The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery

by Sarah Rayne

  ‘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.

  Nineteen

  Nell 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.

  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 s
imply 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 i
t, 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?