The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery (23 page)

If you can manage this, I would ask that you wrap it very securely, since there is a rumour in the camp that our Kommandant, Hauptmann Niemeyer, steals food from the prisoners' parcels. I do not know how true this is, but he is a greedy and selfish man, much given to petty vindictiveness. He is greatly disliked, and I have occasionally overheard the prisoners making plots against him. Most of the plots are so wild they could never succeed, and involve such fates as dunking Niemeyer in a sewage duct or spiking his supper beer with syrup of figs. I do not think either of these ploys is likely to succeed, but I shall be watchful.

On a more cheerful note, I and several others have organized games for the men – football, hockey and tennis – and next week there is to be staged a concert, which the men have written and rehearsed themselves. This I shall attend and anticipate enjoying. Unfortunately, Hauptmann Niemeyer's twin brother is to pay us a visit, and will form part of the audience. That I shall not enjoy, for he is reported to be as humourless and greedily inclined as the Hauptmann himself.

The Englishman who is so plagued by nightmares seems to have found a friend, which I am hoping will help him a little. It is a Russian journalist who was captured in France – a dangerously charming young man, the kind that I should not like my dear Freide, or any of my sisters, to encounter. He is, however, teaching me a little Russian, although it is a difficult language. But with that, and the smattering of English learned from some of the other prisoners, I feel I am adding to my knowledge. This pleases me.

Fondest love,

Hugbert

The next letters were the ones Nell had read in B.D. Bodkins' book, and talked about Iskander and the young British officer. Hugbert still had not named the officer, but she was starting to hope very much that it really was Stephen Gilmore.

But in the summer of 1917, Hugbert had written to Freide:

I am becoming more and more uneasy about the Russian newspaper man, Alexei Iskander. I sense that he is planning something outrageous, and certainly he dislikes the confines and the authority of the camp. You remember I wrote to you of how he argues against everything and regularly challenges the regime here and the conditions. He is a scoundrel, that one, and I would not trust him with anything, but he is such entertaining and lively company, I can forgive him much. One night recently I asked him what he had done before writing for newspapers. He eyed me coolly and with complete self-assurance said, ‘I was a burglar. And I was a very good burglar indeed.'

I must have looked disbelieving, because he said, ‘It is perfectly true. I was successful and prosperous and I was never caught. When I am finally freed from this hell-hole, Herr Edreich –' (he will never use my rank no matter how often he is ordered to) – ‘I shall return to my apartment and the beautiful things in it.'

Against my will, (Iskander has the effect of making people say things they know to be unwise), I said, ‘And is there a beautiful lady waiting for you?'

The curious thing is that with the question his self-possession seemed to vanish for a moment. His eyes suddenly seemed to look inwards, as if at some cherished memory, but then he blinked as if to dispel an image, and said, lightly, ‘Ah, there are so many of them, Herr Edreich. So many ladies, and so little time.'

I do not believe any of it, of course. What I do believe is that he will cause trouble, although I do not, as yet, know what that trouble might be.

He has befriended the young Englishman, and I think they communicate mostly in French, although I believe Iskander is already able to make himself understood in English. He is also becoming proficient in some basic German – he has a magpie mind and devours all information with immense energy. I do not worry about him, for he is a survivor, but I do worry about the English boy. Sometimes, often during mealtimes, he rocks back and forth, whispering to himself, almost like someone praying. ‘
Let me not be mad
,'
he says, over and over again. ‘
Not mad … Let me keep hold of my sanity, then I shall survive.
'

Recently, he said, in a perfectly normal tone, ‘
He
is with me most of the time now.'

He has quite good German – I believe he learned it at school, and I have a little English now, so we are able to understand one another fairly satisfactorily.

‘Who?' I said. ‘Who is with you most of the time? Iskander? Is that who you mean?'

He looked at me from the corners of his eyes. ‘Don't you see him?' he said. ‘I didn't, not at first. I thought he was a shadow. But he's there, waiting his time. Sometimes he reaches into my mind – he deforms it so that I'm different inside. When it's like that, I mustn't ever look in a mirror, because it wouldn't be me looking back.'

I find this kind of conversation deeply distressing, and I shall talk to our medical officer, to see if there is any help that can be given. Hauptfeldwebel Barth says it is not for us to worry about any of the men's minds, only to keep their bodies securely confined. He maintains the Englishman is shamming in order to get better treatment. Personally, I do not believe this, in fact I do not think Hauptfeldwebel Barth would know a wounded mind if it bit him on the behind. You will excuse my mentioning such a part of the anatomy.

You will remember meeting Hauptfeldwebel Barth at a social gathering last year, which my parents also attended. I recall you found him somewhat over-gallant in his manner, as well as having strong onion breath. I am trying to persuade him that young ladies do not care to be complimented on the proportions of their bosoms in the explicit way he complimented you that night. I am hopeful he will not do it again. About the onion breath, I can do nothing.

A couple of weeks ago, I found out that the English boy was a keen amateur artist, so I mentioned this to Iskander.

‘I know it,' he said. ‘And perhaps if he could draw his fears it would exorcize them. The Roman Church, Herr Edreich, has a belief that in order to exorcize a demon, it's first necessary to name it.'

‘Would drawing his demons exorcize them?'

‘It might.'

I was just wondering whether a requisition for drawing or even painting materials would be viewed with approval, when Iskander, who sometimes has the uncomfortable trick of reading people's minds, said, ‘You may leave matters to me, Herr Edreich. All I say is that you do not ask questions.'

And, incredibly, he has somehow managed to get his hands on a sketch pad and pencils, and sticks of charcoal. I have not asked questions, but I begin to believe his story about having been a thief in peacetime.

The English boy did not, at first, seem interested in the sketching materials, but then one day, when he thought no one was watching him, he reached for the sketch pad, and ran his hands over the surface of the paper. The next day I noticed him drawing the view of the courtyard beyond the refectory, doing so with fierce concentration and absorption. I shall ask, tactfully, if I may see his work sometime.

We are currently engaged in scrubbing the entire camp to within an inch of its life for the impending visit of Hauptmann Niemeyer's twin brother, Heinrich. Niemeyer says all must be in precise and immaculate order, but we have exhausted the entire stock of lye soap and he still barks that everywhere looks like a pigsty and to do it all again. The kitchens are at their wits' end to provide a respectable series of meals. You would think royalty is coming, instead of a jumped-up popinjay with the manners of a rutting goat. Do not, please, allow anyone else to read that last sentence.

This seemed to end that particular section of letters and made a good place for a break. Nell took a breather to make herself a cup of coffee. Drinking it, she wondered how Michael's morning was going and hoped that he might ring soon to say he was on his way home.

M
ichael had woken to rather watery autumn sunlight filtering through the latticed windows of the library, and the realization that he had fallen asleep in the deep old wing chair. So either the night had passed without further disturbance, or if any manifestations had taken to floating around Fosse House or its grounds he had slept through them.

The chimes of the church clock came faintly across the morning, and he saw with immense relief and slight surprise that it was eight o'clock. This was so gratifying and welcome that he bounded out of the library, without giving a thought to what might lurk in the hall, and went up to his room to collect clean things. He showered happily in the old-fashioned bathroom, not caring that the pipes clanked as if something was trapped inside them, then made a pot of tea and ate a bowl of cereal and some toast and marmalade. After this, he remembered his obligations to the hospital, and ventured into Luisa's bedroom to search for some kind of contact for them. The big wardrobe held clothes and a faint scent of lavender, and shoes neatly ranged on racks. He tried the drop-front bureau in the window alcove and was relieved to find a small address book. Was there a solicitor in here? Yes, here it was: Mr Josiah Pargeter and an address in Walsham. Thank goodness. He went back downstairs and phoned the hospital.

‘I haven't found any family,' he explained to the ward sister who had just come on duty. ‘But I've tracked down what looks like Miss Gilmore's solicitor. A Josiah Pargeter of Walsham. I don't know how recent an address it is, but it'll give you a starting point.'

‘That's really helpful,' she said. ‘Look now, is there any chance you could telephone him for us? I know it's a bit of a cheek to ask, but what with you being actually in the house and knowing exactly what happened last night— Somebody needs to establish that he does act for the family, you see. Once we know that, we can get things moving here.'

‘Yes, all right.' Michael felt this was the least he could do for Luisa, and a phone call or two would not take very long. ‘I'm hoping to leave today, but I'll sort that out right away and call you back.'

‘We'd be very grateful,' she said.

By this time it was half-past nine, an hour when a solicitor might reasonably be expected to be in his office and at his desk, so Michael made the call.

‘Mr Josiah died a few years ago,' said the receptionist. ‘But Mr John Pargeter – his nephew – took over his clients. I'll put you through to him.'

John Pargeter expressed conventional regret at hearing of the death of a client and was slightly acquainted with the family details. ‘Although there hasn't been a great deal to do on their behalf for some considerable time,' he said. ‘With Miss Gilmore being elderly and so on. I don't know about a next of kin, though. I'm not even sure if there is one. But I'll look out the file and ring you back.'

‘Can it be this morning?' asked Michael. ‘The hospital do need to have some details as soon as possible, and I'm hoping to leave later today.'

‘I should think so.'

Michael gave him the Fosse House number and also his mobile as back-up. After this, he rang the police station and was relieved to hear the tree was being cleared even as they spoke.

‘Give it a couple of hours,' said the sergeant. ‘It should be fine by midday.'

This was all very satisfactory. Michael started to dial Nell's number, then thought he had better keep both phones free for Mr Pargeter to call back. Also, Nell had mentioned meeting Owen at the Bodleian this morning, so she was likely to be out until at least lunchtime. He would wait until he knew what was happening, then he could tell her the whole story.

John Pargeter phoned back half an hour later. ‘We've found the Gilmore file,' he said. ‘And, as I thought, there's no known family. In fact this firm is named as executors.' He hesitated, then said, ‘Dr Flint, I have no right to ask you this, but we would be extremely grateful if you could stay at Fosse House until we can get someone there.'

‘I don't think that's possible,' began Michael. ‘I was hoping to leave quite soon—'

‘We'd hope to make it today, and it's only about an hour's drive from here. But I can't promise we'll manage it,' said Pargeter. ‘There are several appointments with clients in my diary and my partner's. But we do need to collect keys and assure ourselves that the place is secure, and – well, put the preliminary wheels in motion.'

Michael tried to think if there was any way of getting keys to Pargeter's office in Walsham without remaining in the house – always supposing he could find keys in the first place. But before he could say anything, John Pargeter said, ‘There is another thing, Dr Flint.'

‘Yes?'

‘The main bequest in Miss Gilmore's will is actually Oriel College's Faculty of Music.'

Michael had not expected this. He said, ‘What kind of bequest? Or can't you tell me?'

‘There's no reason why you can't know the general outline. She's left what she calls the Palestrina papers to the college, and— Sorry, did you say something?'

‘That's what I've been working on,' said Michael. ‘They're extremely interesting, those papers. I should think the Music Department would be over the moon to have them.'

‘Ah. Good. Well, now, she's also left a very substantial sum of money – really a
very
substantial amount – to endow the college's choral scholarship. Or even to create a new one if it's thought possible and if Oriel wants to set one up.'

‘That's immensely generous of her.'

‘The house will have to be sold to pay out, but we'll deal with all that.'

‘Yes, I see,' said Michael, rather blankly. And then he did see; he saw that this placed a degree of responsibility on him. He was not part of the Music Faculty, but for the moment he was probably Oriel's representative, or the nearest thing to it. Because of the last two days, he could even be regarded as some kind of custodian or guardian of the Palestrina papers. A sly little voice in his mind reminded him that if he stayed in the house, he could make an open search for Stephen and Iskander.