‘Luisa, do you ever hear strange sounds in this house? Footsteps. Soft whisperings and tappings, as if someone is—’
‘Trying to get in?’ I had never put it into words before – I had never even allowed the thought to form, but now that I said it I knew it was what I had thought for some time.
‘Yes,’ said my father eagerly. He leaned forward and there was a look in his eyes I had seen occasionally before – a look that always made me feel a bit sick and vaguely frightened. ‘And someone really is trying to get in,’ he said, in a soft voice. ‘Someone comes to those windows almost every night and tries to get in. Asks to be let in …’
I stared at him, remembering the soft entreaties I had heard over the years. ‘Let me in …’ How often had I heard those whispers, and how often had I drawn the curtains tightly, walked to another room, immersed myself in a book with my hands pressed over my ears so I should not hear. I had thought it was part of Leonora – that it was another of her tricks to get into my mind – but since father brought the sketch back, I had begun to think the let-me-in whisper was a man’s voice. Was that because Stephen really was in the sketch, and bringing it into the house had somehow strengthened his presence here? But this was so horrible an idea that I pushed it away.
Father was watching me. ‘You’ve heard him, haven’t you?’ he said, and before I could answer he continued. ‘But I can see you have. I’ve heard him as well. Asking to be let in. I’ve never let him in, though – I’ve never dared.’ His face was white and shrunken, as if the flesh had shrivelled away from the bones, but his eyes blazed with life. ‘But now we must do it. Tonight, Luisa, we must let him in.’
‘Oh no—’
‘I must. I’ll never have any peace until I do. Until I find out the truth. The people who come to live here after me – you, Luisa, perhaps your children if you have any – they won’t have any peace, either. Stephen won’t let them.’
I said, ‘But – he isn’t real. He died all those years ago. We mightn’t know how he died or where or exactly when, but it’s so long ago. He’s just a – an old memory. Houses have old memories, and that’s what Stephen is. That’s all he is.’ As I said it, I was thinking: please, oh please, say that I’m right.
But he didn’t. He said, ‘It’s sharp of you to say he’s a memory. So he is. But you see, Luisa, some memories can be dangerous.’
‘How? What could he do?’
‘It’s not what he could do,’ said my father. ‘I think he was a gentle soul. Damaged by the war, but essentially gentle. It’s what people want to do to him. You remember I told you about him being sentenced to death?’
‘Yes.’
‘Listen to this from the German letters,’ he said, eagerly, and took several sheets of paper from the large envelope. They were covered with his neat, scholarly writing.
‘It was written by an officer called Hugbert Edreich,’ said Father. ‘He seems to have been part of a small secret group of German soldiers who came to England for the express purpose of finding Stephen.’
‘And executing him?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Father, eagerly. ‘Yes, they came to do that.’
It’s a curious thing about my father – also, to some extent, my mother – that they never seem to realize that some of things they say or do might be hurtful. Leonora’s parents had been the same – I knew that. Unable to feel or imagine feelings in others. It simply did not occur to my father that I might find it upsetting to hear that a young man had been hunted down in this very house, so that he could be killed.
‘The letter is addressed to Hauptmann Karl Niemeyer,’ he said. ‘He was the commanding officer of the prisoner of war camp at Holzminden – I’ve been able to confirm that. I don’t know how Edreich got the letter out – or even if Niemeyer ever actually received it. Letters sent to England from the soldiers in France were censored, so that no information could be given away about placements or plans. But I don’t think outward letters were quite as strictly censored. It wasn’t like the last war, you know. In the Great War, people knew, in a general way, about spies, but there was no thought of the enemy actually coming into the country. There wasn’t the same kind of suspicion. I don’t know, either, how it ended up in Liège, except that they’ve gathered a great deal of memorabilia from that war. I’ll read what Hugbert Edreich wrote.’
(Later, I found the letter in Father’s desk, and I copied it into this diary. I don’t know if it will ever be of any use, but it’s another small part of Stephen.)
The strangeness in my father’s eyes seemed stronger, and I glanced uneasily towards the door, wondering if I should call Mother. But he was already reading aloud, and here, on the next page, is what the letter says.
To Hauptmann Niemeyer
Sir,
I write to you at the request of Hauptfeldwebel Barth, to respectfully inform you that our task progresses well. I send this report from a small village very near to the place to which we must travel (which I do not name in case this letter is read by others). We are staying at a small tavern (the Hauptfeldwebel wishes me to assure you that we are mindful of the funds given to us and are not being excessive in our spending).
We have been able to talk to local people, although we are careful to preserve our disguises. We are certain that Stephen Gilmore has made his way back to his family house, and is there now.
I have suggested that the correct procedure would be to bring Gilmore back to Germany, but Hauptfeldwebel Barth fears he might cheat us again, as he and the Russian journalist, Alexei Iskander, did at Holzminden. Therefore, he intends that the sentence of execution will be carried out here. I am unsure whether this is possible – such a sentence carried out in a country other than the one where it was originally passed could be seen as transgressing the law.
However, be assured that I shall obey whatever commands I am given.
I send my respectful duty to you,