The Whispering: A Haunted House Mystery (11 page)

I ran around the sides of the chapel until I found what I was looking for – a low arched door leading directly inside. I threw it open and sunlight from the gardens streamed into the dim old chapel, laying harlequin patterns across the floor. As I stepped into that well of gentle light, into the scents of candle smoke and incense, it was as if the layers of prayer wrapped around me, and I thought – I can't break into this. I can't fracture this tranquillity and disturb these women. Then I remembered that the soldiers would unquestionably disturb them, and I strode to the centre aisle and faced the small congregation.

There was a gasp of shock, and some of the nuns rose to their feet. One – an imposing authoritative figure, certainly the Mother Superior – came towards me, gesturing me to go back.

In the best French I could manage, I said loudly, ‘Forgive me, but you are all in great danger. German soldiers are in the grounds – preparing to invade your country. But if you come with me now I may be able to get you away.'

They did not take it in. Of course they did not. They had been rapt in prayer, in the service, in the music, and they were confused, as if suddenly faced with too-bright sunlight after hours of darkness. Then several of the younger ones stood up, but Mother Superior at once rapped out a command.

‘All remain in your places. Sister Jeanne, continue to play. It is the time for the
Magnificat
.'

The small bespectacled nun seated at the organ glanced at me. She started to say, ‘But Sister Clothilde—'

‘It is an order, Sister.'

The tradition of obedience held strong, and little Sister Jeanne bowed her head. The massive organ chords began to roll forth, and from behind the rood screens, the silver and golden voices started again, thready and uncertain at first, then with more confidence.

I went towards the rood screens, intending to push them aside, but the soldiers were already at the door, blocking out the sunlight. As they entered the chapel, the current of air sent the candle flames flickering wildly, casting grotesque shadows across the chapel, making the soldiers seem like striding giants. Their hard boots rang out on the marble floor, and they took up positions across the main aisle, the altar at their backs. One of them went to stand by the organ, and two more stood like sentries on each side of the main door. All had rifles, and all grasped them firmly. I stepped unobtrusively back into the shadows of a deep alcove – not from a craven wish to hide, but to try to work out an escape plan for the nuns.

The commanding officer – I recognized his voice – said, ‘Who is your Mother Superior?'

‘I am Sister Clothilde, Mother Superior of Sacré-Coeur.'

‘Then, Sister, we are taking over your convent. Belgium is claimed by the Kaiser – it is his route into France – and this place is to be the headquarters of this battalion until our task is complete.' He paused, then with relish said, ‘Until Belgium falls.'

He spoke in extremely bad French – even I could tell that – and some of the words were German, but the nuns understood him.

There was a silence, then several of the older nuns came to stand with the formidable Sister Clothilde, their faces white and set, although the younger ones still cowered back in fear.

Clothilde was not afraid, though. She said, sharply, ‘Belgium will never fall. Leave our chapel. This is God's house, and we will not submit to the brutality of you or your Emperor.'

I dare say she could not have found anything that would have infuriated and insulted the soldiers more. I'm not actually sure if she cared, though, and she delivered the words with a precision and authority that would not have shamed Bernhardt or Duse.

The officer was certainly infuriated. He turned to his men and issued a series of orders, speaking too rapidly for me to follow. Whether the nuns followed it I don't know, but as the soldiers moved towards them, their rifles raised threateningly, they seemed to square their shoulders in readiness, and they stood their ground. I stood my ground as well, frantically looking round the chapel to find a means of creating a diversion.

The young nuns were still huddled together in a frightened bunch, but when Sister Clothilde turned to look at them, they responded as one, going to stand with her. Sister Jeanne stood up again, but Clothilde called out to her – I think this time it was something about maintaining the silver cord of prayer to the Lord – and Jeanne nodded. The music began again, and after the first few notes, the singing started once more. The soldiers were momentarily disconcerted and I was not surprised, because while the organ music seemed to be a natural part of the chapel, that cool, intricate chant, apparently coming from nowhere, had an other-world quality to it. But the officer gestured impatiently, and they went purposefully towards the small inner door, which presumably led through to the main convent.

Sister Clothilde was ahead of them. She whisked across the chapel and took up a stance in front of the door.

‘Stand aside,' said the officer, angrily.

‘I will not.'

‘You force us to use violence against you, Sister.'

‘Then do so. I shall not flinch.'

Clothilde stood her ground, and I felt deeply shamed that I was still cowering in the shadows and not rushing out there to slay the soldiers. But to do so would be useless; they would shoot me at once. Instead, I began to edge stealthily towards a massive statue on a stone plinth – Christ displaying his glowing heart, with all the love and compassion that traditional image conveys. The plinth was easily four feet high, the statue itself another three; if I could topple the statue to the ground it would create such a crashing disturbance that the nuns might be able to make a run for it.

The older ones had followed Clothilde's lead, ranging themselves with her, effectively blocking off the door. The music and the singing were continuing, but Jeanne's hands were stumbling over the chords, and sobbing broke out from behind the rood screens, splintering the music into ugly fragments. At this, Clothilde turned towards the screens and issued another of her ringing commands. This time I heard and understood better – she was ordering the sisters and the singers to hold fast to the prayer, for the prayer and the music were the sure and certain bonds through which would come God's help. God would not fail them, she cried. There was the ascending note of the fanatic in her voice, and there was certainly the gleam of the zealot in her eyes, and it was clear she meant to defy the invaders no matter the cost.

But even the most extreme of militant Christianity was not going to fell ten or a dozen trained soldiers, all of them armed, none of them particularly sympathetic to women – at least, not these women – and the soldiers moved towards the door, their rifles held out.

The singing was still struggling to maintain its momentum, and there was something so heart-rending about those frightened, determined voices that renewed determination washed over me. A dozen more steps – perhaps a dozen and a half – and I would be within reach of the stone plinth. I would have to trust to luck that the statue was not cemented down, and I would also have to trust to luck that the nuns and whatever was behind the rood screens would respond fast enough for an escape.

I am not sure if Sister Clothilde was entirely sane at that point. From where I stood I could not hear very clearly, nor could I entirely follow what she was saying, but I think it was something about not yielding to the emissaries of Satan and standing firm in the face of Satan's armies. Mad or sane, she had a grandiloquent line in rhetoric.

The officer said, in a cold voice, ‘You expect us to shoot you, Sister?'

‘We will die in God's love.'

‘So you have a hankering for the Martyr's Crown,' he said, very sarcastically. ‘Well, we shall disappoint you over that, for we do not commit murder if we can avoid it, at least not against
religieuses.
But there are other methods of persuasion, Sister.' There was a gloating lasciviousness in his voice, and he rapped out another of the orders to the soldiers. I thought one of them hesitated, but the others moved at once, grabbing the arms of the two youngest nuns and pulling them into the main aisle.

I took several more steps nearer the statue, praying not to be noticed, hoping none of the sisters would remember I was there and give away my presence.

‘Well, Sister?' said the officer. ‘We have two of your choicest pigeons. Now will you stand aside and let us into the convent?'

‘I will not. Sisters, stay brave. God's love and His strength are with you.'

The two young nuns were struggling and sobbing, and I don't think they really heard her. They both wore what looked like the garb of novices, and one of the soldiers had pulled away the headdress of the smaller one. Beneath it she had cropped hair, soft and silky, like a baby's. She looked about seventeen and even tear-streaked and terrified she was extremely pretty. The men reached for the headdress of the other and snatched that off as well, standing around the two girls, laughing and jeering.

‘Now, Sister,' said the officer to Clothilde, ‘you see what is about to happen, I think? My men have not seen females for a very long time. Will you allow us into your convent to use it for our headquarters, or do I persuade you to do so by letting my men make use of these two choice little morsels?'

(He may have used words other than morsels, but my German was not equal to translating obscenity.)

Whatever words he used, there was no doubt about his meaning. Sister Clothilde turned white to the lips, and Sister Jeanne let out a cry of fear and anguish.

But, ‘We do not allow you into God's house to practice your brutality and wage your war on innocent people,' said Clothilde. ‘We will never allow it, no matter the cost.' Her eyes flickered to the two girls – one of them was trying to cover her poor shorn head, and the pity of it slammed into my throat. ‘No matter the cost,' she said again.

One of the nuns added, challengingly, ‘And Belgium will never surrender. Even if you kill all of its people one by one, it will not yield to you.'

‘It will not,' said Clothilde. She looked at the two girls and then at the avid-eyed soldiers. ‘If you wish to perform that act of savagery, take me instead,' she said. ‘I do not care, and God will understand.'

The officer laughed, and the sound echoed mockingly around the chapel.

‘We prefer younger meat,' he said. ‘But if we have to, we will take you one by one until you agree to let us into your convent. You understand me? One by one. All of us in turn.'

Clothilde stared at him. ‘I understand you,' she said. ‘But we will resist you with the small strength we have.'

‘I think, Sister, that you will not resist for long,' said the officer. ‘Perhaps after the third or fourth time – when your nuns are screaming with the pain and humiliation – you will be begging us to take over your convent.'

The two sentries from the door moved into the chapel then, whether to watch what was about to happen, or simply to make sure no one tried to escape, I have no idea, but it meant they now stood between me and the stone plinth with its statue. I managed to dart behind a stone column without being seen, but anger and frustration swept through me in a scalding flood.

The two novices were thrown to the ground, the soldiers standing around them, already loosening their belts. Two of the older nuns moved, as if trying to go to the girls' assistance, but the soldiers barred their way.

The faces of all the men were avid, and in the light from the flickering altar candles and the rays from the setting sun, their eyes gleamed with lust. The anger surged up again, and I tensed my muscles, ready to make a run for the stone plinth. To hell with being seen or shot; if there was any justice in the world, I would manage to send the statue crashing to the ground and pray to whatever gods were listening that the nuns would have the wit to escape in the ensuing mêlée. But before I could do so, the same two nuns ran forward again, straight at the soldiers, their hands outstretched to push the men away from the two novices. It was brave in the extreme, but it was also foolhardy in the extreme, and of course it was fatal. As if by reflex, the two sentries lifted their rifles and fired several rapid rounds. Screams filled the chapel, and the two nuns fell, clutching gunshot wounds. Blood spattered over the quiet old stones, and across the lovely old organ, and Sister Jeanne screamed and recoiled from the bench, cowering against the wall.

‘Play the prayer,' cried Clothilde. ‘God is listening – God will not abandon us. The
Magnificat …
“The Angel of the Lord declared unto Mary, and she received the Holy Ghost …” All of you, join with me – trust in God, in our Blessed Lady—'

The terrible, the macabre and pitiful thing, is that they tried to obey her. Jeanne made her trembling way back to the organ bench, and fumblingly started to play, and after a few chords, the ragged, fearful singing came in. It was to the accompaniment of those sounds – that music – that the soldiers held down the two young novices – both of them too frightened to resist – and raped them. They did it there on the prayer-drenched stones, one after the other, with the blind, watchful statues, with the slippery tainting blood everywhere, and the nuns they had shot lying dead on the ground.

I am not ashamed of many things in my life, but I have always been deeply ashamed that I did not move sufficiently fast to stop that particular brutality. But hearing the sobs and the cries, I ran out of the shadows, straight at the stone plinth. I am no hero – I would like to repeat that for my reader – but I do not think any man could have cowered in hiding and done nothing to help those women. So I bounded across the chapel, straight at the statue.

To some extent I had the advantage of surprise – the soldiers had no idea I was there – and by the time they did realize it, I had reached the plinth and was throwing my whole weight against it. There was a panic-filled moment when I thought the statue was not going to move, then it shuddered and there was a harsh, hard sound of stone scraping against stone. The soldiers spun round, levelling their rifles. They saw me, and they fired, but by then I was behind the statue and the plinth, and the bullets buried themselves in the statue. Sprays of stone-dust clouded out, and under cover of this I pushed again at the figure. The teeth-wincing scraping came again, and then, with a kind of stately menace, Christ's figure began to move. I pushed it for the third time, and this time it dislodged from its base. For a moment the emotive, legendary features reproduced in hundreds of statues and paintings, slowly – oh God, so slowly – toppled forward.