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

the news is something he can never quite resist, not even now. ‘Oh, I guess she will probably be expecting to see me - to have a word,’ he adds, a little more conciliatory. ‘But really, I can’t be doing with all that, Joseph. It is way too soon to start apportioning blame - and that is exactly what would happen, were we to meet.’
    ‘Indeed, sir,’ Beezley confirms as his master takes up his top hat and they leave the room.
    With their luggage already transferred downstairs to the waiting carriage, the two men enter the elevator of the hotel and stand shoulder to shoulder in silence for a moment, embarrassed by each other’s proximity in such a small space. The journey, which will take them to the railway station, to the waiting coffin and thence to London, occupies their thoughts. What can one say? But then a most untypical grin spreads itself across Peters’s face, accompanied by a curious guffaw that cuts right through his otherwise dour and impassive countenance.
    ‘Seems kind of weird - taking the poor kid home for burial when she’s half-way cremated already,’ he observes, albeit without real mirth.
    ‘Perhaps we should be grateful the police have released the body so soon,’ Beezley observes, those indefinite dark eyes behind the pince-nez spectacles unblinking as he continues to stare ahead.
    ‘Don’t worry: I made damn sure of that ,’ Peters replies, this one curt remark being sufficient to satisfy Beezley that any obstacles to this purpose would have almost certainly been swept aside; for among the lofty circles in which his master moves, the usual rules and regulations governing society would rarely hold sway for long. They would simply dissolve beneath the searing gaze of rank and eminence, the gaze long-since perfected by Hubert Peters himself.
    And as Beezley studies his sharp, hawk-like profile out of the corner of his eye it is with a private blend of respect and trepidation - tempered just a little by amusement as the great man, ever-restless, completes for the umpteenth time that morning an adjustment of his cufflinks accompanied by a nervous and habitual flexing of the wrists, as if squaring up for a boxing match - a not altogether inappropriate gesture on this occasion, since as the elevator doors open and as they stride out across the foyer, it is to be delivered straight into a melee of eager pressmen. So noisy! There is, they notice, even somebody outside, down on the pavement with a camera and flashgun set up in readiness, no doubt hoping his target might remain immobile for long enough to get a shot.
    Without hesitation, they barge their way past, moving far too quickly for the photographer to be able to do his work despite the extra illumination provided by the acrid, smoky flash that cuts the air. They have almost made it through to the bottom of the steps and to the carriage and its opened door when without warning a young journalist steps directly into their path, notebook and pencil in hand.
    ‘And what exactly are your feelings at this present time, Mr. Peters?’ he demands loudly in words that come like a hail of bullets. The idiot.
    Peters, furious, grabs the man by the lapels and pushes him back against the marble pillar of the portico, almost lifting him from the ground as he does so. A gasp of astonishment, an ugly scuffle and scraping of feet can be heard.
    ‘I’m taking my dead daughter home to be buried. How the hell do you think I’m feeling, you son of a bitch!’ he growls.
    Upon which, for just one brief moment, it all seems inordinately quiet.
    ‘Please, this way, sir,’ Beezley urges his master guiding him down the final step towards the carriage as the cacophony of astonished voices rises again.
    Plunging into the dark, relatively silent space within the vehicle, they secure the doors and the horses are given their rein, speeding off at a fast canter. They are safe, but it takes Peters some time to regain his composure.
    ‘Make sure this incident is