THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque (7 page)

‘I see, yes,’ Herman observes with an abrupt stiffening of the sinews and getting to his feet. ‘So I’d better be off, eh? - to find a new one, a new sweetheart before it’s too late?’

With serious faces, the two old boys nod together as one, satisfied that their guidance has been heeded at last.

‘Remember what they say, Manny old son,’ Smudge adds, not quite willing to let him go even now, ‘
it’s not the cough that carries you off. It’s the coffin they carries you off in,
’ a statement concluded with a raucous explosion of laughter.

Herman assures him he will definitely commit their advice to memory (for it was rather clever, that little ditty, he has to admit) before he turns to address the crowded room once more and bid them all farewell. ‘All right folks, cheerio!’ he announces with a voice calling everyone to attention. ‘Thank you kindly. And don’t forget, I’ll be seeing you in November, by which time I shall be able to tell you all about my runaway success in the West End.’

To which they all shout their approval once again. And in a trice, the smart and clever young gentleman of Manny Magic has vanished from sight - not exactly availing himself of a puff of smoke, but nearly as swiftly as if he had.

With a smile of self-confidence and pleasure, even if feeling just a little apprehensive, Deborah Peters nods with approval as her house maid ushers her guest through and into her spacious top-floor flat in Knightsbridge.

‘So glad to see you again, Mrs Peters. How are you coping now?’ the solicitor, young Mr. Levine, asks with the typical sincerity and genuine kindness that had first attracted Deborah to the family firm of Levine & Sons all those years ago. Intelligent, courteous and supportive, it is always the young Mr. Levine, as distinct to his father, whom Deborah insists on being sent to her. Having a charming guest to minister to her affairs makes the process of dealing with the legal minutiae of life slightly more bearable. She is fortunate, she knows, to be able to afford such a luxury.

‘I am coping, yes. Thank you Mr Levine,’ Deborah replies, raising her chin with a show of bravery. ‘In fact, I am feeling exceptionally well this afternoon, you’ll be pleased to learn.’

Although dressed still in the requisite black of mourning even here in her own home, she has donned for the occasion a pair of wide Turkish trousers, a typical statement of defiance to the customs, and in which she sweeps past, smiling to herself as she goes, as if to say: ‘well, they
are
black, after all!’

With a brave attempt at indifference to the spectacle, Mr Levine accepts a seat on the sofa in the centre of the large room, and from here, carefully, methodically, he sets about unloading the contents of his briefcase in readiness for the business ahead - his task being to draw up plans on how to prevent Deborah’s husband laying siege to the bulk of their joint property and lands, particularly those in Scotland - the castle they call Craigmull. As so often, he seems a trifle bedazzled by all the sophistication and rich accoutrements of her personal world; the exotic furnishings and rich carpets; the extravagant porcelain; the glass sculpture and taxidermy. What fun. He would not make much of a diplomat, either, she reflects. For she can well perceive what he is thinking: only a few weeks having elapsed, and the daughter barely cold in her grave, and here is the mother looking for all the world as if she was about to take to the stage in fancy dress.

‘And shall I tell you why I am feeling so good, Mr. Levine?’ Deborah volunteers, taking a perch on the wing of an adjacent armchair. ‘I am feeling so exceptionally happy, because my dear daughter Poppy is not dead.’

Rather than responding with enthusiasm, the Young Mr. Levine merely continues to look puzzled. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he murmurs, rather awkwardly, glancing across to her with a shake of the head, as if he had not quite heard.

‘Poppy, my daughter. She’s alive. I don’t exactly know where yet, you understand, but I am certain now she never died.’

‘But how ... how do you know that?’ Mr. Levine inquires, his curiosity and perhaps a degree of exasperation getting the better of him - for there cannot, he would think, be any possibility of that statement being true.

But Deborah merely smiles once again. ‘Look, I want to show you something,’ she urges excitedly and ushers her guest over to the long bench-like table near to the windows - her ‘office space’ as she calls it and where she undertakes her writing and all those assignments of clairvoyance from clients the world over. Here, she pours for herself a glass of ruby-red claret from a decanter, and reaches for a second glass nearby that she might fill one for her guest also; though this is promptly declined with a rueful shaking of the head by the young Mr Levine. So very correct and abstemious, as always.

The solicitor, does not, in fact, look at all happy by this time, Deborah notices. How, amid the piles of papers, writing and drawing implements, telegrams and letters, anyone could possibly locate anything in so short a space of time, his furrowed brows seem to imply, would be a miracle; but Deborah does, and having successfully done so, sets down upon the surface of the nearest available space a large foolscap sheet of paper upon which are the imprints in black ink of two hands, left and right, and which she promptly secures with a neatly sculptured jade paperweight on its top corner. ‘Look, these are my daughter’s most recent hand prints, made just last April,’ she announces, switching on an electric lamp, that latest and most prestigious addition to any well-to-do home. ‘We use prints like these all the time in serious palmistry. It is a permanent record of the changing physiognomy of the hand. Can you see?’

‘Yes ... yes, I can,’ Mr. Levine responds in a voice of continued uncertainty, bending forward and staring at the peculiar smudgy imprints, while occasionally raising a wayward finger to his throat to loosen the grip of his stiff white collar and tie, as if becoming uncomfortable. Clearly he is not familiar with the arcane craft.

‘You see, Mr. Levine,’ Deborah continues with a patient smile, ‘I know my daughter’s handprints well, or thought I did - because when I examined them again just yesterday I was most pleasantly surprised. Look - you can see clearly the continuity of the life line and also the line of destiny here in the centre of the palm, and on both hands, moreover. A very positive indication. This, together with one or two other less obvious signs, which I won’t trouble you with at the moment, has led me to conclude there is simply no way Poppy would have taken her own life at the time - or even to have perished at all. She has in fact been abducted.’

Mr. Levine endeavours to keep the look of puzzled astonishment from his face but fails. ‘Abducted?’ he echoes in a voice of hesitation.

‘Yes, that’s right. And so very convinced am I by these findings, I have already taken steps to hire a private investigator in Germany to pursue the matter.’

‘But what about the body?’ inquires Mr. Levine straight away seemingly more than a little perturbed by this stage. ‘Your daughter’s body was found.’

Deborah can understand his scepticism. It is natural enough. Poor man. So she continues to express her premise in more detail, pointing with her beautifully manicured nails to this or that faintest impression on the paper, which would, in keeping with the more salient features of the life line, surely convince any impartial observer of the truth of what she is saying. ‘For what reason they have taken her, I don’t yet know,’ she concedes. ‘But I am determined to find out. In the meantime, there is, as you say, a problem - yes, the problem of the body - which is why I need you to approach the Coroner or Home Office on my behalf, Mr Levine, or whatever department is responsible for these affairs, and request to have the corpse exhumed and examined against my daughter’s dental records - as they did recently in Paris with the unfortunate Duchess d’Alençon. It is a new procedure, I appreciate that, but apparently one which is very accurate.’

‘Exhume!’ Levine gasps, raising himself from his hunched position over the desk, all his efforts to retain decorum defeated - while his confused and harassed features also imply that the burgeoning science of odontology and its use in identification of the deceased might not exactly be his forte, either.

‘You see, it was never done - the proper checks,’ Deborah continues with determination. ‘And of course the initial evidence was so persuasive. Her father identified the body himself, after all, and Poppy’s passport was discovered near to the scene, just legible - and the bracelet, too - all belonging to Poppy. You can see why they would have made the mistake.’

‘Are you suggesting that your ex-husband has also made a mistake?’ Mr. Levine inquires, and the voice is different now. It is a more analytical, accusing kind of voice reminding Deborah more of a courtroom barrister - a change of tone that disappoints her, because it means she is obviously not conveying her message clearly enough.

‘Yes, of course he has made a mistake,’ Deborah replies impatient in her enthusiasm to explain. ‘The remains were charred beyond recognition. How could anyone...’

‘You never actually saw your daughter’s body yourself, did you?’ Levine interrupts again; and there is a definite note of irritability to his voice.

‘Well, no - no, that’s right, I didn’t,’ Deborah admits with a mixture of indignation and a not very convincing tone of regret. ‘There was no opportunity. But please, Mr Levine, do stop referring to it as my daughter’s body. It is
the
body, that’s all. Who can say what poor young woman they substituted in my daughter’s place, or for what bizarre reason. I have also done a Tarot card reading, by the way, one of my other specialities, and this has confirmed my thesis entirely.’

Silence ensues. Slowly, Mr. Levine walks back to the sofa upon which rest his papers and briefcase and where, without leave, he sits down once more with a look of stunned fatigue. Deborah follows, her lengthy necklace of black jet stones somewhat ostentatiously set in motion as she approaches, and with the same irrepressible smile upon her face as before - only this, she realises, is perhaps no longer inspiring her visitor quite as much as she would have wished.

‘I must tell you, Mrs Peters ...’ the lawyer begins again, looking up.

‘Deborah - do call me Deborah. Don’t be formal,’ she interrupts as she sits down beside her guest, wanting so much to restore their former alliance with some kind of harmless intimacy. Why, she is almost prepared to flirt with the poor boy.

‘I must tell you - er -
Deborah
,’ Mr. Levine continues without pleasure in the new form of address, ‘that I cannot comply with your wishes in this instance. I do not think it right or proper. To be perfectly frank, I believe you would be laughed out of the coroner’s office if you were to repeat there what you have just told me.’

It is no longer simply disappointment, but annoyance and even a certain resentment Deborah now feels welling up inside. Her throat tightens with it, so the words need to be projected forcefully in order to escape at all: ‘Nonsense!’ she declares. ‘If you cannot do it, then I will simply have to ask your father to …’

‘It is most unlikely, I can assure you, that any of my colleagues, including my father, would be willing to assist you in this matter,’ young Mr. Levine interrupts with confidence, but with eyes regarding Deborah with a mixture of pity and disapproval now almost too irksome to bear. ‘There was, may I remind you, no suggestion from the police of any abduction,’ he continues in a voice of increasing exactitude, ‘nor have there been, to my knowledge, any demands for money, blackmail or such like, which would usually be consistent with an abduction. There is simply no evidence for what you are suggesting apart from ... well, apart from your cards and things. And frankly ...’

At which the man’s voice trails off in embarrassment. There seems nothing more he can say - and yet the look in his eyes speaks volumes, for he has made his contempt for her findings abundantly clear, his face emblazoned with that all-too-familiar stamp of safe, rational conviction she recognises so well - all too well, in fact. Tragic. How often has she seen it, that kind of look - the look of all those in her life who have tried to block her wishes, to crush and destroy her dreams? For a moment, as she looks back at Mr. Levine, she even feels she might be gazing into the cold grey eyes of her husband, or those of her long-departed father: so cynical, so obstinate, so immovable - or even the eyes of all her rational, sensible teachers at school, all those insufferably dull people who burdened her youth with leaden sobriety when all she ever wanted to do was to fly, to soar towards a space of mystery and imagination. The face of Mr. Levine is terrifying for a moment in its resemblance to all those others. And she hates it.

‘Listen, please ...’ the solicitor begins again and, having noticed a tear in the corner of Deborah’s eye, speaking softly this time, with cultivated kindness, ‘have you discussed this with anyone else?’

‘No … no, not really,’ Deborah replies curtly, turning away with a shrug of the shoulders, as if the question were of no consequence, and dabbing away the moisture on her cheek with a handkerchief drawn from her sleeve.

‘Well then, may I suggest you refrain from doing so, at least for the present,’ Mr. Levine suggests, standing now and attending to his papers to avoid Deborah’s probing eyes as she turns to him again. ‘Unless it is to try and get some help, that is - a close friend or relative, I mean, or even your doctor,’ he adds, his voice actually trembling as he snaps closed the briefcase, clearly with the intention of departing already.

‘Are you trying to imply that I am off my head?’ Deborah inquires, as she meets his eyes - speaking as if in jest, though the notion is a serious one. Time to get it out into the open.