The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(59)

It was not until I returned to the dining room that I realized Gilmore and Iskander were no longer there. This was not immediately alarming, and one does not question too closely where a man might have gone after a large helping of Holzminden’s pottage, for, as well as the ubiquitous turnips, it also contains many onions. But I was just thinking I must make sure of their whereabouts, when the alarm sirens ripped through the camp. They are like giant wailing monsters, those sirens; they tear into a man’s eardrums, and they demand instant action.

We have had a few escape attempts here, and we usually recapture the men. But it means we are not unfamiliar with the screeching clamour of the alarms, which only ever signals one thing, and that is an escaped prisoner.

Well, Freide, I am not a person built for running, even with the sparse rations we have had for the last two years. But when the clamour started, I responded at once, and along with the rest ran around the camp, all of us scurrying hither and yon, searching the perimeters, looking at the walls and gates, and peering into ditches and sewage ducts and all manner of dark and unsavoury places.

Hauptmann Niemeyer came out as well, along with his brother, Heinrich. We could have managed perfectly well without them, in fact a sight better. But Niemeyer was determined to show Heinrich how efficient and authoritative he is, and he barked orders at us, most of which went unheeded because we did not hear them properly. Heinrich barked a few orders of his own, so it was all very muddling.

Then a cry came from the main gates, and everyone ran along to see what was happening. I was bringing up the rear by that time, but I got there. And there were Iskander and Stephen Gilmore, Iskander leaning negligently against part of the gates, arms crossed, eyeing the sentries with cool insolence. Gilmore was cowering behind him like a trapped hare.

Iskander’s escape plan was all of a piece with the rest of him. Daring, arrogant, and so outrageous it might have succeeded – well, it nearly did succeed. Somehow – I still have not found out how – he had acquired two officers’ uniforms, which he and Gilmore donned in the latrine block after breakfast. Thus clad, they simply walked openly across the courtyard, and Iskander gave an order in German for the gates to be opened. He even had the effrontery to salute the sentries, two of whom saluted him back. (Those two hapless sentries are now awaiting court martial.)

Iskander himself was philosophical about being caught; he shrugged and made some remark about it being worth the attempt, but perhaps not one of his better plans. Gilmore, on the other hand, was devastated. He seemed to become almost possessed at realizing he had not achieved freedom, for he rounded on the guards like a trapped animal. I do not think I shall ever forget the sight of his face, white and utterly terrified, but with such desperate anger blazing from his eyes it was as if his mind was on fire. Then, before any of us realized what he intended, he sprang at the nearest guard and snatched his rifle from him. The sentries at once levelled their own rifles, and Gilmore would certainly have been shot, for the orders regarding treatment of escapees are very clear, but he managed to dive into the nearby gatehouse. Within seconds a shower of bullets came rat-a-tatting out. They were fired wildly, though, and none found a mark.

‘Shoot him!’ cried Niemeyer, although it was all very well for him, standing half behind a stone arch. His brother, hiding behind the arch’s fellow, joined in, calling for the soldiers to advance. ‘Storm the place and shoot him!’ he cried.

The sentries did not immediately obey either of the commands, for Gilmore had the gatehouse walls for protection, and they were in an open courtyard. Then a second shower of bullets came sizzling out and most of the soldiers dropped instinctively to the ground. But – and here is the cause of our upheaval – a stray bullet hit Heinrich in the stomach. He fell to the ground, screaming and writhing, giving vent to a series of curses the like of which I have never before heard from an officer’s lips.

That was when Karl Niemeyer shouted to the soldiers not to fire.

‘Shooting is too good for him,’ he cried as people scuttled to help the wounded Heinrich, most of them keeping a wary eye on the gatehouse occupant. Niemeyer’s face was as red as a beet, his eyes were popping, and his moustaches quivered. He should have been a comic figure, but he was very terrible. By that time I had managed to edge forward, working around the edge of the courtyard, and I could see Gilmore through a narrow window of the gatehouse. He had collapsed on the ground in a boneless heap, as if something had pulled the core out of his body. The rifle was no longer in his hands. Bullet holes showed in the low ceiling and parts of the walls, and I had the strong impression that Gilmore had not even aimed at the soldiers, but had simply fired the rifle into the gatehouse stones, almost as an expression of his bitter despair – even as an outlet for it. I glanced back to the courtyard. Someone had pressed a wadded jacket against Heinrich’s wound, and three men were lifting him, obviously preparing to carry him to the medical block.

What I did next probably appeared quite brave, but it was not, because I could see it was perfectly safe. I walked up to the gatehouse and went through the open door. Gilmore stared up at me, his eyes wide and wild.

‘Is he dead?’ he said. ‘But I didn’t kill him. I didn’t—’ He clutched at my hands, and his fingers felt like twigs, frozen in the depths of winter, so cold and brittle that they might snap off. The light had gone from behind his eyes, and he was shivering. ‘I didn’t fire those last shots,’ he said. ‘He did it.’ I glanced round, but there was no one in the room with us. The rifle still lay by the far wall.