a look of admonishment from Walter, sighs at the magnitude of his own pronouncements, as if even he realises he might have gone a bit too far in his revelations. And with a final smile of contrition towards his companion, sinking his chin into his breast, he says no more.

‘So, I take it we are united, Hugh, yes?’ Walter inquires. ‘We appreciate that all this might appear rather hasty. But at this stage you will not need to commit to anything. And there is, in any case, no contract to be signed at any time. That is the last thing we would ask anyone, ha ha! Simply - as you say in England - a gentlemen’s agreement, yes?’

‘We would, of course, always appreciate a little something up-front this evening,’ the banker interrupts with a practical air - but also, it would seem, much to the reticence of his colleague, Walter, who has become increasingly tense all of a sudden. ‘Perhaps a small donation to one of our charitable organisations? A token gesture?’

‘I see - why yes, of course,’ Peters concurs. ‘How much are we talking about?’

‘Oh, say, a couple of thousand pounds sterling, no more. Good causes. We all donate regularly.’

‘Right,’ Peters agrees, swallowing a lump in his throat as he agrees to sink the kind of sum one of his printers back in Fleet Street would be lucky to earn in a lifetime into some organisation he has not yet even heard the name of. He can only hope this isn’t all some terrible hoax or fraud. But, after all, reliable people have arranged this meeting - good friends. These men have an extraordinary persuasive air about them, moreover, and already he finds himself at his desk, his personal chequebook in his hand. ‘The name and bank reference of this company, please?’ Hugh inquires.

‘Oh, yes, here we are,’ Klaus replies as he removes a card from the recesses of his substantial pocket book and hands it over - but again, much to the consternation of Walter who even attempts to arrest his progress with a hand upon his sleeve - though to no avail.

‘The Foundation for the Advancement of Culture and Environment ...’ Peters reads carefully, as if studying every syllable.

‘That’s correct,’ murmurs Klaus. But there is now a look of some puzzlement and even alarm upon his face now, because he has noticed a dramatic change in the demeanour of his host who seems to have clenched his jaw with immense tightness as he holds the business card in his trembling hand.

‘Will you excuse me for a moment, gentlemen,’ Peters states with strained cordiality as he walks to a small filing cabinet by the window and from which he withdraws the dossier that Beezley had presented him with just a few days ago concerning the lunatics behind his daughter’s suicide and where he reads to his fury and dismay, ‘funding provided by, amongst others, the Foundation for the Advancement of Culture and Environment.’

He feels physically sick and, swallowing hard the bile in his throat, turns his gaze on his visitors with a look of blackest hatred upon his face. ‘How dare you!’ he growls at the top of his voice, almost spitting venom as he advances upon them, the two men to whom only a moment ago he was prepared to write a cheque for a small fortune.

‘My dear fellow, what is wrong?’ Klaus the banker demands getting to his feet quickly, shifting uneasily from side to side as if debating whether to run for it.

‘Do you have no idea, no knowledge whatsoever of my personal affairs?’ Peters demands, crushing the business card within his angry fist and hurling it at the face of the banker. ‘Do you not realise that you have just asked me to donate to an organisation that might well have been responsible for the death of my beloved daughter? I take it the Deutsche Mark suffered in an appropriate manner on the day one of your screwball cults burned down a chalet in Bavaria with several innocent young lives inside. Did it? Did it - you bastards!’

But just then there is a knock at the door that sounds like thunder in the abrupt, plunging silence of the room - at which Peters barks out permission to enter, and in marches Beezley with, at last, the very man who has set all this up, his so-called friend and colleague Sir William, his top hat still in hand - a man Peters has always considered to be a decent enough fellow, but who he now suspects is up to his neck in all this filth, as well, and probably has been for years.

‘You bloody cur!’ he cries and raises a fist towards the noble lord in the doorway. ‘You first-rate bloody cur!’ he adds as he advances towards him.

Alarmed, Sir William jumps clear of what is clearly an attempt to grab him by the lapels, or much worse; and Peters is left tottering on one leg at the threshold, looking slightly preposterous. Having already drunk too much, he feels weak, enfeebled by his own anger.

‘Mr Peters,’ comes the cautionary voice of the banker, who seems most concerned, ‘whatever the cause of your displeasure, I do hope we can be assured of your discretion?’

It is not an unreasonable request. But its reasonableness is wasted on Peters.

‘Get the hell out of here!’ he bellows, his voice choked still with anguish and torment as he strides off down the hallway, followed by a distraught Beezley hurrying in his wake and even the fluttering appearance of Rachael in evening gown scurrying in confusion from the drawing room at the sound of all the commotion. It leaves a terrible gulf of silence behind, in which the three remaining men can only stand helpless, staring at one another in various states of embarrassment and perplexity. This is clearly a very grave situation. Much has been disclosed this evening, many secrets compromised.

‘We were not briefed adequately,’ Klaus declares with an accusing glance at Sir William.

‘No, evidently not,’ Walter replies curtly, addressing solely his friend while turning his back most discourteously on the illustrious knight. ‘And also a matter of my own oversight, Klaus. A foolish error. I will explain later - but for now, we must leave at once.’

And as the two men retrieve their bags and hurry out to a waiting carriage, fortunately already on the drive in readiness for other guests, they are followed by an immensely apologetic Sir William trying desperately to learn what on earth could possibly have gone wrong. But no one is listening or willing to explain. A terrible wind has got up by this time, and the lanterns on their overhead chains swing wildly, creating fitful shadows everywhere as the vehicle and its horses spring into motion - a brisk cantor, stirring up the slush and old leaves into a similar whirlwind of utter havoc as they go. And by the look of dismay upon the face of Sir William, knowing full well who these men are, and the extent of their power and utter ruthlessness, it seems that somebody, somewhere will surely pay a heavy price for the mistakes that have been made here this evening.

This is more than a little disconcerting, Herman thinks, being alone in someone else’s apartment, going through their belongings - almost like being an intruder. But this is what she insisted upon; and Deborah is not the kind of person one argued with. Thus, he finds himself here in London, making himself at home, albeit temporarily, in the rooms where the famous celebrity herself lives and works, a set of chambers every bit as flamboyant and extravagant in style as its owner - beautifully furnished, with fine touches of antique walnut and mahogany but also several examples of those sinewy, curvaceous innovations in design arriving out of Paris and Vienna: the latest
art nouveau
styles, as they are called. Gorgeous.

For almost a week he has been here, looking out between the heavy velvet curtains to the rooftops and busy streets of Knightsbridge where even during the day at this time of the year, so many of the vehicles have recourse to lights, so overcast and gloomy it is. Flurries of sleet occasionally pepper the glass in the otherwise utterly silent rooms as he continues to sift through papers and documents, to write letters at Deborah’s desk or to brew up endless cups of tea in the kitchen. And even though she had assured him that the incident at the ski resort where she had almost been killed was merely an accident and of no significance, still he cannot help feel anxious for her - and he knows he really should not have allowed her to persuade him to leave her so readily. It seems a sad and forlorn place in the absence of she who lives here. And although he has permission to open all of Deborah’s mail, none of it is particularly edifying, and many of the tasks he has been charged with performing on her behalf are onerous - clients cancelling orders; debtors demanding payment; an American publisher pulling out of a deal; and solicitors continuing to threaten legal action for breach of contract. Unable to comprehend even the half of it, Herman can only conclude that her life is simply in chaos.

Each evening he would go to the telegraph office just around the corner and wire her his findings, asking her in the usual truncated and highly unsatisfactory language demanded of the telegram what he must do, checking his actions are acceptable, and daily he has become more and more disturbed by the cursory and disinterested replies coming back to him - first from an hotel in Austria, then courtesy of one in Switzerland, then a forwarding address at a stationer’s shop in Heidelberg, until those long time-spans between replies eventually descended into complete silence. And even though some of her biggest debts have yet to be settled, it really is becoming futile, he suspects, staying here a moment longer trying to disentangle Deborah’s crumbling empire - not when the poor woman herself must surely remain in such distress and, possibly, despite her assurances to the contrary, in danger also.

And so, after just a few more hours of unproductive dithering this afternoon, and cursing his stupidity for ever losing track of her at all, he takes a train back to his home by the Thames and - with assistance from the redoubtable Mrs H. - begins ordering his affairs once more, though this time for a far more prolonged absence, he tells her. He feels settled in his decision. But there is just a little sad news waiting for him here at home, as Mrs H herself duly imparts while he is upstairs in his bedroom packing.

‘One of your old boys at the nursing home passed away this week,’ she reports in suitably sombre tones, hovering nearby in the event of being needed and not pausing in her show of productivity, dusting shelves and adjusting picture frames - all of which he suspects she might not bother herself with quite so enthusiastically in his absence.

‘Oh really?’ he responds, holding up one necktie after another to the light to see whether it matches his chosen waistcoat. ‘Who was that?’

‘Mr Smythe - you know: the gentleman they all called
Smudge
. He went in his sleep, peaceful-like.’

Herman stops what he is doing. The news really should not come as a surprise - not at the venerable age dear old Smudge must have reached. Yet it is a deep sadness he feels, recalling the last time he had spoken with him, just after the performance of an hour of his ‘Manny Magic’ when, over tea and sandwiches and in the company of his equally formidable brother, the old fellow had upbraided him for failing to appreciate the trials and tribulations of becoming old.

‘So it wasn’t the cough that carried him off, eh?’ Herman ventures, finding himself smiling, and speaking almost to himself as he recalls one particular amusing bit of nonsense Smudge had quoted at the time.

Mrs H, however, appears somewhat baffled. It is not an unfamiliar look, and Herman knows he must elaborate.

‘It’s not the cough that carries you off. It’s the coffin they carries you off in!’
he states, which seems to satisfy her. ‘He told me that little gem,’ Herman continues. ‘Quite good, really. I always thought I could use it some day in one of my shows.’

She understands, and they exchange a brief look of shared amusement and sadness all at the same time, before Herman returns to his packing, adding some fresh shirts and a couple of spare white collars whilst mulling over the ever-present conundrum of somehow having to cram several case-loads of clothing into one, for he knows he must travel light.

‘Um … I don’t think I’ll bother to take this back with me,’ he mutters as he extracts the loose canvas of Poppy’s painting from his briefcase and lays it to one side upon the bed.

It’s true enough, he thinks, there is nothing more he can glean from it. Deborah might well wish to have it returned to her some day, he thinks, so it might as well stay safe here at his home for the time being. Mrs H. meanwhile, ceasing her labours, seems to have taken a shine to it, her eyes returning to it with interest again and again … until she finally takes it up in her hands, compelling him to explain. ‘Oh, that’s just something I picked up last time when I was in Heidelberg,’ he says. ‘Nothing of value.’

‘That’s Cologne Cathedral, though - there in the background, isn’t it?’ she asserts, tapping the surface with a slightly vexatious finger.

‘Really?’ Herman inquires, stopping what he is doing and turning to her again, trying not to appear too amazed over her possessing such knowledge.

‘Oh yes,’ she confirms. ‘Not that I’ve been there me-self, or anything like that,’ she adds as she places the canvas down again on the bed. ‘But it’s on one of them big posters at the station. I recognise them towers. Can’t mistake those, can you - great, big, black ugly things.’

‘Cologne?’

‘Yes - you take a look at the poster by the ladies waiting room at the station next time. Thomas Cook Travels, it is.’

Herman can only regard his housekeeper with a blend of bewilderment and admiration - and no small excitement, too, at the revelation. ‘I shall, Mrs H. Have no fear of that. I shall,’ he responds with conviction as, taking up the canvas once again, he slots it in-between his shirts, after all - because he knows exactly where he must journey to next. And the painting is definitely coming with him.

From London’s Victoria, he takes the cross-channel sleeper service via Dover, and within hours is on board the steamer on his way across to the Continent. It is a tranquil, frosty evening, and from his vantage point on deck, and with the collar of his overcoat turned up against the cold, he watches as the harbour lights of the French port approach out of the darkness, the infernal red glow of engine sheds and the furnaces of locomotives waiting in readiness upon the horizon. He feels exhilarated, not regretting one bit turning his back on England once again because there is for him this evening a sense of liberation and excitement that only recollections of the distant past can equal - of childhood and youth when at moments he had perceived life as being so magical, and often when undertaking a journey just like this - a railway adventure into the unknown.

The attractions of foreign travel are manifest and numerous, and to be truthful he rarely needs much of an excuse to indulge in it - the sometimes unpleasant, frequently dangerous transport of yesteryear being but a distant memory for most. From the very onset of a journey, these days, every convenience and luxury is provided. Even the railway stations, like the one he had just left in London, are like palaces compared to those of just a few years ago - cathedrals of opulence where a traveller might commence his journey in a ticket office furnished with armchairs and carpets, engraved mirrors and works of art, fragrant with the scent of freshly cut flowers or enlivened by the singing of caged birds - a world of chandeliers, velvet curtains, champagne and luxury dining that does not diminish one bit once on board the trains themselves - those ornaments of comfort and style where, in dining cars or saloon carriages of plush upholstery passengers sit at tables bedecked with fine linen, illuminated by the new miracle of Edison’s light bulbs and served by waiters and chefs devoted to the very best traditions of culinary art and haute cuisine.

It is an age of elegance in motion - and if one travelled first class, one would not encounter a single person who did not, by their dress and deportment, award their fellow passengers the compliment of an agreeable demeanour. Why, even the necessities of sleep are catered for in style - and one could as easily hire a berth in a Pullman or ‘boudoir car’ for the journey - a private nook where, upon a freshly aired mattress, ensconced in the darkest ambience of finest black walnut or cherry marquetry, a person might sleep the night away in peace and safety, closing his eyes perchance in Paris, only to open them again already half way to Berlin or Vienna; to Budapest or Istanbul. He loves travelling.

And so, full of anticipation and excitement, he fortifies himself with a glass of brandy in the restaurant on board and awaits the moment of disembarkation. Tomorrow, tomorrow - what will it bring? The fates have cast down the gauntlet before him again, challenged him to unite his destiny once more to that extraordinary woman Deborah Peters and to her equally extraordinary belief that, against all the odds, against all the deductions of authority and the processes of law, her daughter may still be alive. Is she deluding herself, like everyone says? Are those mysterious and insistent voices that have come to him in recent times likewise merely falsehoods, an elaborate, ghostly joke perpetrated upon them both from some distant plane of psychic mischief? It is always a possibility. Tricksters are everywhere, even among the dead. But either way, it matters not a jot for Herman, not this evening. For here at last is a piece of
real
magic. No more trickery or stage illusion. Something very special has taken a hold of his life, he knows. The world has become open once again, the very playground of adventure and romance.