The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery

by Sarah Rayne

  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.

  Eighteen

  Michael 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 mig
ht 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.

  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.’