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

with the other,’ the English Lady observes in a voice that sounds surprised, aware now for some time that a soothing palm has been resting upon her shoulder. ‘You possess the secrets of a courtesan - the use of two hands even when only one is required. You make the circle.’
    ‘I do, ma'am. I have the understanding, but I am not a courtesan.’
    ‘What are you, then, my lovely Geisha? What else do you know at your tender age?’
    ‘I know everything.’
    ‘Everything?’
    ‘Yes. I know, for example, that it is not a journey of romance and intrigue you go to later today, but to one of vengeance and death. And that within the portmanteau that you carry there is not only the accessories of a silken fan or perfumed gloves but also a weapon of execution.’
    Once again, the English lady is snapped out of her reverie.
    ‘What! How do you know that?’ she demands in a harsh whisper, feeling most disturbed again, more so than ever - and her heart beats fast, almost audibly in the silent room.
    ‘Because of your daughter, ma'am,’ the young woman answers with calm, ‘because of her.’
    ‘What he did to her … you know?’
    ‘Oh yes. And it is time, therefore, with your permission, m'lady, that I should reveal to you more of the circumstances that have brought you to this place.’
    ‘I’m sorry - what do you mean, my dear? I don’t understand,’ the English lady murmurs, her voice faltering in confusion as the young woman places the brush down and reaches slowly to one side to retrieve the newspaper that is invariably placed in readiness upon the sideboard - though it would be far too early to be anything other than yesterday’s edition.
    ‘Look, m'lady … you may read this and learn everything here,’ she murmurs, raising the broadsheet as if obliging her mistress to survey its full extent in the central glass of the mirror.
    ‘What kind of infernal paper is this?’ the English lady gasps - her voice imprisoned in her chest, so astonished is she as she gazes ahead to all the grey halftone pictures and column inches of inky text. ‘Since when could anyone read newsprint in reflection - or any kind of print, for that matter? Even in this light I can read every word. And this is not news, anyway. That is my picture there. And this article - all the articles: they are all about people I once knew.’
    ‘Yes, that is correct, m'lady. It is your history, and yet so much more. Look carefully. Here, also, are all those parts unseen by you at the time, all those moments you were unaware of. Do not be anxious. All is well. Allow me to turn the pages and to guide you.’

Chapter 1
     

     
     
     
    ‘Mummy, wake up!’
    Deborah hears the voice in her mind as if from a distance, but then a second later hears it again, this time much closer. ‘Wake up!’
    It is her daughter’s voice - and for a moment she is shown a precious glimpse of the past, a morning in spring long ago when they had gone to the beehives and Poppy had tapped against the sides of the boxes and cried to the still-slumbering creatures inside to awake because the cold weather was over and the whole of nature was coming alive, beginning anew.
    ‘Wake up!’ the sound comes again, but this time with a voice that sounds smothered - horrible. And so, as the breeze ruffles her hair, Deborah opens her eyes to survey the faces of the other customers nearby at their tables - mostly fellow guests from the hotel and, like her, all endeavouring with the aid of parasols, hats or the over-arching shade of trees or pergolas to shelter from the heat of the afternoon. She must, she tells herself, try to stay alert, She is waiting for Sylvia, one of her most prestigious clients. And Sylvia is late.
    The town of Bayreuth in southern Germany with its gabled rooftops and spires, its fashionable shops, hotels, café s and parks, is straining, as it usually does at the end of summer, under the weight of far too many tourists than is at all good for it. It is that