The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(28)
If I could get away … One level of my mind – the professional burglar’s level – had continued to work at its usual pace. Almost without realizing it, I had worked out that I could get through a narrow window partly hidden by the remaining rood screen. It was just about accessible from the ground, and the glass would have to be knocked out, but thankfully it was plain glass. Even in that desperate situation I would have hesitated to destroy the beautiful stained glass panels in the other windows.
The soldiers were at the far door, trying to force the lock, and the officer was saying something about finding other ways in.
Praying that Sister Clothilde and the others had had the wit to make sure all doors and windows were secured, I reached up for the stone sill, grateful for the cover afforded by the screen. But before I could lever myself up on to it, there was a movement on my right and I looked round sharply, thinking one of the soldiers had found his way here, tensing all my muscles to fight him or dodge bullets, or both.
It was not a soldier. It was one of the girls from the choir – she was cowering in the deep shadow of a buttress, and she was a thin, pale little thing with dark hair. Unlike a number of the other girls, her features were regular, although slightly pointed in the way a cat’s features are or a pixie’s. Her eyes were clear and intelligent, but filled with terror and bewilderment. How she had been missed by Sister Jeanne I have no idea, but here she was. On the wrong side of the locked door.
I defy anyone, in that situation, to know the best course of action. We were in a dust-swept chapel with a thrumming discordance echoing all round us, the rest of the community was barricaded behind locked doors, the Kaiser’s soldiers were brandishing rifles at everything in sight, and two murdered nuns were lying in their own blood. I don’t think I was ever in a more awkward or bizarre situation.
There was no time to wonder whether I could get the girl into the locked section of the convent, because clearly I could not. So, in my unreliable French, I said, ‘Don’t be afraid. I’m here to help. We’ll climb through the window.’
I didn’t really expect her to acquiesce. I didn’t even expect her to understand. But she nodded and clambered out from her tiny hiding-place – I remember thinking: oh God, please don’t let her be as badly deformed as some of those other poor souls. Please let her be capable of walking normally, because if she’s severely crippled, we might as well surrender to the German army here and now.
As she walked to the narrow window, I saw that she limped quite badly, as if she might have one leg slightly shorter than the other, or possessed what I think is called a club foot. But somehow I got her through the window, pushing her on to the sill, and indicating to her to drop down on the grass on the other side.
‘Can you manage that?’ I said.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said at once, which was one mercy in the midst of the chaos.
I turned back to survey the chapel. And now my burglar’s mind was undoubtedly in the ascendant. I thought: I’ve got to travel through Belgium and find help for those nuns, and I’ve got to do it fast. I might have to take that girl with me for a few miles.
I’m not particularly proud of what I did, but the soldiers would have looted the chapel, and to travel anywhere, it’s necessary to have money – or something that can be turned into money. I went for the icons, of course. I pocketed four of them – beautiful jewel-painted things in polished frames. Then I scrambled on to the stone window sill and down on to the grass. The pixie-faced girl was waiting for me.
‘What’s your name?’
She hesitated, as if unsure whether to trust me that far, so I said, ‘I’m Iskander. I’m a Russian newspaper reporter.’
I’m not even sure if she knew what a reporter was, but she nodded, as if absorbing these new words. Then she said, ‘Leonora.’
‘I wish I could say I was happy to meet you, Leonora. But it will be all right. Take hold of my hand and don’t let go. We’re going to run away together.’
She only hesitated briefly. She said, ‘Run away? Away from here, do you mean? From Sacré-Coeur?’
‘Yes. Is that all right with you?’
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, with a fervency I had not anticipated. ‘As far as possible.’
Her hand came into mine, and together we went through the scented gardens, and into the vast waiting night of the doomed land.
The journal ended there, but Iskander’s vivid word-pictures remained.
So, thought Michael, that grisly little legend about the Palestrina Choir had been true. The Choir really had sung the accompaniment to its own death throes. It had been a heart-rending attempt by the girls to placate the intruders, because it had been the only thing they had known – the only defence weapon they could offer. Like Iskander, the pity of it bit painfully into him.
At times, translating the narrative, Michael had had to guess at Iskander’s meaning, and there had been whole paragraphs – in one case almost an entire page – where the writing had been too cramped – or perhaps written too hastily – to decipher it with any certainty. But as he worked, understanding the journal had become progressively easier, like running down a flight of stairs – you moved so fast that your feet did not actually touch the stairs, and yet your own momentum and confidence propelled you safely to the bottom. Michael had been able to skim Iskander’s words so surely that he had reached an understanding.