The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(18)

She was no longer as vehemently sceptical about the supernatural as she used to be – she had had one or two strange and inexplicable experiences over the last couple of years, and her scepticism had taken a few dents. She had come to the rather unwilling acknowledgement that it might be possible for strong emotions or events – particularly tragic or violent events – to leave a lingering impression within a house. Under certain circumstances, it was just about credible that people with a particular sensitivity might pick up on those fragments. Michael had certainly done so at least twice. But she refused to believe there was anything malevolent inside Fosse House, and by way of emphasizing this, she carried on reading what else B.D. Bodkin had to say.

He did not say anything more about the sketches, but he had devoted a whole section to extracts from letters written by a German officer who had been an attendant at Holzminden camp. They had been taken from a privately-printed volume of memoirs originally published in the mid-1950s, and were signed simply ‘Hugbert’ and addressed to ‘My dearest Freide’. The translation from German to English seemed quite good, although some of the phrasing was a little stilted.

The letters seemed to have earned their place in the book because Hugbert had had some brief contact with Siegfried Sassoon. There were several missives referring to Sassoon, whom Hugbert had seen while guarding the Hindenberg Line in Verdun, remarking that even from a distance he looked peculiar, but then everyone knew the English were a peculiar race. Nell made a note of the pages in case this might be of use in the Director’s book, then turned to the later letters, which probably had been included to give a little more background to Hugbert and to Holzminden.

The first one was dated September 1917.

My dearest Freide,

All goes well here, but Holzminden camp is bleak – an old cavalry barracks they have adapted for British officers, and a grim place. But anything is better than those weeks in France.

Today we were told that our Camp Kommandant, Colonel Habrecht, is to be replaced. We shall miss the Colonel, who is elderly but has a kindness for his men (you remember how concerned he was when I suffered from bunions last month?), and he views the prisoners with much humanity. So I was very sorry when there came an announcement that his second-in-command is appointed in his place. This is Hauptmann Karl Niemeyer, and the appointment is of much regret to several of us, for he is a very harsh man and already imposing a strict regime. I take a great risk in writing that, but I know, my dearest Freide, that you will not allow anyone to read it, and I do not think letters to our loved ones are being opened, and anyway I am a trusted staff member and it is known that you are I are affianced. Last evening I showed your photograph to Hauptfeldwebel Barth while we were having supper together, and he thinks you are very fine and I am very lucky. I, too, think so.

Today we had two new prisoners – a young Englishman and a Russian. The Englishman is quiet and withdrawn, but agreeable to the bed and locker he was allotted, but the Russian glared at everything and appeared to consider it all beneath him. I said to the Hauptfeldwebel that perhaps he was an aristocrat – he has that air of thinking himself better than his fellow men – but the Hauptfeldwebel said no, he had been a newspaper reporter – a war correspondent, scavenging the countries of Europe to write about what was happening, and I was gullible and too easily-impressed.

‘He is a man of the people, just as we are ourselves,’ said the Hauptfeldwebel, which is the kind of comment he often makes, his father having been a butcher in Braunschweig and Hauptfeldwebel Barth being sensitive about it. Not that there is anything wrong in being a butcher, and I believe his Bockwurst was the finest a man could eat.

‘But he will be planning to write about us and about the camp,’ said the Hauptfeldwebel, ‘so we should make sure to treat him with care. We do not want people thinking we give out cruel treatment, for that would reflect badly on the German Empire. Also, it would mean I should not be considered for promotion, and nor would you.’

‘And there is the Hague Convention regarding the treatment of prisoners of war,’ I said.

‘This is perfectly true.’

The Russian’s name is Alexei Iskander, and I think the Hauptfeldwebel was right about him recording all that happens here, for within an hour of arriving at the camp Iskander was demanding writing materials.

I found a notepad and pencils, and he sat on his bunk, writing away as if his life depended on it. The Hauptfeldwebel tells me he will not be permitted to send his scribblings out, but does not rule out the possibility of Iskander finding a way to smuggle them out. At worst, he will squirrel them away and arrange for publication after Germany wins the war, so we must not baulk at reading what he writes, and if necessary destroy it.

This is important, so after supper, while the prisoners were all in the bathhouse, I searched Iskander’s locker, which I disliked doing very much, for I am not a Prying Paul.

[Editor’s note: It seems likely that the translator mistook the exact wording here and that Hugbert meant Peeping Tom.]

But everything Iskander had written was in Russian so I have no idea what it says, although I do not think it will be very complimentary. As you know, I am liking to improve my knowledge of all languages, for it is never known when that might be useful to a man. My English is a little improved since talking to some of the prisoners, but I could not make any sense of Iskander’s Russian journal.

He is going to be difficult, that is already clear. He has already denounced the evening meal as disgusting pigswill and demanded better provisions. The Hauptfeldwebel said, in his sarcastic way, that perhaps Russian caviar and vodka would be acceptable in place of the sausage and cabbage dish, to which Iskander, cool as a cat, said certainly it would, but he would specify the caviar was ikra, which was superior to most kinds, and that with it came kummel, since he did not care overmuch for vodka.