The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(21)

‘When the nightmares come,’ he said, ‘I try to see the tree-lined carriageway of my family’s home with the lamps burning in the windows at dusk. They would always light the lamps for me – for all of us. We would see them like beacons when we walked towards the house. It’s one of the things I try to remember.’

How immensely sad, thought Nell, closing the book.

She would have liked to be able to tell Michael what she had just read – to see his eyes take on the familiar absorption, and see him tilt his head in the characteristic attitude of intense listening, and to know he was instantly understanding the emotions the article churned up. It was good to remember he would be back the day after tomorrow. Nell would suggest he came to supper in Quire Court; she would cook a really nice meal and while they ate he would tell her about Fosse House, and she would tell him what she had found as contribution to his research. This was a very good thought.

She had not expected to hear back from B.D. Bodkin very quickly – she had not even known if she would hear from him at all – but when she checked her emails, he had sent a reply.

Dear Nell West,

I do indeed remember our association last year, and I’m glad I was able to help with the Victorian watercolours. The rather charming ‘Water Meadows’ sequence, as I recall.

This was unexpectedly friendly, and Nell, encouraged, read on.

I greatly enjoyed compiling and writing Fragments of Great War Treasures, which took me down some unexpected byways and highways. I didn’t read all of the privately printed letters you refer to, but I did have some brief contact with the family of the letter-writer – a nephew and niece, I think – to obtain permission to use the extracts.

I can therefore let you have the title and ISBN number of the collection. I recall I borrowed the book from the Bodleian, and there’s no reason to suppose they don’t still have a copy.

Kind regards and good luck with your research,

Bernard D. Bodkin

The ISBN number for the letters followed, together with the exact title of the letters, which was: The Letters of Hugbert Edreich, 1916–1918. Printing had been in 1955, by ‘Freide Edreich’, in ‘loving remembrance of a dear husband’. There was also a translator’s name, which Nell, who had a smattering of school German, but had not had to call on it for many years, was relieved to see. Altogether, this was very satisfactory, and it was surprisingly amiable of Bernard D. to be so helpful. Nell was prepared to forgive him for his preachy dogmatism over the Holzminden sketches.

Owen might be inclined to spare an hour to accompany her to the Bodleian to help track down Hugbert Edreich’s letters. It was the kind of research that would interest him, and he would be familiar with the loan system, which would make the task easier. But when Nell dialled his number it went to voicemail, so she left a message, explaining what was wanted.

As she put down the phone, she wondered how Michael’s research was going.

Michael had spent the first part of his day in feeling slightly guilty at spending so much time on the journal notes left by Alexei Iskander, because Iskander, entertaining though he might be, was not what Michael was here to research. Yes, but Iskander knew Leonora, said his mind. And Leonora is the link to the Palestrina Choir, and Liège is a link to the Great War. So it’s not straying too far off the path. Perhaps I’ll allow myself an hour to translate just a little more, then if it starts to seem like a cul-de-sac I’ll abandon it.

But he knew he would not abandon it, and after he had translated two more pages, he knew it was not a cul-de-sac.

‘It was the beginning of August when I reached Germany’s eastern border,’ wrote Iskander in his careless, erratic French, which Michael was finding increasingly easy to translate.

I had had an interesting journey – and a very useful one. There are a number of excellent hunting-grounds in the countries that lie between Russia and Belgium, and although the Kaiser’s Prussian soldiers were advancing steadily towards Belgium, I thought there was time for me to make a small detour into Vienna.

It was not exactly a small detour, if I am honest, but the railway service was proving to be admirable and everyone should see Vienna at least once. I saw it for the first time that summer, and I do feel it could easily become a spiritual home for me. It’s a city of culture and gracious living. The very cobblestones are soaked in music, and it’s as if the city thrums with the cadences of Mozart and Strauss and Schubert, and with all the romances and tragedies and triumphs of those gifted composers. Wonderful. The Viennese, as a race, are warm and welcoming; their hospitality is delightful, their women are beautiful, and to the traveller they offer the best they have in the way of food and wine. More to the point, Vienna has many great houses and palaces which are ideal for an enterprising thief. I found a number of small and valuable objects which, given a little sleight of hand, could be abstracted and sold most profitably. There are as many receivers in Vienna as there are in any city of the world, and after one or two abortive attempts, I found several.

Michael had had to guess at Iskander’s meaning in this last sentence, because the French–English dictionary did not give a translation for several of the words. But he was fairly sure Iskander was referring to fences.

I visited the concert halls of Vienna, too: Wiener Hofoper – the Court Opera – and the Golden Hall in the Musikverein, but there were simply too many people about for me to ply my trade there with any safety. So I allowed myself a holiday on those evenings, and bathed in the music, and relaxed in the company of a lady who was occupying a gilded box at a performance of The Marriage of Figaro, and who was amicably disposed towards the sharing of a quiet supper after the performance. This supper, taken in her apartment, was a very pleasurable experience. The rooms were rococo, the lady was voluptuous, the wine was luxurious, and when I say I relaxed in her company, I do not mean I was relaxed for the entire time. The English Bard has said that wine provoketh the desire but taketh away the performance, but that was never the case with me and certainly not on that evening, and perhaps Shakespeare was never privileged to enjoy Chateau Margaux anyway.