The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery

Here was the title page with Freide’s dedication: ‘In loving remembrance of a dear husband.’ How had Freide felt about coming to England after WWI – to a country she must still have regarded as an enemy of Germany – and living here?

For the first few pages Hugbert’s writing did not quite achieve the lively style of the letters reproduced in B.D. Bodkin. But perhaps Hugbert had not yet become accustomed to expressing himself with pen and paper. Or perhaps the translator had not got into his or her swing yet. Nell persevered, and by the time she reached a letter sent from France in 1916, Hugbert appeared to have hit his literary stride.

He had written to his Freide that he missed her, but assured her he was with good comrades, and everyone was in cheerful spirits, although life in the trenches was dismal, and there had been outbreaks of illness among a number of the men. ‘Details of which I will not embarrass you, my liebling, only to say they are distressing and debilitating. I believe the British suffer the same thing. We have much sympathy for them, for it is not an illness to wish on one’s worst enemies.’

Dysentery, thought Nell. It was endemic on both sides in that conflict. Poor old Hugbert, I hope he didn’t get it.

But although he had spared his liebling Freide the finer points of the trench sickness, he had provided her with a description of the trenches themselves:

It is depressing and dreary, and the fighting is grim … We are brave men, but still there have been instances of suicide and madness within our ranks, although there have also been stories of bravery and resourcefulness, of which we are very proud … But everywhere is the grey mud of the trenches and the sounds of gunfire and men’s shouts, and the screams of horses … It is a terrible thing to hear horses screaming, Freide, although it is, of course, far worse to hear men screaming. And it seems as if everything we hear, and see, and smell, is framed in barbed wire like jagged black teeth.

Later, while guarding the Siegfriedstellung – the Hindenburg line – at Verdun, he had written that it was bitterly, bone-numbingly, cold, but how, when the freezing mists cleared, they could sometimes see the British soldiers.

A curious race, the British, but I find them interesting, although that is something I should not say, since they are our enemies. This week one of our own trenches was captured by a young British Lieutenant, who pelted about fifty of our men with hand grenades. I am sorry to say our men were scared away, although under such an attack perhaps one could not blame them. It is easy to be brave until faced with explosives and spitting fire and showers of metal.

Since it happened, we have heard a strange story about the lieutenant, who is called Siegfried Sassoon. Instead of signalling for reinforcements, as would have been correct after making the capture, he sat down in the trench itself, and began reading a book of poetry. This, you will appreciate, is extremely odd behaviour.

Nell reached for her pen to note it down in case Michael, or Owen, or the Director did not know this small story and might be able to make use of it. She found the brief word picture of the romantic, tormented Sassoon, reading poems in a German trench, touching and evocative.

The next pages appeared to deal with Hugbert’s progression through the war. Nell skimmed these. They would no doubt be interesting to a student of the finer points of military history, particularly seen from the Germans’ point of view, but she was looking for Holzminden and for Stephen Gilmore and Iskander. But it was rather endearing to read of Hugbert’s simple pleasure and pride in his promotions, and also of his obviously genuine sorrow at the death of many of his colleagues.

And then, about a third of the way through, the word Holzminden leapt up from the page. ‘My posting for the new prisoner of war camp at Holzminden has been officially announced, and I leave tomorrow,’ he had written.

Nell bent eagerly over the page. The letter was not, on this occasion, written to Freide, but to Hugbert’s parents, and ended with a brief description of the camp:

… in old cavalry barracks, and specifically intended for British officers. The present Kommandant is a kindly old dodderer, but we hear he is to leave very soon, and his replacement is not yet known. I shall, however, be serving directly under Hauptfeldwebel Barth, who you will remember meeting at that social evening. I am afraid he was very voluble about the food being served, telling everyone that his father, a butcher in Braunschweig, had supplied the bratwurst for the supper, but he is proud of his father’s business, and it must be said the bratwurst was very good. Also, allowances must be made for the amount of beer he had consumed that night.

My best love to you both,

Hugbert

Dearest Mother and Father,

Here I am, safely installed at Holzminden, and becoming acquainted with the men in my charge. I should not admit to being glad that I am removed from active duty, but I feel great relief.

I am less pleased at learning the identity of the new Kommandant. He is Hauptmann Karl Niemeyer. He is very much disliked and feared, and is considered a buffoon, but a vindictive buffoon. He likes to think himself very learned and scholarly in English even though he is far from that. Already, some of the imprisoned men are mimicking him behind his back. I beg you will not mention that I have told you that.

Please to take care of my beloved Freide while I am away. I fear she has too vivid an imagination and conjures up all manner of horrors which she thinks I am enduring.

Horrors there have been, of course, and will continue to be. There is a young Englishman here who clearly has seen the worst of them, and he is unable to shake off his memories. He goes in constant terror of being hunted down, and two nights ago I and another attendant found him hiding in the storeroom, crouching in a dark corner, pressing against the walls, as if trying to hide within the very bricks. I fear he is very disturbed.

I have received your parcel with the peppermint draught for dyspepsia and the ointment for bunions. You will be glad to know both are much improved as a result.

My best love to you both,

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