THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque by Robert Stephen Parry Page A
Authors: Robert Stephen Parry
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begin the long journey to the port of Calais and thence across the Channel and back to England - a place where, at that very same moment, far ahead of them and carried with slow dignity from a train in Victoria station in the heart of London, the coffin of Penelope Peters, an extravagant wreath of red roses attached to its top, is taken off by four men in black frockcoats who then hoist it upon their shoulders and carry it with solemn dignity along the length of the platform.
It is a grim, filthy evening - the early darkness of winter in England. A haze of drizzle mingled with a typical London fog permeates and blends unwholesomely with all the vapours and soot from the steam engines as the men are joined by two other figures, more distinguished in appearance but likewise dressed in most sombre black: Hubert Peters and his secretary Joseph Beezley, their top hats removed, positioning themselves to observe the modest procession as it passes - the red roses, amid the gloom of the station and its darkly clad travellers, appearing to be the only trace of colour remaining in the entire city - before they themselves turn to walk slowly behind, following the sorrowful spectacle across the concourse and out to the waiting carriage. The transfer goes smoothly, exactly according to plan; exactly as Beezley has arranged it. There are no waiting pressmen this time; no flash of photography; no commotion or shouts of anger. All is dignified and orderly, even amid the noise and bustle of the city. And within moments, with the clatter of hooves upon the cobblestones of the courtyard outside, the carriage is spirited away at a canter, down into Whitehall and southwards to a place of seclusion and peace.
Chapter 5
‘Pick a card - any card you like!’ Herman announces, making sure everyone in the lounge can see what he is doing as, with diverted gaze, he fans out the full deck and offers it to the elderly gentleman standing before him.
‘All right,’ says the gentleman, his walking stick tucked under one arm and tottering on unsteady feet. ‘I’ve done what you said. It’s the …’
‘No, no, don’t tell me what it is!’ Herman cries with mock exasperation, accompanied by roars of laughter from all the others.
With its faded wallpaper, its dusty corners of potted foliage, and illuminated this dull afternoon by an assortment of lamps and candles, the William Blake Residential Home for the Elderly and Infirm is not one of his most prestigious venues, to be sure - and for the coffers of Manny Magic Enterprises not a particularly lucrative one, either, with a fee of precisely zero. But no matter. He loves coming along here to entertain the old folks. Ranged upon an arc of chairs and sofas in the lounge, they sit and applaud and laugh until the tears run down their wrinkled old faces. So easily pleased. This is, he knows, magic made easy. There are no expert eyes here; no would-be adversaries to scrutinise his every move for trickery or lack of innovation. And, what’s more, they love him. They laugh at his corny jokes, they tease him about his extravagant waistcoats and colourful neckties, and they sigh in admiration at anything he might care to mention concerning his dubious triumphs on the London stage or in the music halls of the East End. Sometimes, too, at the climax of a particularly clever trick, they all draw a collective intake of breath and produce a long ‘Ooooh!’ of amazement. It really is quite touching.
Buoyed up by their approval, the young entertainer, with his handsome moustache and a wispy dusting of fair beard about his dimpled chin, brushes away a tangled lock of blond hair from his forehead and continues his performance, speaking with renewed gusto, holding forth both arms in typical theatrical fashion. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, I know many of you will have seen me do things like this on the London stage, but …’
‘No we haven’t!’ one of the old boys cries out from the rear
It is a grim, filthy evening - the early darkness of winter in England. A haze of drizzle mingled with a typical London fog permeates and blends unwholesomely with all the vapours and soot from the steam engines as the men are joined by two other figures, more distinguished in appearance but likewise dressed in most sombre black: Hubert Peters and his secretary Joseph Beezley, their top hats removed, positioning themselves to observe the modest procession as it passes - the red roses, amid the gloom of the station and its darkly clad travellers, appearing to be the only trace of colour remaining in the entire city - before they themselves turn to walk slowly behind, following the sorrowful spectacle across the concourse and out to the waiting carriage. The transfer goes smoothly, exactly according to plan; exactly as Beezley has arranged it. There are no waiting pressmen this time; no flash of photography; no commotion or shouts of anger. All is dignified and orderly, even amid the noise and bustle of the city. And within moments, with the clatter of hooves upon the cobblestones of the courtyard outside, the carriage is spirited away at a canter, down into Whitehall and southwards to a place of seclusion and peace.
Chapter 5
‘Pick a card - any card you like!’ Herman announces, making sure everyone in the lounge can see what he is doing as, with diverted gaze, he fans out the full deck and offers it to the elderly gentleman standing before him.
‘All right,’ says the gentleman, his walking stick tucked under one arm and tottering on unsteady feet. ‘I’ve done what you said. It’s the …’
‘No, no, don’t tell me what it is!’ Herman cries with mock exasperation, accompanied by roars of laughter from all the others.
With its faded wallpaper, its dusty corners of potted foliage, and illuminated this dull afternoon by an assortment of lamps and candles, the William Blake Residential Home for the Elderly and Infirm is not one of his most prestigious venues, to be sure - and for the coffers of Manny Magic Enterprises not a particularly lucrative one, either, with a fee of precisely zero. But no matter. He loves coming along here to entertain the old folks. Ranged upon an arc of chairs and sofas in the lounge, they sit and applaud and laugh until the tears run down their wrinkled old faces. So easily pleased. This is, he knows, magic made easy. There are no expert eyes here; no would-be adversaries to scrutinise his every move for trickery or lack of innovation. And, what’s more, they love him. They laugh at his corny jokes, they tease him about his extravagant waistcoats and colourful neckties, and they sigh in admiration at anything he might care to mention concerning his dubious triumphs on the London stage or in the music halls of the East End. Sometimes, too, at the climax of a particularly clever trick, they all draw a collective intake of breath and produce a long ‘Ooooh!’ of amazement. It really is quite touching.
Buoyed up by their approval, the young entertainer, with his handsome moustache and a wispy dusting of fair beard about his dimpled chin, brushes away a tangled lock of blond hair from his forehead and continues his performance, speaking with renewed gusto, holding forth both arms in typical theatrical fashion. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, I know many of you will have seen me do things like this on the London stage, but …’
‘No we haven’t!’ one of the old boys cries out from the rear
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