The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery (25 page)

Iskander's escape plan was all of a piece with the rest of him. Daring, arrogant, and so outrageous it might have succeeded – well, it nearly did succeed. Somehow – I still have not found out how – he had acquired two officers' uniforms, which he and Gilmore donned in the latrine block after breakfast. Thus clad, they simply walked openly across the courtyard, and Iskander gave an order in German for the gates to be opened. He even had the effrontery to salute the sentries, two of whom saluted him back. (Those two hapless sentries are now awaiting court martial.)

Iskander himself was philosophical about being caught; he shrugged and made some remark about it being worth the attempt, but perhaps not one of his better plans. Gilmore, on the other hand, was devastated. He seemed to become almost possessed at realizing he had not achieved freedom, for he rounded on the guards like a trapped animal. I do not think I shall ever forget the sight of his face, white and utterly terrified, but with such desperate anger blazing from his eyes it was as if his mind was on fire. Then, before any of us realized what he intended, he sprang at the nearest guard and snatched his rifle from him. The sentries at once levelled their own rifles, and Gilmore would certainly have been shot, for the orders regarding treatment of escapees are very clear, but he managed to dive into the nearby gatehouse. Within seconds a shower of bullets came rat-a-tatting out. They were fired wildly, though, and none found a mark.

‘Shoot him!' cried Niemeyer, although it was all very well for him, standing half behind a stone arch. His brother, hiding behind the arch's fellow, joined in, calling for the soldiers to advance. ‘Storm the place and shoot him!' he cried.

The sentries did not immediately obey either of the commands, for Gilmore had the gatehouse walls for protection, and they were in an open courtyard. Then a second shower of bullets came sizzling out and most of the soldiers dropped instinctively to the ground. But – and here is the cause of our upheaval – a stray bullet hit Heinrich in the stomach. He fell to the ground, screaming and writhing, giving vent to a series of curses the like of which I have never before heard from an officer's lips.

That was when Karl Niemeyer shouted to the soldiers not to fire.

‘Shooting is too good for him,' he cried as people scuttled to help the wounded Heinrich, most of them keeping a wary eye on the gatehouse occupant. Niemeyer's face was as red as a beet, his eyes were popping, and his moustaches quivered. He should have been a comic figure, but he was very terrible. By that time I had managed to edge forward, working around the edge of the courtyard, and I could see Gilmore through a narrow window of the gatehouse. He had collapsed on the ground in a boneless heap, as if something had pulled the core out of his body. The rifle was no longer in his hands. Bullet holes showed in the low ceiling and parts of the walls, and I had the strong impression that Gilmore had not even aimed at the soldiers, but had simply fired the rifle into the gatehouse stones, almost as an expression of his bitter despair – even as an outlet for it. I glanced back to the courtyard. Someone had pressed a wadded jacket against Heinrich's wound, and three men were lifting him, obviously preparing to carry him to the medical block.

What I did next probably appeared quite brave, but it was not, because I could see it was perfectly safe. I walked up to the gatehouse and went through the open door. Gilmore stared up at me, his eyes wide and wild.

‘Is he dead?' he said. ‘But I didn't kill him. I didn't—' He clutched at my hands, and his fingers felt like twigs, frozen in the depths of winter, so cold and brittle that they might snap off. The light had gone from behind his eyes, and he was shivering. ‘I didn't fire those last shots,' he said. ‘
He
did it.' I glanced round, but there was no one in the room with us. The rifle still lay by the far wall.

I said, ‘Who did it?'

‘The one who waits to take hold of my mind,' said Gilmore.

This, clearly, was not the time to come to terms with Gilmore's madness, real or pretended. I said, very firmly, ‘Stephen, you must come with me.' And, may God forgive me, I added, ‘Do what I tell you and it will be all right.'

‘Iskander—? Where is Iskander?'

‘Iskander is outside. Stand up, Lieutenant.' I thought using his rank might bring him to a sense of order, and it seemed to do so, for he got up, brushed down his tunic, and obediently came with me into the courtyard.

Two of the soldiers were spreading sawdust over the spilled blood. Two more stepped forward, their rifles lifted, but I held up a hand. ‘He is not armed. He won't harm anyone.'

‘Imprison him,' screamed Niemeyer, and I promise you, Freide, the man was almost dancing with rage. ‘Throw him into a cell and leave him in the dark. And if my brother dies, I will see that real justice is done. As for the other one—' He broke off in a spluttering access of fury, and Iskander, who was being held by two of the sentries, said, cool as a cat, ‘If you take Lieutenant Gilmore, you take me as well.' Even held captive, his stolen uniform disarrayed and his hair tumbling over his brow, he managed to dominate the entire situation.

‘I organized this escape,' said Iskander. ‘Therefore I should take the blame.' He turned to the soldiers holding him. ‘Well? Why do we wait?'

After Iskander and Gilmore had been taken away, there was much rounding up of various men who would have to explain how the miscreants could have got as far as the gates without being recognized, and how the two uniforms had been obtained. We never did find that out, but thinking about it, I am inclined to give more credence to Iskander's claim to have been a burglar in peacetime, for only an accomplished thief could have got into the officers' quarters and out again without being seen.

But now comes the distressing part.

Nell came out of 1917 to a droning announcement that they were approaching Paddington where she had to switch trains. This was infuriating; it was almost as if the rail network was deliberately interrupting Hugbert's story on the brink of a denouement. But it could not be helped. She stowed Hugbert away, grabbed her bag, and prepared to battle with London's crowds.

The battle was not, in the event, so bad, and Nell reached the new train smoothly. This time the carriage was almost empty, and she was back into Hugbert's story before the train had gathered speed.

Iskander and Gilmore were taken to the solitary confinement cells. I was commended for my brave action in entering the gatehouse, which is very gratifying, but was not really brave in the least. I could see Gilmore was not holding the rifle.

We all thought Niemeyer would wait to see if Heinrich recovered before pronouncing sentence, but the following morning, with Heinrich still hovering between life and death, he called for the miscreants to be brought before him. I was ordered to be present as well, along with Hauptfeldwebel Barth. We had a translator there, but I will relay the details to you without the interpreter's interjections, so as to make a smoother, more understandable account.

Iskander remained disdainfully courteous throughout the proceedings. Questioned, he said that of course he had tried to escape. It was the duty of every prisoner in every prison camp to do so.

‘You would yourself,' he said, eyeing Niemeyer.

Niemeyer said he would not be so foolish as to be captured in the first place, to which Iskander promptly replied that it was unlikely that Niemeyer would venture himself into any dangerous situations anyway. I wanted to tell him to be quiet, for to enrage Niemeyer was to weave his own noose.

In contrast, Gilmore was in a pitiable state. He was shaking, causing the fetters around his ankles and wrists to scrape teeth-wincingly. Asked to give an account of himself, he said, ‘I am innocent. I was not the one who fired that shot at the commandant's brother.'

‘Then who did?'

At first I thought Gilmore was not going to answer. Then, in a strange, hoarse whisper, he said, ‘The one who tries to take my mind. I have never seen him, but I know he is there. He fired the shot. I am innocent.' Despite the fetters he cowered back, huddling into a tiny ball, covering his face with his hands, then making clawing, scrabbling gestures as if fighting something off.

Niemeyer and the others stared at him, then Iskander said, ‘Hauptmann Niemeyer, you must see that Lieutenant Gilmore is not entirely sane. He is certainly not accountable for his actions over the last twenty-four hours. I know it, and I think your soldiers know it—' He glanced at me, then away again.

But Niemeyer was so incensed at the interruption, he leapt to his feet, overturning the chair. His face was scarlet with rage, and he shouted, ‘Be silent. This man is entirely sane.'

Iskander leaned forward, his expression more serious and earnest than I had ever seen it. Speaking quietly, he said, ‘I will not be silent. Stephen Gilmore is a damaged human being. His mind is deeply wounded by the horrors he has seen. If you would bring doctors to him – men trained in the sicknesses of the mind—'

‘We will do no such thing,' cried Niemeyer. ‘In Holzminden we do not pander to weakness. Soldiers are not children.' He glared at Gilmore, still huddled in his own helpless misery. I thought: now he will pronounce the death sentence. They will both face a firing squad, although Gilmore may hang if Heinrich dies.

Hauptmann Niemeyer said, ‘You, Iskander, you will be shot. A firing squad. You, Lieutenant Gilmore, will also die. But your sentence will be a darker justice in line with the darker crime you committed. In one week's time you will be bayoneted to death.'

Nell felt as if she had been dealt a blow. Bayoneted. Stephen, that gentle, bewildered young man – the boy who had clung desperately to the memory of lights burning in the windows of his childhood home. The frightened boy who crouched in corners, trying to fix his gaze on a horizon far beyond the nightmares of a dreadful war. He had been sentenced to that brutal death.

Bayoneting. Repeated and vicious stabbing of the victim with a long blade attached to the muzzle of a rifle. Over and over again, until the blade finally pierced a vital organ – heart, lungs, liver. Oh, Stephen, thought Nell, leaning her head back for a moment, and watching the landscape slide past. Did they really do that to you? Or did you manage to escape? Did you finally manage to see again the lamps burning in Fosse House?

There was still more than an hour before they reached Norwich. She collected a cup of coffee from the buffet car, and resumed reading.

I do think, Freide, that the cruellest part of the sentence is that it has been set for one week ahead. If Gilmore could have been taken out immediately after the enquiry and executed at once, the matter would have been over and done with. But Niemeyer would not permit it. And that, I think, was when the last rags of Stephen Gilmore's sanity deserted him.

Some of the officers have tried to talk to Niemeyer, but he will not be swayed. The sentence stands, and anyone refusing to carry it out will be court-martialled, and probably shot for treason in the face of the enemy. I begin to think if anyone is mad in this camp, it is Niemeyer himself.

Today he decided he will not risk solitary confinement for either prisoner, in case they cheat their executioners by some means of suicide. Instead, they have been locked away in the dormitory they share with six other men, and two armed guards have been posted at the door day and night. The other prisoners have been told that to assist Iskander and Gilmore in any way will result in their own deaths.

Iskander seems unruffled by his approaching execution, although he is clearly frustrated at being confined to the room, for the sentries report that he paces to and fro, as if seeking a chink in the structure through which he might escape.

Gilmore is retreating deeper into his own haunted darkness. He sits on his bed for long hours, sketching – some of the sketches he tears angrily to shreds, but others he places with great care between sheets of card. One is of the dormitory, with the men playing cards or chess, and several of our own men peering in at him. Curiously, Gilmore has drawn himself in the picture, but he has drawn himself as seated apart from the others. I do not have the knowledge to interpret this, but I find it immensely sad.

Last evening I asked him if I might have one of the sketches – not the dormitory one, which disturbs me, but a drawing of the courtyard beyond the dormitory's windows. Gilmore has caught the brooding shadows, but has woven into them the suggestion of a watching, waiting figure. The face is barely discernible, but it is very clear that seen in light it would not be a pleasant face. And yet the sketch has such intensity that I cannot stop looking at it.

Gilmore said, ‘You can have it if you want. I don't care.'

‘I shall treasure it,' I said, and meant it, but, Freide, when we finally have our own house together, I don't know whether we would want to hang it on our walls.

When Gilmore is not sketching, he walks back and forth to the same corner of the room, and stares down at a particular spot on the ground, like a man watching the slow, crawling progress of an insect. There is no insect there, of course, but he constantly peers down at something which he can see, but the rest of us cannot. At times he retreats quietly to a corner and huddles there, wrapping his arms around his body, staring at nothing.

Today both men were permitted to write a final letter to their families. I took them when they were finished, ready to post. Gilmore's is addressed to a place called Fosse House in a village on England's east coat. Iskander's is to the Netherlands – a small town which I think is just outside Amsterdam. I did not read the letter, but before I placed it in an official envelope I could not avoid seeing that it was written in French, and that it began, ‘
Ma trés chére, fille. Ma bien-amié
, Leonora.'

I have not pried, but I cannot help remembering asking Iskander if there was a lady somewhere who was waiting for him, and his sudden defensive look, as if he was guarding something too precious to speak of.