The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery(79)

I do not feel it to be any part of this statement to describe my reunion with Leonora; I shall say only it was a night to make the gods sing and the poets weep with joy.

The next day, by fair means and foul, by hedge and by stile, and despite the vagaries of the ferry system, the three of us reached England and this house.

We should have been safe here. How could I know that Karl Niemeyer – as mean and brutal a man as ever walked God’s earth – would send his men to hunt us down all the way to Norfolk and Fosse House?

Michael leaned back for a moment, then turned to look at Nell.

‘I think we’re about to find out what happened,’ he said. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’

‘Yes. I met Iskander while I was chasing Hugbert,’ she said. ‘And I rather like him. He was a rogue, wasn’t he, but he had quite a lot of – well, of what he’d probably call honourable feelings. Let’s go on.’

‘Onwards and upwards,’ said Michael, turning to the next page.

We had almost a week of relative peace at Fosse House. Stephen prowled around the rooms, occasionally venturing into the gardens, I made a start on my memoirs, using the library as my study, and between times Leonora and I—

Well, there is a walled garden here, and it is like a secret garden from a children’s fairy story. Each afternoon Leonora and I went into that garden, and there was only the scent of the apples from the old trees overhead, and the feel of the soft moss beneath. No one disturbed us. No one knew we were there. We did not care that it was a cold English autumn – we hardly noticed.

When I met Stephen in the camp in Germany, he talked about wanting to see again the lamps burning in the windows of his home. It was an image he clung to. Tonight, in the drawing room at the front of Fosse House, I have lit those lamps for Leonora.

Earlier this afternoon I took a long walk. Stephen thought I was exploring the area, but of course I was reconnoitring the terrain. There aren’t many large houses hereabouts, but there are some, and the coffers needed replenishing if Leonora and I were to make any kind of living—

I returned to Fosse House two hours ago. Twilight was falling – it’s an odd kind of light, the English twilight. Smoky and strange. Walking up the drive, I had the feeling that something was near to me – something friendly and inquisitive, and that if I knew how or where to look, I should see it. Writing this, I’ve had the same feeling – as if there’s something (someone?) wanting to see into the room, curious about what I’m writing.

As I came along the drive I liked thinking how Leonora would be waiting for me – and Stephen too, of course – and how we would make a meal for ourselves in the big old kitchen, and then eat it in the dining room with the windows overlooking the gardens. I am perfectly prepared to eat in a kitchen, in fact I have had some extremely pleasant encounters in kitchens, but if there is a comfortable dining room, with a polished table and silver cutlery, I will choose that every time. Even if it means helping with the washing up afterwards.

Approaching the house, I became aware of something wrong. At first it was only a feeling, but then it was more definite. Sounds. Movements. They were confused at first, but gradually they coalesced into stealthy footsteps and low murmuring voices. Then, clearly and sharply, a voice called Leonora’s name, and the desperation and anguish in the voice cut through the dusk like a sword. I stopped, listening intently, and when the cry came a second time I knew it was from the gardens behind the house. I ran forward, making for the narrow path at the house’s side. It’s almost enclosed by trees and shrubs, and rather dark and narrow.

The shouts came again, and I recognized the voice as Stephen’s, although I could no longer tell what he was saying. He had gone along the tunnel path, and he was at the back of the house, staring across the dark gardens. I followed his line of vision and saw the blurred figure of a female running towards the walled garden. There was a faint screech of sound as the gate was opened, and she ran through it. And then— I can’t exactly say she vanished, which would be absurd, but she seemed to somehow melt into the darkness.

Stephen went after her at once, going through the iron gate, calling out as he did so.

‘Leonora …’ The name lay on the air, as fragile and insubstantial as silver filigree.

That was when the shadows in the walled garden reared up and were suddenly and frighteningly no longer shadows but men. Even from where I stood I could see who they were. Niemeyer’s men.

It was instantly obvious what had happened. Karl Niemeyer had sent his men after us – in his vindictive, selfish determination to be revenged for his brother’s shooting he had ignored the war and had sent soldiers to England, purely to recapture one man. Heaven knows how long they had been out there, but they had trapped Stephen in the walled garden. I edged closer, considering and discarding half a dozen plans. If there had only been two soldiers I might have risked a surprise attack and hoped to get Stephen away, but there were four, all armed. I tiptoed closer to get a clearer view and recognized two of the soldiers from Holzminden. The fat and essentially stupid Hauptfeldwebel Barth, and a younger man called Hugbert Edreich. Seeing Edreich gave me a glimmer of hope, because he had been a kindly and unexpectedly sensitive gaoler in the camp, always trying to help, certainly sympathetic to the likes of Stephen.

The two soldiers whom I did not know had taken Stephen’s arms, and they were dragging him against an ivy-covered wall. He was struggling, shouting to them to let him go, calling for Leonora again.