He looked at me from the corners of his eyes. ‘Don’t you see him?’ he said. ‘I didn’t, not at first. I thought he was a shadow. But he’s there, waiting his time. Sometimes he reaches into my mind – he deforms it so that I’m different inside. When it’s like that, I mustn’t ever look in a mirror, because it wouldn’t be me looking back.’
I find this kind of conversation deeply distressing, and I shall talk to our medical officer, to see if there is any help that can be given. Hauptfeldwebel Barth says it is not for us to worry about any of the men’s minds, only to keep their bodies securely confined. He maintains the Englishman is shamming in order to get better treatment. Personally, I do not believe this, in fact I do not think Hauptfeldwebel Barth would know a wounded mind if it bit him on the behind. You will excuse my mentioning such a part of the anatomy.
You will remember meeting Hauptfeldwebel Barth at a social gathering last year, which my parents also attended. I recall you found him somewhat over-gallant in his manner, as well as having strong onion breath. I am trying to persuade him that young ladies do not care to be complimented on the proportions of their bosoms in the explicit way he complimented you that night. I am hopeful he will not do it again. About the onion breath, I can do nothing.
A couple of weeks ago, I found out that the English boy was a keen amateur artist, so I mentioned this to Iskander.
‘I know it,’ he said. ‘And perhaps if he could draw his fears it would exorcize them. The Roman Church, Herr Edreich, has a belief that in order to exorcize a demon, it’s first necessary to name it.’
‘Would drawing his demons exorcize them?’
‘It might.’
I was just wondering whether a requisition for drawing or even painting materials would be viewed with approval, when Iskander, who sometimes has the uncomfortable trick of reading people’s minds, said, ‘You may leave matters to me, Herr Edreich. All I say is that you do not ask questions.’
And, incredibly, he has somehow managed to get his hands on a sketch pad and pencils, and sticks of charcoal. I have not asked questions, but I begin to believe his story about having been a thief in peacetime.
The English boy did not, at first, seem interested in the sketching materials, but then one day, when he thought no one was watching him, he reached for the sketch pad, and ran his hands over the surface of the paper. The next day I noticed him drawing the view of the courtyard beyond the refectory, doing so with fierce concentration and absorption. I shall ask, tactfully, if I may see his work sometime.
We are currently engaged in scrubbing the entire camp to within an inch of its life for the impending visit of Hauptmann Niemeyer’s twin brother, Heinrich. Niemeyer says all must be in precise and immaculate order, but we have exhausted the entire stock of lye soap and he still barks that everywhere looks like a pigsty and to do it all again. The kitchens are at their wits’ end to provide a respectable series of meals. You would think royalty is coming, instead of a jumped-up popinjay with the manners of a rutting goat. Do not, please, allow anyone else to read that last sentence.
This seemed to end that particular section of letters and made a good place for a break. Nell took a breather to make herself a cup of coffee. Drinking it, she wondered how Michael’s morning was going and hoped that he might ring soon to say he was on his way home.
Eighteen
Michael had woken to rather watery autumn sunlight filtering through the latticed windows of the library, and the realization that he had fallen asleep in the deep old wing chair. So either the night had passed without further disturbance, or if any manifestations had taken to floating around Fosse House or its grounds he had slept through them.
The chimes of the church clock came faintly across the morning, and he saw with immense relief and slight surprise that it was eight o’clock. This was so gratifying and welcome that he bounded out of the library, without giving a thought to what might lurk in the hall, and went up to his room to collect clean things. He showered happily in the old-fashioned bathroom, not caring that the pipes clanked as if something was trapped inside them, then made a pot of tea and ate a bowl of cereal and some toast and marmalade. After this, he remembered his obligations to the hospital, and ventured into Luisa’s bedroom to search for some kind of contact for them. The big wardrobe held clothes and a faint scent of lavender, and shoes neatly ranged on racks. He tried the drop-front bureau in the window alcove and was relieved to find a small address book. Was there a solicitor in here? Yes, here it was: Mr Josiah Pargeter and an address in Walsham. Thank goodness. He went back downstairs and phoned the hospital.
‘I haven’t found any family,’ he explained to the ward sister who had just come on duty. ‘But I’ve tracked down what looks like Miss Gilmore’s solicitor. A Josiah Pargeter of Walsham. I don’t know how recent an address it is, but it’ll give you a starting point.’
‘That’s really helpful,’ she said. ‘Look now, is there any chance you could telephone him for us? I know it’s a bit of a cheek to ask, but what with you being actually in the house and knowing exactly what happened last night— Somebody needs to establish that he does act for the family, you see. Once we know that, we can get things moving here.’
‘Yes, all right.’ Michael felt this was the least he could do for Luisa, and a phone call or two would not take very long. ‘I’m hoping to leave today, but I’ll sort that out right away and call you back.’
‘We’d be very grateful,’ she said.
By this time it was half-past nine, an hour when a solicitor might reasonably be expected to be in his office and at his desk, so Michael made the call.