The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery (24 page)

To quell this last thought, he said, ‘I think I could stay at the house until you get here. I could book into the local pub and stay until tomorrow if necessary. That might be preferable. But there is another thing— It's only a half-idea, and it might not be practical, or even ethical. But you mentioned selling the house. Presumably, you'll have to sell its contents as well?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, then, my—' He stopped.

‘Dr Flint? Are you still there?'

‘Yes, I'm here. My partner runs an antiques business in Oxford,' said Michael firmly. ‘I'm not putting her forward for the appraisal of the furniture, and I'm certainly not touting for business on her behalf at any level. But there are a couple of things in Fosse House that I think ought to be looked at by experts. She might be able to point you in the right direction.'

‘What kind of things do you mean? Furniture? Silver?'

‘Well, there's certainly some nice old furniture and probably silver and china stored away as well,' said Michael. ‘But specifically there's a sketch which I think might be what's called a prisoner-of-war sketch. Done in one of the camps during the Great War. Apparently they can be quite valuable.'

‘Really? I don't know much about that kind of thing,' said Pargeter. ‘But if your – partner, did you say? – could spare the time to take a look—'

‘I can ask,' said Michael, uncertain if Nell would want to become involved, or even if he would want her to be. ‘I don't think it's the kind of thing she would deal with herself – it's a very specialist field, I believe. But she could probably recommend someone.'

‘I think we'd be very grateful for that,' said Pargeter. ‘So I'll find out what we can do about coming out to Fosse House – if I can do it myself, I will. I'll call you back.'

‘In the meantime, I'll phone Nell to see whether she can help with the sketch,' said Michael.

As he dialled Nell's number, he considered that hesitation before referring to Nell as his ‘partner'. Why had he done that? But he knew already. It was because the word, perfectly acceptable as it was, somehow no longer seemed right or even adequate to describe what Nell had become to him. Partner, probably from the old French word
parçonier
, meaning a sharing, which was fine, but not when you remembered that the word also had as its root the Latin
partire
, to divide. Any kind of division from Nell was an appalling prospect. But how would she feel about forging a permanent link? He put this idea aside, to be dealt with later, and dialled her number.

She answered almost at once, but Michael had the impression that she had been deeply absorbed in something and was mentally blinking to adjust to a sudden ingress of light from a different world.

But she said, ‘I'm glad to hear you. What's been happening?'

Michael explained about Luisa and the request that he stay until the solicitor could get to the house and seal it up.

‘I'm sorry about Luisa,' said Nell. ‘But I'm glad you were there and that she didn't lie helplessly on her own.'

‘Yes. But Nell, the thing now is—'

‘—you want the Holzminden sketch appraising.'

‘I mentioned you to the solicitor – just saying you might point them in the direction of someone who specializes in that kind of stuff.'

‘I expect I could dredge up a couple of names. Or – do you want me to come out to the wilds of Norfolk to take a preliminary look?'

‘Yes. No. Hell's teeth, I don't know. It's a bit far. Obviously, you couldn't come just for a couple of hours, then go straight back. But I don't know if this solicitor will be able to get here today, and I might have to stay until tomorrow—'

‘Would you like some company?'

‘It's a gloomy old place,' said Michael evasively.

‘But if I were to come,' said Nell, ‘we wouldn't need to actually stay in the house, presumably? Is the road clear yet?'

‘It was supposed to be cleared by midday, so it should be all right now.'

‘All right,' said Nell, in the voice that indicated she had made a decision. ‘Here's a suggestion. I could travel out there straight after lunch. But I won't drive – I should think the train will be just as fast, or equally slow, and it would mean I could travel back with you tomorrow.'

‘Sounds good.'

‘Also—'

‘What?'

‘Also,' said Nell, and Michael heard the smile in her voice, ‘if I'm on a train I can carry on reading some letters written from Holzminden camp in 1917.'

‘Is that what Owen helped you find in the Bodleian? It's not Hugbert Edreich by any chance, is it?'

‘Yes.
Yes.
How do you know about Hugbert?'

‘I won't tell you now, it'll take too long and my battery's running a bit low. And
don't
chuckle like that, you shameless hussy, you know quite well I mean the phone battery. Would you really travel today, though? What about the shop?'

‘Henry Jessel or Godfrey at the bookshop could have the keys and deal with anything urgent.'

‘Ah, the quaint old system of barter, still practised amid the timeless cobblestones of Quire Court.'

‘Don't knock it. I sold two first editions for Godfrey last week when he went to that antiquarian book fair in Cambridge. And a set of silver Victorian photograph frames for Henry the week before that. So I'll find out train times and phone you back,' said Nell. ‘Then we can decide how practical it's looking.'

‘While you do that, I'll make sure the tree's been cleared.'

She rang back within ten minutes, saying there was a train that would reach Norwich shortly before six o'clock. ‘It's a bit of a circuitous route, and I have to change trains in London which is slightly irritating, but the journey's no slower than driving would be.'

‘I could pick you up in Norwich. I think it's about forty minutes' drive from here.' Michael supposed the satnav would take him from Fosse House to Norwich without too much difficulty.

‘No, it's all right, there's apparently one of those little local trains that bumbles out of Norwich and into a tiny local station,' said Nell. ‘I don't think it's much more than fifteen minutes from your village.'

‘I'll pick you up at the bumbly station, then.' Finding that would probably be a lot easier than finding Norwich, but Nell was ahead of him.

She said, ‘Why don't I just hop in a taxi when I get there and come straight out to Fosse House?'

‘Better still, why don't I book the taxi from here,' said Michael. ‘If it's one of those minuscule stations there isn't likely to be anything as grand as a taxi rank. I can easily find a local firm in the phone book.'

‘Good idea. I'll give you the train times.'

‘And you may as well go straight to the local pub – it's called the Bell.' There was no need to tell Nell yet about seeing Hugbert last night, or about the letter he had found with Hugbert's plans to return the following night. He would tell her later, but in the meantime, he would definitely prefer to be out of the house before night fell. He said, ‘I was booked in there anyway, so there'll be a room available.'

‘So we won't be spending the night with the ghosts?' said Nell. ‘What a pity. I quite wanted to meet them.'

‘Not these ghosts, you don't,' said Michael. ‘At least, not unless it's broad daylight. Oh, and Nell—'

‘Yes?'

‘I've missed you.'

‘It's mutual,' she said, and Michael heard the smile in her voice before she rang off.

N
ell liked train journeys. She liked the feeling of being in the no-man's land between one place and another, and she liked seeing the countryside slide past, and speculating about other travellers and their journeys, and if they were looking forward to reaching their destinations.

It had been a bit of a scramble to catch the early afternoon train, but she had thrown a handful of things into an overnight bag, left the shop keys with the obliging Godfrey, and managed to reach the station with ten minutes to spare.

The carriage was not very crowded, and most people were travelling in twos and threes, all of them absorbed in their travelling companions. Nell found a seat by herself, stowed away her case, and contemplated with pleasure the fact that she had her own travelling companion. Hugbert Edreich.

She had left Hugbert established in Holzminden, helping to organize concerts, making the best of the meagre rations, and dealing with the recalcitrant Iskander, while at the same time trying to help the Englishman with sketching materials.

The letters recommenced with one to Freide written in 1917.

My dearest Freide,

You will think it strange that I tell you how shaken everyone at Holzminden is by an episode of violence, particularly since all of us here have been on active service and seen the nightmares of this war. Mercifully, though, the memories fade, and at times I think the war has even receded a little for some of us.

It did not recede for Stephen Gilmore though.

The name leapt off the page, and Nell stared down at it. Stephen Gilmore. Michael's elusive, shadowy Stephen. It had sounded likely all along and she had hoped for it, but it still came as a shock to see it written down. Hugbert wrote:

Gilmore took to hiding himself away more and more frequently. Often at meals he would half-close his eyes and murmur the words that had begun to seem almost like a private prayer.

‘
Let me not be mad … If I can keep my sanity all will be well … If I can remain sane I shall be safe …
'
Sometimes he would make clawing movements at the air, although whether he was fighting off an invisible enemy, or fighting to break free of some imaginary prison, it was impossible to tell.

Hauptfeldwebel Barth still insists Gilmore is perfectly sane, and says he most likely got the idea about clawing the air from the Bible, from the
Book of Kings
, where David scrabbled on the prison walls.

‘It's all a pretence,' he said to me, over lunch. ‘You mark my words. Please to pass me the pickled cabbage.'

If Hauptfeldwebel Barth were not my senior officer I should probably tell him he is a pudding-head.

It all began two weeks ago on a normal morning. I was on breakfast duty – breakfast was a bit sparse because all the eggs had been commandeered for Niemeyer and his brother. (Eggs are a rarity at the moment, anyway.) The brothers had already walked around the camp like two fat, moustached trolls, and a number of the prisoners had jeered at them and shouted rude comments, resulting in their being sent into solitary confinement on bread and water.

Iskander and Gilmore were at breakfast. Iskander is impossible to miss in any gathering, merely because he has such a forceful personality that he makes everyone else seem rather colourless. If he really was a burglar, he must have found it very difficult to pass unnoticed when he was a-burgling. Stephen Gilmore is noticeable as well, not because of his looks, but because he has the air of constantly listening and watching, as if he fears his nightmares are crouching nearby. He is, in fact, what you would call a well set-up young man, fairish of hair and complexion, and with a tiny scar or perhaps a birthmark on one cheek. This mark, rather than disfiguring him, actually draws attention to his good bones, in the way eighteenth-century ladies used to place a beauty patch on their faces to enhance an attractive nose or a dimpled smile. (You, my
liebling
, have no need of such adornments, being pretty enough to rival any famous beauty in any time and in any country. I know I am not the only one to think this, and I hope you are not succumbing to the blandishments of others while I am away.)

On that morning Gilmore seemed more distressed than usual, but I had to deal with a shortage of soda crystals for washing-up and could not spare him much attention. The men were clearing the tables and carrying plates and dishes to the sculleries – this is a task they all dislike, but we have in place a rota system, and it is important to clear the dishes used for pottage straight after eating.

[
Translator's note: It is likely that by ‘pottage' Hugbert is referring to a scaled-down version of Bauernfrühstück, a kind of breakfast hash.
]

It was not until I returned to the dining room that I realized Gilmore and Iskander were no longer there. This was not immediately alarming, and one does not question too closely where a man might have gone after a large helping of Holzminden's pottage, for, as well as the ubiquitous turnips, it also contains many onions. But I was just thinking I must make sure of their whereabouts, when the alarm sirens ripped through the camp. They are like giant wailing monsters, those sirens; they tear into a man's eardrums, and they demand instant action.

We have had a few escape attempts here, and we usually recapture the men. But it means we are not unfamiliar with the screeching clamour of the alarms, which only ever signals one thing, and that is an escaped prisoner.

Well, Freide, I am not a person built for running, even with the sparse rations we have had for the last two years. But when the clamour started, I responded at once, and along with the rest ran around the camp, all of us scurrying hither and yon, searching the perimeters, looking at the walls and gates, and peering into ditches and sewage ducts and all manner of dark and unsavoury places.

Hauptmann Niemeyer came out as well, along with his brother, Heinrich. We could have managed perfectly well without them, in fact a sight better. But Niemeyer was determined to show Heinrich how efficient and authoritative he is, and he barked orders at us, most of which went unheeded because we did not hear them properly. Heinrich barked a few orders of his own, so it was all very muddling.

Then a cry came from the main gates, and everyone ran along to see what was happening. I was bringing up the rear by that time, but I got there. And there were Iskander and Stephen Gilmore, Iskander leaning negligently against part of the gates, arms crossed, eyeing the sentries with cool insolence. Gilmore was cowering behind him like a trapped hare.