The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery (10 page)

I should like it understood that I did not, on that occasion, ply my disreputable trade, although there were many beautiful and valuable objects in the rooms. But there are rules about these things, and I hope at heart I am still a gentleman. I left the rooms unplundered, the lady satisfied, and walked virtuously home through a rose and gold dawn, with the sun rising like a glowing jewel over the Schönbrunn Palace. (From which any readers of this journal who know Vienna will realize that the lady's apartment was in the wealthy quarter of the city. Of course it was.)

It was the beginning of August – a hot and windless August – and Vienna was buzzing with the news that Germany had officially declared war on Russia and on France. This, though expected, was still chilling. But even in those early days it was becoming apparent that Germany had overreached and underestimated, and that in particular it had underestimated Belgium. The Kaiser, with his customary bombast and arrogance, now tried to negotiate a free escort through Belgium in order to invade France. Belgium refused, as any self-respecting country would; in fact King Albert indignantly pointed out that Belgium was a country and not a road, at which the Kaiser flew into a rage and promptly ordered out his armies and told them to invade, and take, Belgium.

It was exactly as I had foretold – although I have to acknowledge a great many other people had foretold the same thing. But if ever a spur was needed to hasten a traveller's footsteps, this was it. I bade farewell to the City of Music and Dreams, and resumed my journey to Belgium.

Not wanting to attract any notice, and aware of being in a country with whom my own was now at war, I abandoned the railways and resorted to more discreet methods of travel. It was less comfortable, but it was better to be uncomfortable and alive than to travel in luxury and end up spitted on the end of a German bayonet. Sometimes I walked, but usually I was able to get rides in horses and carts. It was not unpleasant to jog along the country lanes, perhaps with a farmer bound for market, or a tinker plying his wares.

I travelled for an entire two days with a small band of gypsies, sharing their supper when they made camp and joining in their music. They are interesting people, the Romanies, with vivid history and colourful traditions and wild passion-filled music. Also, their idea of food and drink is generous and their ladies very friendly. We parted company with regret and declarations of undying friendship, although, to be fair, that last may have been due to the quantities of wine consumed.

I reached the outlying districts of Germany in the late afternoon, and if I narrowed my eyes and concentrated I could make out the ancient city of Liége in the distance. Even from a distance I could see the silver strands of the Meuse River and the faint outlines of several of the twelve forts encircling the old city.

As I approached Liége I was aware of an unrest – it was a curious sensation, almost as if something, some invisible force, knew that a massive conflict lay in waiting. Rather as someone may suffer a headache just before a thunderstorm. I had no explanation for the feeling then and I do not have one now, but walking through the wooded areas between Germany and Belgium, listening for the marching feet of the invading armies, I felt as if something had been wrenched away from its roots, as if some natural force had become distorted and something dark and heavy was trickling into the world.

Nearing Liége, seeing those grim towers built over twenty-five years earlier to repel invaders, I felt as if a vast, tightly-stretched drumskin was being tapped somewhere close by. I could not quite hear it, but I could feel it, as if I were lying on a railway line, hearing a train approach. On and on it went, in a rhythmic tattoo. I knew what it was. The marching of armies. The Kaiser's forces advancing on Liége.

Iskander's words were so vivid that when Michael leaned back from the table for a moment, he had the impression that the echoes of those armies were reverberating across the years, rippling against his own mind.

He was reaching for his pen again when he realized that the sounds were not from the past at all; they were here in the present. They were real sounds, and they were not drumbeats – they were footsteps. The slow, soft footsteps Michael had heard last night and that had frightened Luisa during supper. Tap-tap … Like a faint, blurred rhythm.

It's Stephen, thought Michael with a lurch of apprehension. He was here last night – he got into the house – I saw him. And now he's coming back. He's walking down that path, he's coming through those bushes now, and he'll try to get in again. Will Luisa let him in again?

‘Let me in … Please let me in …'

The words lay like clotted cobwebs on the air, the sounds half shrivelled in the sunlight. It's because they've travelled across a century, thought Michael. They're clogged by dead men's dust – by the antique dust that's lain unswept. Unswept antique dust … is that from
Coriolanus
? God help me, I'm hearing whispering voices from a man dead for nearly a century, and I'm quoting bloody Shakespeare!

I'm not really hearing the whispers, though, he thought. I've fallen asleep for a few moments – the warmth of the sun on those windows – or maybe Luisa Gilmore laces her coffee with cannabis.

‘Let me in …'

A cloud moved across the sun and the garden dipped into shadows, and the whispering faded. The antique dust has settled back into place, thought Michael. Either that, or I've woken up.

He turned determinedly back to the paper-strewn table and Iskander's journal.

As I walked towards the fortress towers of Liège, I could hear the marching feet of the soldiers with more clarity. I tried to convince myself they were growing fainter, but they were not, of course. They were getting louder and closer.

The forest was behind me by this time, and ahead were fields. I went across those fields like a fleeing hare – I swear I had not run so fast since the night when I had to make an unplanned retreat from the Volkov-Yusupov Palace, along with a pair of gold candlesticks, an ormolu mantel clock, and something I believed might be a hitherto-unpublished poem by Alexander Pushkin. (The poem turned out to be a forgery.)

On this particular day, however, I was not burdened with candlesticks or fake Pushkins, and I reached the edges of the German fields safely and thrust my way through a gap in the hedge. I was close to one of the fortresses now – a chimney-like structure, stark and forbidding, rearing up into the afternoon sky like a black jutting tooth. I paused, wondering if I dare try to get into the tower and hide. But wouldn't they try to take possession of those towers anyway? Then I saw that to the right of the tower – perhaps the length of a small field away – was a low, rambling greystone building, with a small bell tower and, rising above its roofs, the outline of a cross.

A convent. And convents were places of sanctuary; they had the same immunity from violence and invasion as churches.

I went across that short distance at the speed of the Hound of Heaven fleeing down the arches of the years.

A
s soon as I neared the convent's walls, I became aware of music trickling from the windows – thin sweet music, young girls' voices, blending and weaving together in the most heart-scalding perfection I had ever heard. And I may be a thief and a man of few principles, but I can appreciate beauty as well as anyone else, and I stood there for several moments, listening, feeling a balm lay its hand across my soul.

Then I remembered the soldiers and I glanced over my shoulder. But they did not seem to be very near, so I walked normally and openly to the ancient door at the convent's centre. If you're about some nefarious deed, to act furtively will only draw attention to yourself. ‘Walk in as if you own the place,' my father used to say. ‘And the chances are that most people will think you really do.'

All through what came later, I remembered how the gardens of Sacré-Coeur had looked and felt on that afternoon. During the worst days, I occasionally managed to believe I was still walking through those colours and scents, and that the world around me had remained serene. And although my knowledge of flowers is mostly confined to florists' establishments, when my mind revisits Sacré-Coeur even now I can see and identify the flowers: the rich purple and deep pink windflowers, and the snapdragons and poppies, and I can smell the foaming lavender.

But even on that afternoon I was aware of a sense of dislocation, because this was a country about to be invaded. War does not belong in serene old gardens, with the warm scents drugging the emotions far more surely than ever the perfumes of Arabia did. War belongs to winter, to grey, angry rainstorms and spiteful blizzards, so that the misery and the pain and the fury blends and blurs with the lashing elements.

I had intended to go up to the door at the centre of the convent and politely request food and rest for a few hours. Once it was a monastic tradition that the weary wayfarer was offered food and a bed for the night, and there was no reason to think that had altered much over the centuries. But the music was still weaving its gossamer strands, and almost without realizing it, I followed it. I have listened on many occasions to beautiful music in spectacular settings, but I had never before listened to the Evening Prayer sung in a convent with the soft light of the dying afternoon bathing everything in rose and gold. I should like to record that I experienced a conversion as I stood there – that the music and the tranquillity of Sacré-Coeur worked a reformation on me and changed my life. They didn't, of course.

The singing was coming from a chapel at the side of the main convent: a small low building with narrow windows that had heavy strips of lead and beautiful coloured glass inset. By standing on tiptoe I was able to peer through the nearest window. There were perhaps twenty nuns inside, all kneeling in prayer, and the chapel was small, but very lovely. I could see statues and carvings and exquisite Mass vessels on the altar. And icons. Oh my God, those icons. My mind instinctively began to compile a list of people who would pay lavishly and unquestioningly for any one of them.

I raised myself up a little higher to see better. The soft sweet chant was still filling up the chapel, but of the chanters themselves there was no sign. I scanned the aisles and the arches again, but I could only see the soaring arches and columns, a low inner door at the far end, and several high, intricately carved rood screens set across one of the aisles.

Rood screens.

Rood screens are, more or less, panels of open wooden tracery. They're a kind of leftover from medieval times: a flimsy partition – largely symbolic – dividing nave from sanctuary. In Russia we have a similar structure, called an iconostasis – but instead of being beautifully carved wood an iconostasis is a small wall of religious paintings and icons. (I think I acquired my love of icons from being taken, by devout parents, to church services, and studying the icons while everyone else was murmuring the responses.)

There was no reason why Sacré-Coeur's chapel should not have rood screens, and there was even less reason for me to find them faintly sinister. But I did, for the simple reason that the singing was coming from behind the screens. The Choir was not merely separated from the small congregation, it was completely hidden. Why would a small remote convent do such a thing for a normal evening service?

Before I could begin to think about this in any detail, I became aware of other sounds beyond the haunting strains of the
Deus
. Footsteps. Marching feet, sharp and insistent, and shouted orders in German. The soldiers were here – they had crossed the border into Liège, and they were tramping through the old gardens towards the chapel.

From the sounds it was a fairly small detachment – certainly not the entire battalion – but it struck dread into my heart. Remaining where I was in the semi-concealment of a thick stone buttress, I looked back into the chapel. They had heard the sounds, that was at once clear. The singing was faltering, and although the service was continuing, several of the nuns were turning round, bewildered by the sounds.

The soldiers were crossing the gardens by now, seemingly heedless of where they trampled, making for the main door and shouting out for admittance. Within the gardens a strident voice was issuing commands to enter the building and take possession of it.

‘Find rooms we can use,' called this hard, harsh voice. ‘Sleeping quarters, kitchens. Make them habitable. The others will be here before nightfall.'

‘They aren't opening the door,' said someone.

‘Then break it down.'

There came the sound of rifle butts being hammered against wood, repeated blows. I flinched, imagining the lovely old oak being damaged under the blows.

‘We can't do it,' said the same voice after a few moments. ‘It's thick, solid oak – it would take a battering ram to break it open.'

‘Then find a door that will open or that we can break down.'

‘The chapel,' said another voice. ‘I see a chapel. That won't be locked.'

‘But we can't force our way into a chapel,' said a third, worried voice. ‘The nuns are at prayer— I can hear them—'

‘The nuns you will deal with,' snapped the officer – I could not see his uniform so I did not know his rank. ‘You will deal with them as you would with any female who resists,' he said, and there was a lick of lechery in his tone. Someone responded with what was probably an obscenity, and there was a shout of laughter.

This, clearly, was a reconnoitre party, and the men intended to make Sacré-Coeur their headquarters. If the nuns allowed them to take over the convent it would be a bloodless process, but if they did not, the soldiers would sweep the entire community aside as uncaringly as if they were flies to be swatted, and if blood were spilled, they would not care. I stood there with those worn old stones at my back, with that music still wrapping its cadences round me, and I was vividly aware of two facts. The first was that the nuns would not meekly allow the soldiers to take over Sacré-Coeur so that they could possess Liège and then Belgium. It would not be in their natures. The second fact was that any resistance the nuns might attempt would be useless. They would not have the strength or the numbers, and even if they did, they would not know how to fight such an onslaught. I did not know how to fight it either, but I did know about escaping from importunate bailiffs and angry husbands, and those principles (that word is possibly not the most apposite one here) could be applied now.