by Pat Herbert
“Yes, it is,” said Bernard. “Did she say anything about what Gilbert was going to tell his mother, about what Robbie wanted him to do?”
“Oh, you mean about the murdered children?” said Mrs Harper.
“Oh, so you know all about it, do you?”
“’Course. Gilbert told me. ’E said you two were trying to find out what ’appened to them and to find out who did it, like.”
“I see, Mrs Aitch. Nothing gets past you, does it? Anyway, did she say he had anything to report?”
“All Marge said was, ’e was going to see the Doc today, and that ’e ’ad some good news.”
“Really?”
“Yes, that’s what she said. Now I’d best get on.”
“Of course, Mrs Aitch. Thanks.”
As she left the room, she was pleased to see he had a smile on his face at last.
Bernard rushed down the stairs to the telephone and asked the operator to put him straight through to Robbie. As predicted, the news as relayed by Mrs Harper was received with delight by his friend.
“Get him round to the vicarage, Bernie,” he said. “I’ll be over as soon as morning surgery’s finished. Can you see if he can get there then?”
“I’ll do my best,” said Bernard, “although he might be working, of course.”
“Oh, well, as soon as possible, then,” said Robbie, a slight irritation creeping into his voice. “After all, the fate of these poor children is slightly more important than a blocked drain or a leaky radiator.”
Bernard thought that it probably wouldn’t feel that way to someone with a blocked drain or a leaky radiator, but wisely refrained from pointing this out.
“Okay, Robbie. Come over when you’re free, anyway. We’ll wait for him together. Tell Mrs Carter you’re having your dinner with me today.”
“Righto,” said Robbie, slamming down the receiver.
Gilbert arrived shortly after two o’clock. He was wearing a very uncustomary smile, as he was shown into the study by Mrs Harper.
“Hello, Gilbert,” Bernard greeted him. “Did you have a good holiday?”
“Yes, thank you. But my mum’s having a lot of trouble with Auntie Liv. She needs to be in a home, but she won’t hear of it.”
“Very sad,” said Bernard, offering Gilbert a chair.
Once he was settled, Robbie asked him the obvious question. “Have the bodies been found, Gilbert?”
Gilbert smiled again. It was quite alarming to watch his usually doleful features transform into an almost rictus grin. “They have,” he declared. “And you’ve got my mum to thank for that.”
“How come?” asked Robbie.
“She’s well in with one of the Bergen policemen,” Gilbert explained. “In fact, he wants to marry her, but she won’t while she’s got to look after my Auntie. Anyway, this policeman is close with the Politimester himself, so it was easy to get him to order another search of the woods around the Dahl farm.”
“Well done, your mother,” said Robbie, happily. “I think this calls for a toast. Let’s all raise our glasses to Mrs Hardcastle.”
“I would like to send a thank you gift to your mother,” said Robbie a few minutes later, getting up to replenish the glasses.
“There’s no need,” said Gilbert, holding out his glass, eagerly.
“But I’d like to,” Robbie replied. “She has saved those little children’s souls. They can rest in peace now. Your mother deserves a medal, never mind a box of chocolates. Anyway, give me her address, please.”
“Of course.” Gilbert wrote it down on the back of an envelope he took from his pocket and handed it to him. “The discovery of the bodies caused quite a stir,” he continued. “The police are basking in glory now.”
“But they were totally incompetent!” said Robbie. “They hardly lifted a finger to find those poor mites.”
“I know,” nodded Gilbert. “But what can you do? Most people don’t really believe in ghosts and stuff like that, do they?”
“I don’t care for myself,” said Robbie, “but your mother deserves some recognition for her help, at least.”
“You would hope so, wouldn’t you?” agreed Gilbert.
“Never mind, it’s still the children that are most important in all this. Did your mother get anywhere with the police about looking for this Baldur bloke?”
Gilbert’s expression was back to normal now. “’Fraid not,” he said dourly. “They said it was virtually impossible to start a search for a man called Baldur, given that there were so many of them knocking about. They used the excuse that the man could be anywhere by now, and they wouldn’t know where to start looking. Then they said they didn’t have enough resources to mount a search, anyway.”
Robbie nodded. “Hmm. I suppose I can see their point. It’s like asking the police in this country to start looking for someone called John.”
Gilbert finished his second whisky and placed the glass on the table. “Yes, that’s about the size of it. They might do a house-to-house in Bergen but he’s probably not even there now. If only they had a surname to go on.”
“If only,” echoed Robbie.
Bergen, January 1949
Gunda was reading the morning paper as Baldur entered the kitchen in search of his breakfast. He always started with a large one as his work as a lumberjack was physically demanding and he was usually starving by mid-morning. So there was always a satisfyingly filling repast awaiting him in the morning, as well as a stack of sandwiches to take with him. She knew how to look after her man.
“Have you seen this, Baldur darling?” she greeted him, showing him the paper’s headline. “They’ve found those poor kiddies’ bodies – you know, whose mother was killed on her farm last year. You remember?” She put the paper down to pour him a large mug of tea.
“What bodies?” he asked, already on high alert. It couldn’t be, could it? The children he killed in cold blood last year? Found after all this time? Still, he couldn’t possibly be connected with them now, he reassured himself. He slurped his tea, as Gunda relayed the information contained in the newspaper.
“It says here that their bodies were found in some woods, on the outskirts of Bergen. They haven’t been formally identified yet, but the police are definitely linking them with the murder of Marianne Dahl,” explained Gunda, totally unaware of the look on her paramour’s face. “For one thing, they were found close to the Dahl farm. They’re always so cautious in telling the news, aren’t they? It’s obvious it’s those poor Dahl children the police have found.”
“They must have been buried deep,” said Baldur, trying desperately not to look shifty, “for them not to have been discovered sooner.”
“They don’t say they were buried at all,” said Gunda, puzzled, “just that the bodies have been found. Why should you think they’d been buried?”
He realised at once he’d made a blunder. Had he given himself away? But he regained his composure quickly. “Well, it stands to reason, doesn’t it?” he said in a distinctly belligerent tone. “Otherwise, why wouldn’t they have been found sooner?”
“Suppose so,” agreed Gunda, going back to her paper. “But those woods near the Dahl farm aren’t exactly well used, are they? Not that many people go there, so they could have lain unnoticed for ages. It says here that it was only through a tip-off – they don’t say from who – that they were able to trace the bodies at all. But it was probably easier, because a lot of the trees had been cut down.”
Baldur was naturally aware of this, considering he’d help to cut down those trees himself. He couldn’t even quite remember where he’d buried the children, himself, so it was a wonder that the incompetent Bergen police had managed to unearth them at last. But why should he worry? Finding the bodies wasn’t going to yield any clue to their murderer. He was in the clear.
Finishing his breakfast, he took up his sandwich pack and put it in his knapsack. “See you later, then, love,” he said, kissing the top of her head. “You working today?”<
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“Yes. I’ve got Mrs Hardcastle’s today. It’s the first time I’ve been there since Christmas, so it’ll probably need doing. She’s got her hands full with that poor sister of hers.”
“Oh, the nutty one, you mean?”
Gunda bridled. “Don’t call her that,” she said crossly. “She can’t help being like that, poor thing. You’ll be old one day.”
“And so will you, my pet,” he grinned and kissed her again. “See you later,” he said.
London, January 1949
Robbie was back to his old ebullient, friendly and happy self now that he had been successful in his quest to save the children. Bernard was almost as glad, especially for his friend. It had been quite a saga, but now all his efforts had been vindicated. There was just one more thing Robbie had to do.
“So, you just need a few hours to yourself in the hall, right?” asked Bernard, the day after Gilbert had brought the glad tidings.
“Yes, old boy, just to make sure the children have really gone.”
“Okay. Here’s the key. You’ll be undisturbed.”
Robbie let himself into the hall, which was bare now except for the Christmas tree. Pine needles still littered the floor beneath it and, without the baubles and tinsel, it looked very sorry for itself. He wondered if it would revive if they planted it in the churchyard, rather than just throw it away. He somehow didn’t like the idea of getting rid of it altogether. If it hadn’t been for the tree, the children wouldn’t have been found, so it deserved preserving, in his opinion.
He sat down in front of it and took out a flask of tea from his inside coat pocket which Lucy had thoughtfully prepared for him. After about an hour, he began to think that the children had really gone at last. He had finished the last of the tea, which he had spiced up with whisky from his hip flask, as usual. He was feeling contented and mellow and was inwardly congratulating himself on his success.
However, just as he was about to leave the hall, convinced his job was done, he heard a little voice saying something unintelligible. He looked back at the tree and saw, to his dismay, the two little Norwegian children standing underneath it. What could they want now? he wondered. They’d had their Christian burial, hadn’t they?
He signalled for the little boy to slow down as he fumbled in his pockets for a piece of paper and a pen. He pulled out his new diary and turned to the blank pages at the back. He managed to find a stub of pencil; that would have to do. He cursed himself for not having the foresight to prepare himself properly, but he had been so sure the children wouldn’t reappear.
So, once again, he struggled to write down what the boy was saying. He was at least sure that he could get a reliable translation from Gilbert, that was one good thing. When the boy had finished speaking, he closed his diary and replaced both it and the pencil back in his overcoat pocket.
The children had vanished in the time it took him to gather up his belongings, ready to leave. He wished he could answer them, to reassure them that he was doing everything he could to help. They had realised he didn’t understand their language, of course, but did they at least have some idea that he was getting help on their behalf? He hoped so.
Bernard was surprised to learn that the children had not left the tree, after all. “But we can’t leave it there much longer,” he told Robbie. “There’s nothing left of it, as it is. Mrs Aitch wants to do a thorough clean of the hall and she keeps asking me to get the tree removed. The pine needles are driving her nuts – so she says.”
“Well you’ll just have to tell her she’ll have to wait a bit longer, now,” said Robbie irritably.
“All right, I’ll make sure she’s kept sweet. But let’s hope this is all resolved soon. There’s a sixtieth birthday party booked for Wednesday next week. It’ll have to be gone by then.”
“Bernie, I’ve been thinking,” said Robbie, “why don’t we plant it in the churchyard, then it can stay there as long as it likes.”
Bernard thought for a moment. “We could, I suppose, although it’s hardly very picturesque.” He gave a hollow laugh. “People will wonder why it’s there, looking practically dead as it does.”
“Who cares what they think? The children’s fate is much more important, surely?”
Bernard agreed, if somewhat reluctantly. “All right,” he said. “We’ll leave it where it is for now, but if, by Wednesday, the children haven’t gone, we’ll do as you say and plant it in the churchyard.”
“That’s the ticket,” said Robbie, relieved. “Now, where’s that Gilbert Hardcastle? I’ve got another translation job for him.”
Bergen, January 1949
Gunda let herself into Berthina Hardcastle’s third floor Bergen apartment at nine o’clock, stamping on the wire matting to knock the snow off her boots. She knew she would need to spend at least three hours getting the place spick and span as she hadn’t been there since three days before Christmas. She removed her outer garments and hung them on the hall peg, calling out to her employer as she did so.
“Hello, Mrs Hardcastle, it’s Gunda. Happy New Year!”
Berthina came out of her sister’s bedroom looking grey-faced. There were dark rings under her eyes, as if she hadn’t slept for days. “And to you, dear,” she said.
“Are you all right, Mrs Hardcastle?” Gunda asked her. “You look very tired. Did you have a good Christmas with your son and daughter-in-law? How’s your sister?”
“Thank you, Gunda, it was good to see my son again,” she replied, “but Liv is being extra difficult at the moment. She went out in the middle of the night again last night, just in her nightdress. When the policeman brought her back, she said she’d been going shopping – said she’d realised she hadn’t any carrots. I don’t mind telling you, it’s not easy looking after someone in my sister’s condition. The doctor’s with her now. I know he’ll tell me to put her in a home. Again!”
“Come into the kitchen,” said Gunda, taking charge. “I’ll make a cup of tea. Come and sit down, you look worn out.”
“You’re very kind,” said Berthina, and allowed her to lead her into the kitchen. Once the tea was brewed, Gunda broached the subject again.
“Don’t you think it would be best for everybody if you considered a home for her? They’re not all such bad places. I’m sure the doctor could recommend one.”
Berthina sipped her tea, and Gunda could see her hands were shaking. “I really don’t want to discuss it, if you don’t mind,” she said, tears standing in her eyes.
“But it’s just not right you should have to shoulder all the responsibility for her at your time of life,” she persisted.
“Anyway, Gunda,” said Berthina, deliberately ignoring what she had said. “How was your Christmas?”
“Oh, quiet, you know ... just me and Baldur. But we enjoyed it.”
Something clicked in the back of Berthina’s mind when Gunda mentioned his name. Baldur. Where had she heard that recently? “Did you get any nice presents?” she asked, racking her brains trying to remember where she had heard it mentioned before.
“Baldur bought me a box of lace hankies,” she answered, looking proud. “They’re beautiful. So delicate – hand finished, with my initial on them and everything. They must have cost him a lot of krone.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Berthina. “I’m glad he’s looking after you.” She paused. Suddenly she remembered where she had heard the name –her son had mentioned it in connection with the Dahl murder.
Gilbert hadn’t really explained how he knew the children were dead. After all, no one had seen them all these months, but they could have been abducted. But he had been convinced and had convinced her to ask her policeman friend to bring pressure to bear, and it had led to their bodies being discovered at last. It was closure for the grandparents, she had thought, although they would never really be able to rest until their murderer had been caught. The Heglunds now knew that some evil bastard had killed not only their daughter, but their little grandchildren as well. She jus
t couldn’t imagine what they were going through.
She cleared her throat. “Is – is your husband kind to you always, Gunda?” she asked tentatively. It was silly to even suspect him. Baldur was a common enough name.
“What do you mean?” Gunda turned back from the sink to look at her employer. There was a wary look on her face.
“Well, I mean, is he ever moody? Angry with you sometimes, that sort of thing?”
“Why on earth do you ask that?” Gunda continued with the washing up, splashing water over the draining board and slopping soap onto the floor.
“Oh, no particular reason,” Berthina replied, more worried now. It was clear she had touched a nerve, judging by the mess she was making of the washing up. She carried on, however. “You sometimes hear of husbands beating their wives. There are a lot of disillusioned men about since the war; some of them turn violent. I’ve heard stories and read about them in the paper.”
“Well, my Baldur isn’t one of them,” Gunda lied. The truth was, however, he was getting more unpredictable lately. He seemed to pick rows at every opportunity and had grabbed her roughly several times. He had even hit her once, but at least the bruising had more or less faded now.
Just then, the doctor knocked on the kitchen door and entered the room. “Might I have a word with you, Mrs Hardcastle?” he asked.
“Of course, Doctor. Please sit down. Would you like some tea? I think there’s still some left in the pot.”
“That would be very kind – thank you.” He sat down at the table, while Gunda excused herself, saying “she must get on”.
“How is she, Doctor?” asked Berthina, pouring his tea.
“She seems very agitated today,” he replied, spooning sugar into his cup. “She keeps talking about an article in the newspaper she’s been reading. Did you give her today’s paper, Mrs Hardcastle? You really shouldn’t, you know. Bad news upsets her too much.”
“Oh dear,” sighed Berthina. “She asked me for it, and I didn’t like to refuse her, it seemed such a little thing to ask. I know she keeps on about those poor children whose bodies have at last been found.”