THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (9 page)

With a rub of the eyes and a roll of the neck, Herman untangles his limbs from his position of meditation - a regular practice for him, something he learned from a visiting Brahmin some years ago as a student at Cambridge. With vigorous palms he rubs some renewed life back into his knees before standing and reaching his arms towards the ceiling in pleasure. So good to stretch. And so good, too, those few precious moments of repose from which he returns with the typical vitality and optimism that meditation always affords him. Now he is ready - ready even for all this nonsense this evening - for the chimes have sounded in the hall outside his study telling him it is 4 p.m. and already growing dark outside; time, therefore, to prepare for the journey to the Savoy.

A big occasion for him. Only his best dinner suit will do - white tie and tails. And as he adds an overcoat and shiny topper to the ensemble and takes the train into town, he reminds himself to keep his thoughts peaceful and focussed - for tonight, amid what promises to be a distinguished audience of singers and comedians, he is to perform one of the most challenging tricks in his repertoire, one in which he will allow himself to be handcuffed and placed into a coffin, the lid of which will be secured down and from which he will subsequently extricate himself just in the nick of time, avoiding suffocation. Though hardly original or unique, it is still a potentially dangerous piece of illusionist magic. That his escape will owe nothing to any miraculous powers, but rather to flexible limbs combined with a handy sliding panel in the side of the coffin itself, is also neither here nor there. It is a venue that might well prove of some consequence to his future career.

Upon reaching the Savoy and after checking his equipment has arrived safely, Herman wanders backstage - in fact not much more than a glorified bandstand, with a drop curtain set into the walls of the ballroom, and where amid the various props, and instruments of any theatrical production, large or small, he finds himself in the company of a curiously self-absorbed gathering of other performers mouthing their lines or rehearsing their routines. Here, he sets to work, assembling the trestles on which the coffin will rest; the little ring of drapes to be pulled around it and, most important of all, one sturdy woodsmen’s axe with which he can be rescued if things go wrong. Everything being present and correct, he then wanders round and into the ballroom in search of the master of ceremonies.

Although he has been here before, the grandeur of the place still takes his breath away; its tall pilasters and colonnades; the myriad chandeliers and table lamps, much of these celebrating the new miracle of electricity, and all reflected in the numerous mirrors that make the busy interior seem even larger than it really is. A small orchestra, adjacent to the stage is already playing a melody of popular tunes and waltzes - while elsewhere, seated upon red leather chairs, at tables with pink tablecloths, or else up on their feet dancing in whatever space remains, can be seen a copious selection of the most glamorous and conspicuously rich of English society: duchesses and earls; leaders of industry; celebrated actors and actresses; poets and society wits - along with a few notable additions from Paris and Vienna. And although some of those present are masked, most are happy not to be - and it really is astonishing to see so many famous or privileged persons together in such a relatively small space. Rumour even has it there could be a visit, incognito, from the Prince of Wales later on - and with a bevy of beautiful women in tow, no doubt. The event has been billed as The End-of-the-World Party. And being also close to Halloween, that most recent of additions to the social calendar, it is to be a celebration of the macabre and the occult. Many of those present are dressed rather oddly, therefore - including, among the men, notables such as Frankenstein’s monster or Guy Fawkes; or among the women, the occasional Cleopatra or doomed Tudor queen. There are, however, Herman is pleased to discover, one or two more dignified exceptions - such as the celebrated gossip columnist and clairvoyant Deborah Peters, who has set up a table of her own where guests might come to have their palms read or fortunes told by cards. A small queue has already formed for this - men and women in equal measure, all keen to experience the legendary abilities of this remarkable and, to Herman’s estimation anyway, surprisingly attractive woman - and one who has, moreover, been in the news lately, and for the most tragic of reasons: the death of her daughter, Penelope.

She wears black, as befits her period of mourning, and there is a sinuous braiding of jet beading all around the seams of her gown. But she is not entirely shrouded in grief. She also wears pearls and a fashionable choker necklace of diamonds. Her hat, including a half-veil, is trimmed with scarlet flowers, and altogether there is much about her that appears to challenge the conventions. In truth, he is surprised she should be here at all. Perhaps, he thinks, she would have been invited some while ago and has honoured the commitment despite everything. How very brave.

It is then when he overhears a particularly disagreeable snippet of conversation nearby between two heavily bejewelled ladies. And Herman knows straight away to whom they are referring.

‘That’s the one. Yes, I always read everything of hers, all her books and articles. Fascinating. Though a little too early, wouldn’t you say, to have entered society once again?’

‘Um, yes, and I must admit I’ve rather gone off her lately,’ her companion, responds, her words barely audible behind the fluttering of an open fan. ‘I mean, what one finds difficult to understand is if she’s so awfully clever - you know, supposed to be able to tell the future and all that - why, then, did she not foresee what was going to happen to her daughter? Why not intervene?’

Herman turns away, a grim smile playing on his lips. It would be typical of what many here were saying. The unfortunate woman’s failure to predict her own affairs has given the cynics a field day, a failure proclaimed stridently in the society magazines and satirical rags, or by those who have themselves over the years been on the receiving end of Deborah Peters’s own acerbic writing style. And nowhere has the matter been more fulsomely aired than in the newspapers owned by the woman’s ex-husband. Even now at a distance of some weeks, Herman can recall the dreadful front-page headline from the News Chronicle: ‘Famous Society Clairvoyant fails to Predict Daughter’s Death.’ But really - how could anyone be so callous - just because the poor woman failed to live up to some biblical standard of precognition for once.

But there is no more time to dwell on such unpleasantness, because the jocular master of ceremonies has glided into view. This is, as anticipated, none other than the illustrious Carrington Dubois the songwriter and society wit advancing towards Herman across the floor with short, dainty steps that make him look almost as if he were on wheels.

‘Ah, a very good evening. You must be Manny Grace?’ he declares in a strident voice. ‘Aren’t you the one marked down for the frightful coffin escapade over yonder?’

‘That’s right. How do you do?’ Herman replies, feeling slightly irritated that the other fellow, so confident in his celebrity status, has not bothered to introduce himself, and that his handshake is decidedly limp.

‘Charmed, I’m sure. And do you perchance work with an assistant?’ Dubois continues, looking perplexed that Herman has evidently arrived alone.

‘No, not any longer. I shall require just a little help this evening, therefore, if you don’t mind,’ Herman replies as he accompanies Dubois backstage once again to inspect the props. ‘What I need at the start of the performance is for you, sir, or for somebody to take my jacket; to secure the handcuffs prior to my placing myself in the coffin, and then to tighten the screws on the lid. Once the audience is satisfied everything is secure and airtight, the drapes here should then be drawn round to obscure me. Oh, and I would appreciate it if you could provide me with someone who might stand by with an axe - look, here it is - to break through in the event of something untoward occurring.’

‘An axe! Oh, how thrilling. And - er - how far into proceedings should one have recourse to such a frightful expedient? Fifteen minutes?’

Herman smiles patiently. ‘I suspect after fifteen minutes you might have a genuine corpse on your hands,’ he remarks. ‘The air soon runs out when one is struggling. No - six or seven minutes is usually more than enough. I will definitely be in need of rescue if I am not out by then. And I don’t think I’m quite ready to meet my maker, just yet.’

At which Dubois, appears to warm to him.

‘Oh, indeed!’ he exclaims. ‘And God is so frightfully boring, anyway, wouldn’t you say? All those tedious thou-shalt-nots. Hardly the kind of thing any red-blooded young man like yourself should be concerned with. Why, in this day and age, I should think we could all jolly well do without it, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Er - no, not really,’ replies Herman, slightly stunned. ‘Not until we can replace it with anything better.’

‘Oh .. I see,’ Dubois responds with a disappointed pout, following which he seems to lose all interest in the conversation. Instead, he motions Herman towards an older gentleman in overalls who has been standing nearby. ‘Perhaps, then, at this juncture, you will allow me to introduce you to our stage manager, George, who is a good Christian, he tells me, and will no doubt willingly perform the service of axeman should one be required.’

Following which the great celebrity departs and Herman is left with George to assist with a few last-minute adjustments as, together, they slide open the lid in order to inspect the interior: a fine piece of craftsmanship, the genuine article - even though George does not appear to be all that happy in its proximity.

‘It ain’t a used one is it?’ he asks. ‘The casket?’

‘No, no, I had it specially constructed,’ Herman replies with a smile. ‘Fresh as a daisy. I’m sorry if it disturbs you.’

‘It’s just that when you’ve had to go through all them funerals a good few times like I have,’ George explains, ‘then it don’t seem so jolly any more, all this death and dying lark. And every funeral you go to reminds you of all the ones you’ve been to before, so it gets worse every time.’

‘I do understand,’ Herman assures him, before explaining the role he must play as emergency axeman, asking him if he will, as a preamble, wield it with sufficient menace once they come into view of the audience. The drapes surrounding the coffin, which should be closed immediately he is inside, should be swished away again temporarily after precisely five minutes. Herman will not appear to be out by then, and the audience should be made to worry. George seems to understand ... just about. But there is no time to elaborate. The jocular master of ceremonies, Dubois, gesticulating to his pocket watch as he hurries by once more, is clearly already on his way to announce him and he knows he must place himself in readiness.

‘Ladies and gentleman,’ Dubois declares as the stage curtain is raised and two hundred faces turn in Herman’s direction, ‘for your continued edification and delectation, I give you the utterly delightful Mr Manny Grace who this evening will break the bonds that tie him and become fully resurrected from his casket of doom.’

‘Oooooh!’ comes a collective cry of amusement, for even when Dubois is not actually voicing one of his typically saucy
double entendre
, his admirers somehow assume that he is - his reputation preceding him with unfailing accuracy. But eventually they do fall silent, even becoming slightly alarmed, Herman senses, as George, thankfully having relinquished his overalls by this stage, arrives with the handcuffs and these are secured upon his wrists.

Amid all the ornate environs of the ballroom, its lighting having become dimmed and suitably atmospheric, the coffin really does look quite chilling, he thinks in one moment of self-congratulation as, climbing a couple of rungs upon a small stepladder, he is shepherded gently down by George into the padded silk interior - though not before deliberately raising his head for one final moment, making a pretence of uncertainty and dread. He has just a second to catch the distorted, anxious faces of the audience, many with mouths aghast, until the airtight lid is placed over him as per instructions and the screws duly fastened. The curtain around him will, he trusts, be pulled across next, leaving only the spectacle of a large railway clock placed on a stand in front of the stage for the audience to observe and which, as the seconds and minutes tick away, will invite them to contemplate the extent of their own endurance were they to ever find themselves confined in such an oppressive place.