THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque by Robert Stephen Parry

the hotel manager?’
    ‘Well, it got our room changed for us that time, didn’t it?’
    ‘That, my dear, was despite the fluttering, not because of it,’ Deborah reminds her.
    Upon which there appears at their side, as if their stolen moment of frivolity has conjured him up, the tall figure of a handsome wine waiter. And with the formalities of inquiring whether they had enjoyed their refreshments being completed, they flirt outrageously with him for a good while, asking various entirely unnecessary questions about the town and its attractions before they let him go.
    ‘No point in going on holiday if you can’t flutter a few eyelashes now and again,’ Rachael persists with her gaze following the unsuspecting man as he walks away.
    And there can, thereafter be no dispute as to their destiny, at least some time in the not too distant future. The Côte d’Azur it shall be. That domain of bright colour and forgetfulness where mourning black can be set aside without shame. If at all possible, they will do it within weeks, they decide, rather than months - and thus, by slow degrees, and much kindness and coaxing on Rachael’s part, Deborah is persuaded to retrace her steps and return, as return they know they must, to the building and the apartment where Poppy had once dwelt. It is an experience, however, that proves almost as harrowing the second time around as the first, as together the two women must now sift through Poppy’s papers and belongings - of which there are precious few remaining. Perhaps someone from the police or even that horrible young man, Hanno, would already have been here and removed a substantial quantity.
    Drying a tear from her eye as she works, Deborah glances with renewed interest at the sketchbooks and unfinished paintings her daughter had left behind, art being a newfound interest of hers and which she had mentioned in her letters. The works themselves are all in disarray; some tucked away in drawers, others against walls, most dictated by modern taste and fashion and failing to offer much insight concerning Poppy’s state of mind. But there are others, her more personally inspired pieces that eventually capture Deborah’s attention. She really must, she tells herself, return here some time when she has more leisure and decide which ones to keep, if any - for these, the most recent of her daughter’s efforts according to the dates upon them, are also the most disturbing - symmetrical, kaleidoscopic outlines with powerful central figures at the focus, figures drenched in lurid, gaudy colours, and always masculine in outline, a threatening supremacy to them, so that she catches herself wondering, just who or what it might have been, this insidious and possibly quite malevolent force presiding over the poor child’s imagination during her final days?
    Other than that, there is precious little to be discovered among her other possessions. Had she intended to be away a long while, Deborah wonders? It seems so. No food has been left in the larder, and the bed has been stripped. There is nothing much to be discovered in the wardrobe, either, apart from one abandoned evening gown, which clearly she would not have felt she needed upon her last fateful journey. As for any other kind of clue, a letter, a diary, a booklet, a poster - anything that might have betrayed an interest in some sort of cult activity, there is nothing - absolutely nothing; while any fellow students or neighbours, anyone who might have been acquainted with Poppy, and who might therefore have been able to provide some background information ... well, in the time honoured tradition of students the world over, they have long since departed for their summer vacation. The place is as empty as Satan’s heart, and to Deborah every bit as horrifying. And after just one further hour of fruitless endeavour in the grim and desolate building, she and Rachael take a cab out to the railway station and here, reunited with their luggage,