The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(19)

I wish only to be with you again, and I am,

Ever your devoted Hugbert.

P.S. My bunions are much improved. You will be glad to know this.

The second letter had been written a couple of weeks later, and it appeared that Hugbert had got to know the English prisoner who had arrived with Iskander a little better.

He is a strange young man. There are times when he sits in complete silence, not moving, staring ahead of him, as if he can see things other people can not. This morning, he suddenly reached for my hand and said, ‘I am not mad, not any more. You must not let them think I am mad now.’

Iskander, who happened to be in the room at the time, told me afterwards that he believed the Englishman had been ill after the battle of the Somme.

‘Mentally ill,’ he said. ‘They told me he would sit in a corner of the room and stare in the same way.’

‘At what?’

Iskander gave one of the shrugs I always find a little theatrical. ‘Who can say?’ he said. ‘He will have seen many horrors inflicted on my countrymen and his.’ A pause. ‘Inflicted by your countrymen.’ He is never one to miss an opportunity for insolence, although somehow he manages to stop short of crossing the line and risking punishment. Before I could think how to answer him, he said, ‘I have heard it called the Hundred Mile Stare— Ah, I see you know of it.’

‘I know it as the Ten Mile Stare.’

‘It means the same, no matter the distance. They stare towards a distant horizon so they will not have to look at the nightmares that lie in their immediate path. Ten miles, a hundred, a thousand, even. The greater the nightmares, the further away they try to look.’

I said (I could not help it), ‘But you have seen nightmares yourself?’

‘Oh yes,’ he said, and for a moment his eyes took on an odd expression and I thought he was going to tell me more of what he had experienced before coming here. But he only said, ‘Yes, I also have the nightmares and the demons – I think you have them, also,’ he said, with a sudden disconcerting look.

I did not reply – there are some things that are not for sharing, Freide, and certainly not with those with whom one’s country is at war.

Iskander appeared to understand this – for all his arrogance and rebellious ways, he has a certain sensitivity. He said, ‘Mine are not nightmares filled with screams of agony as men choke in mud and blood in the trenches of France. Or of men who live for days with legs blown off or eyes shattered, and finally die amid the stench of their putrefying wounds in their nostrils. Those, I believe, are this young Englishman’s nightmares.’

I said, ‘What are your nightmares?’


‘I do not have any,’ he said, but something flickered behind his eyes. Then he made an impatient gesture, as if to push away these memories, and began to harangue me about the quality of the bedding on the men’s bunks. When I said the sheets were standard army issue, and the prisoners fortunate to even have sheets, he said, ‘God help the Prussian army.’

I was deeply affected by his description of the English boy’s nightmares, though. Perhaps I shall try to talk to him a little. It is not in my requirements to do so, but I feel great pity. War is a terrible business, Freide. I have sometimes questioned—

[Editor’s note: It appears that the rest of this sentence was heavily scored out, as if Hugbert feared to set down his thoughts about the war on paper.]

I acknowledge, though, that Iskander is right about the sheets, for I find they cause a troublesome irritation in areas which are difficult to reach with soothing ointment. You will forgive my referring to such parts of the anatomy, but we are affianced and should not have secrets.

Ever your devoted,

Hugbert.

Nell thought Hugbert sounded rather endearing. Perhaps it might be possible to track down a copy of his privately-printed letters. Would B.D. Bodkin be likely to help there?

Before she could talk herself out of this, Nell looked out last year’s correspondence with B.D., and was pleased to find an email address at the head of his letter about the Victorian aqua tints. She flipped on the laptop and typed a careful email to him, politely reminding him of their correspondence last year, and explaining that she was currently engaged in some research on the Great War and had found Fragments of Great War Treasures interesting and informative. The letters from the Holzminden officer, Hugbert, had been particularly intriguing, and she wondered if there was any possibility of obtaining a copy of the privately printed collection. Any information about the whereabouts of a copy, or even contact names or addresses that Mr Bodkin could provide, would be very greatly appreciated.

She read it over, thought it struck the right balance between friendliness and professionalism, and sent the email before she could think better of it, after which she closed the laptop and returned to the book. It would be nice if there was more from Hugbert, but it looked as if this particular section was ending.

There was more from him, but it was only a short note:

My very dearest Freide,

It is possible I shall not be able to write regularly after sending this, for I am ordered to special duties, and I will be leaving Holzminden tomorrow in company with Hauptfeldwebel Barth. I am not permitted to tell any details yet, but it is a result of dreadful tragic events that took place here three days ago. I must not say more, but I will tell you that I always knew Iskander would cause trouble, and the poor young Englishman—