For me, the collection of servants' letters was a god-send. Bernie McIlwaine didn't post on the forum often, but when he did, you just knew his stuff would be worth reading.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew that the thorny subject of officer/servant relations had also been the subject of one of his essays in 'Chasing Armageddon', a fantastic collection of writing by some of the best academics on the subject of World War One.

Once I sent him a PM, it didn't take long before Bernie Mac matched up the names Hollinger and Hartley. And, as you can guess, I was looking for any scrap of information about the guy.

The more I looked at the collection of correspondence, the better I was beginning to understand my 'prime suspect'.

SOURCE: Holl/letter/drawer 7 Libble Collection. Dated ? May, 1917.

Dear Mum,

I hope you are all well at home. I am alright here. The cake you sent me was very good but please, mum. do not send food with soap. It does something to the taste.

Mr. Hartley is asking for you all. He was not well one night last week. He is alright now and he is the same as many other fellows out here who have had a close run. Sometimes they shout a bit or get a mood but it does not seem to last long with Mr. Hartley.

Perhaps you could knit a nice balaclava for him. That would cheer him up no end.

One last thing mum. Can you send me the paper? I would like to read about the cycle club.

Love and kisses

Andy

The demons came for Hartley at different times. Morning, noon, night ... it made little difference to the voices.

On one occasion, he'd been sitting on the thunderbox when a voice had begun to whisper to him. It had taken him 10 minutes to come out of the trance and the circulation had died in his legs. When he tried to stand, his limbs felt like wooden lumps and was forced to sprawl forward in a most undignified fashion.

Thankfully, Hollinger had been there to pick him up.

"Now then Sir," smiled the manservant. "Looks to me as if a good cuppa would do wonders for you."

Tea was Hollinger's answer to most problems and Hartley despised him for it.

The voices were right. They were all despicable. Humanity was despicable. War was nature's way of sweeping the streets.

Of course, Hartley kept his thoughts to himself and maintained a polite front at all times. He had no intention of going back to that Scottish hospital.

But the urges were getting stronger and the voices were becoming more insistent.

Hartley peered into the shaving mirror and the glint of the stainless steel razor twinkled in his eye.