The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(22)
I should like it understood that I did not, on that occasion, ply my disreputable trade, although there were many beautiful and valuable objects in the rooms. But there are rules about these things, and I hope at heart I am still a gentleman. I left the rooms unplundered, the lady satisfied, and walked virtuously home through a rose and gold dawn, with the sun rising like a glowing jewel over the Sch?nbrunn Palace. (From which any readers of this journal who know Vienna will realize that the lady’s apartment was in the wealthy quarter of the city. Of course it was.)
It was the beginning of August – a hot and windless August – and Vienna was buzzing with the news that Germany had officially declared war on Russia and on France. This, though expected, was still chilling. But even in those early days it was becoming apparent that Germany had overreached and underestimated, and that in particular it had underestimated Belgium. The Kaiser, with his customary bombast and arrogance, now tried to negotiate a free escort through Belgium in order to invade France. Belgium refused, as any self-respecting country would; in fact King Albert indignantly pointed out that Belgium was a country and not a road, at which the Kaiser flew into a rage and promptly ordered out his armies and told them to invade, and take, Belgium.
It was exactly as I had foretold – although I have to acknowledge a great many other people had foretold the same thing. But if ever a spur was needed to hasten a traveller’s footsteps, this was it. I bade farewell to the City of Music and Dreams, and resumed my journey to Belgium.
Not wanting to attract any notice, and aware of being in a country with whom my own was now at war, I abandoned the railways and resorted to more discreet methods of travel. It was less comfortable, but it was better to be uncomfortable and alive than to travel in luxury and end up spitted on the end of a German bayonet. Sometimes I walked, but usually I was able to get rides in horses and carts. It was not unpleasant to jog along the country lanes, perhaps with a farmer bound for market, or a tinker plying his wares.
I travelled for an entire two days with a small band of gypsies, sharing their supper when they made camp and joining in their music. They are interesting people, the Romanies, with vivid history and colourful traditions and wild passion-filled music. Also, their idea of food and drink is generous and their ladies very friendly. We parted company with regret and declarations of undying friendship, although, to be fair, that last may have been due to the quantities of wine consumed.
I reached the outlying districts of Germany in the late afternoon, and if I narrowed my eyes and concentrated I could make out the ancient city of Liége in the distance. Even from a distance I could see the silver strands of the Meuse River and the faint outlines of several of the twelve forts encircling the old city.
As I approached Liége I was aware of an unrest – it was a curious sensation, almost as if something, some invisible force, knew that a massive conflict lay in waiting. Rather as someone may suffer a headache just before a thunderstorm. I had no explanation for the feeling then and I do not have one now, but walking through the wooded areas between Germany and Belgium, listening for the marching feet of the invading armies, I felt as if something had been wrenched away from its roots, as if some natural force had become distorted and something dark and heavy was trickling into the world.
Nearing Liége, seeing those grim towers built over twenty-five years earlier to repel invaders, I felt as if a vast, tightly-stretched drumskin was being tapped somewhere close by. I could not quite hear it, but I could feel it, as if I were lying on a railway line, hearing a train approach. On and on it went, in a rhythmic tattoo. I knew what it was. The marching of armies. The Kaiser’s forces advancing on Liége.
Iskander’s words were so vivid that when Michael leaned back from the table for a moment, he had the impression that the echoes of those armies were reverberating across the years, rippling against his own mind.
He was reaching for his pen again when he realized that the sounds were not from the past at all; they were here in the present. They were real sounds, and they were not drumbeats – they were footsteps. The slow, soft footsteps Michael had heard last night and that had frightened Luisa during supper. Tap-tap … Like a faint, blurred rhythm.
It’s Stephen, thought Michael with a lurch of apprehension. He was here last night – he got into the house – I saw him. And now he’s coming back. He’s walking down that path, he’s coming through those bushes now, and he’ll try to get in again. Will Luisa let him in again?
‘Let me in … Please let me in …’
The words lay like clotted cobwebs on the air, the sounds half shrivelled in the sunlight. It’s because they’ve travelled across a century, thought Michael. They’re clogged by dead men’s dust – by the antique dust that’s lain unswept. Unswept antique dust … is that from Coriolanus? God help me, I’m hearing whispering voices from a man dead for nearly a century, and I’m quoting bloody Shakespeare!
I’m not really hearing the whispers, though, he thought. I’ve fallen asleep for a few moments – the warmth of the sun on those windows – or maybe Luisa Gilmore laces her coffee with cannabis.
‘Let me in …’
A cloud moved across the sun and the garden dipped into shadows, and the whispering faded. The antique dust has settled back into place, thought Michael. Either that, or I’ve woken up.
He turned determinedly back to the paper-strewn table and Iskander’s journal.