‘There are those who would see that as a possible motive for killing her husband – if it is assumed that the killer was in fact someone else in the Resistance group.’
Herlofsen looked at me with a sudden cold animosity.
‘Well I sincerely hope that no one does. Bjørn Varden was a good friend of mine and I would never have harmed him. What is more, I was myself happily engaged when he died. It is of course not unthinkable that his murderer might have been one of the six surviving members sitting at the table when Magdalon Schelderup died. But in that case, it must have been one of the other five.’
I gave him a friendly smile, and intensified my attack on his crumbling defences.
‘I want to believe you, but you will first have to give me a credible explanation for this document, which I found earlier today in Arild Bratberg’s flat.’
Herlofsen looked at the piece of paper and pulled a grim face. He sat in silence for a minute, sighing heavily twice before starting.
‘Both the name and the date are correct. I should have told you, but I feared that I would be unfairly suspected of murder and estimated that the risk of any traces being left of my visit was fairly slim. The truth is that I visited Arild Bratberg on 12 February this year. I had pondered on it for a long time, because I wanted to find the answer to one of the mysteries from the war. I had heard rumours that he was in a very bad way indeed and thought to myself, well, it’s now or never. Which turned out to be the case. According to the notice in Aftenposten, he died thirty-two days after my visit.’
‘And how was the visit?’
He shook his head sadly.
‘Very difficult. Emotional conversations like that have never been easy for me. The man was very obviously dreadfully ill, slightly intoxicated and smoked incessantly. He struck me as being rather unbalanced. He repeated his story from the trial over and over again and swore on his mother’s grave that it was Magdalon Schelderup and not he who had shot Ole Kristian Wiig on 8 May 1945. He wept as he spoke and, by the end, was almost on his knees, begging me to believe him. It was an extremely uncomfortable experience and I regretted ever going there.’
‘But what did you say to him?’
He looked straight at me, without flinching.
‘In the end, I told him the truth: that I believed him. It made him so happy. I still think the details of his version were incredible. But I knew Magdalon well enough to know that he was capable of doing more or less anything if his own interests were at stake. Arild Bratberg was so deeply unhappy and sincere that I estimated the likelihood that he was telling the truth to be well over 50 per cent.’
He pointed at the piece of paper.
‘He seemed to recognize me as soon as I arrived, even after all these years. I did not say my name and was not sure that he knew who I was. Obviously he did. So even though he was confused about other things, it would seem that the events from the war were still very clear in his mind.’
I nodded in agreement. Hans Herlofsen was a logical man and obviously remembered more than just numbers. I thought I noticed a tremor and was even more ruthless in my attack.
‘During the visit, did Arild Bratberg ask you to kill Magdalon Schelderup?’
I half expected that he would collapse in his chair. Instead, he straightened up. Again I caught a glimpse of the stronger, harder man behind the pleasant façade.
‘No, certainly not directly. He repeated several times that Magdalon was a calculating killer who should have been shot after the war. But he never said a word about killing him now, and did not ask me to, either. He was a broken and resigned man.’
‘Do you know if any of the others involved in the case have been to see him – before or after you?’
He shook his head firmly.
‘No. He did not mention anyone, but he did say that I was the first person to visit him for years, other than the woman next door. I did not contact him again later and none of the others have said that they went to see him.’
We finished the conversation there, on a relatively civil note. I asked him to let me know if he had anything more to tell me. It seemed to me that he hesitated for a second, but then he replied that he had nothing more to tell or declare, as he put it with a small smile. He repeated that he had not murdered Magdalon and did not know who had done it.
We said goodbye fairly politely at five o’clock. His hand was definitely sweaty now.
On the way back into the centre of Oslo, I passed Lysaker station just as a train was pulling out. Standing alone on the platform was a young man in his twenties who had obviously run to catch the train, but not made it. He looked so lonely and bewildered that I hoped his life would not be off-kilter for more than an hour or so. But that image of a completely unknown young man at the railway station stayed with me as an illustration of the tragedy of the now-deceased Arild Bratberg’s life. No matter whether he was guilty of murder or not, Arild Bratberg had been left alone on the platform as the train pulled out after the war with all the others on board. And no matter whether he was guilty of murder or not, his loneliness and confusion were so great that he stayed there for the rest of his life.
As far as Hans Herlofsen was concerned, I knew that he had not had an easy life either, and I did feel some sympathy for him. But all the same, I did not trust that he was not the murderer, in fact even less now that he had told me the truth. When I thought about it, the same was also true of several of those who were still alive. And I would meet one of them very shortly, as I was now on my way to Magdalena Schelderup’s flat in Gulleråsen.
IX
‘Why did you choose not to tell me that your fiancé in 1940 was none other than Hans Petter Nilsen, who was shot by the Dark Prince the following year?’
Magdalena Schelderup looked tired and fractious. It struck me that she appeared to be older and more bitter than when I met her five days ago. She defiantly lit another cigarette before answering.
‘Well, first of all, because I did not think it was relevant any more. And secondly, because I assumed that either the Wendelboes or Herlofsen would have told you already, and that you would ask if you felt there was a need. It is not something that I am proud of. A broken engagement in 1940 with a man who left me because I was a member of the NS, and who then became a war martyr. I have talked about it as little as possible since.’
‘There is much to indicate that the Dark Prince may well have been one of the others who were around at the time. There are no doubt some who might think that revenge on a man who let you down was a possible motive.’
Magdalena Schelderup blew some smoke out into the room and then crushed the cigarette in an already overflowing ashtray.
‘I know more than a few who would dearly love to believe that, yes. But it is pointless all the same. The very idea that it was a crime of passion founders on the fact that I never loved Hans Petter and that he did not leave me for another woman. I did not miss him after he broke off the engagement. But I did cry for several hours when I heard that he was dead. Even though I did not love him, he was a good man. The fact that he had been shot in the dark in his own home by an unknown killer did not make it any easier. After all, I had lain there in that very bed with him only a few months before. So I dressed myself up in black and went to the funeral and have since spent many an hour speculating about who might have killed him. But I have never found a sure answer.’
‘But you had your suspicions about who the Dark Prince was?’
She lit another cigarette. And once again it crossed my mind that there was something odd about her hands.
‘Yes, I have had plenty of time to think about it as I whiled away the hours here on my own. In fact I have had several theories over the years. But there is one that I believe in more than the others. I am going to keep it to myself, though. It is rather tenuous and I do not like spreading rumours.’
Her answer was absolute. So I moved quickly on.
‘And then there was the strange coincidence with Bjørn Varden
. As I understand it, you happened to be in the flat only days before he was killed. Is that right?’
Magdalena Schelderup stubbed out her cigarette in a burst of fury and then slammed her bony hand down on the table.
‘My, everyone suddenly seems very keen to blame an old scapegoat. I won’t even ask if it was the Wendelboes or Bjørn Varden’s poor widow who told you that. I have always had nothing but sympathy for her. She lost her one true love in a much more painful way than I did. Though to be fair, she still had a child to live for, which is more than I did.’
The fire in Magdalena Schelderup’s ageing body flared up fast, but then died down again just as quickly. Her eyes were darker and her voice weaker when, after a slight pause, she spoke again.
‘I knew Mona Varden through her sister, who was in my class in the final year at school. We got on well back then. Then one day we met on the street and, as I had no children of my own, I was utterly charmed by hers. So I accepted her invitation to come in. I did not just turn up on her doorstep, and I knew nothing about the murder of her husband. In fact, I don’t think I ever met him.’
I had nothing more to ask her. But then, all of a sudden, I did, when I saw both of her hands on the table and realized what it was that was different.
‘But tell me, what has happened to your first engagement ring, the one that you said you would never take off?’
My apparently harmless question triggered an unexpected reaction. Magdalena Schelderup sobbed and hid her face in her hands before answering.
‘I wish I knew myself. I was wearing it when I drove to Schelderup Hall for the reading of the will on Monday. There was so much drama there that I did not notice until I was back home that I no longer had it on. The only explanation is that I took it off when I washed my hands in the bathroom before the will was read. I phoned immediately, but they claimed not to have found it in either the bathroom or anywhere else. So I just hope that it will turn up again somewhere, but it seems less and less likely. I have no idea who has taken it, but I am sure that it was one of the others who were there. They all hate me.’
I did not say anything. I had again hoped for an explanation but had instead uncovered another mystery. I remembered clearly that I had in fact noticed something odd about Magdalena’s hands at the reading of the will. When I looked at her bony old hands without any rings on, they reminded me suddenly of an eagle’s claws.
‘I am so upset about it. I drove around all the pawnbrokers in the area today, but no one has offered them anything similar. They would hardly have got any money for it. But I would give everything I have to get it back again. The ring is the only thing I have left from my love. Without it, I have nothing to show that we were ever together. For years I have had the notion that the day the ring disappears, I am not long for this world. I am a lonely old lady now and I perhaps believe in fate and other supernatural phenomena more than you young people do today.’
We sat in silence following her outburst. She seemed to be very old and tired, and I just felt more bewildered. Magdalena Schelderup’s missing ring was yet another mystery within the murder mystery. I promised her that I would keep my eyes peeled for the ring and would contact her immediately should it turn up.
She seemed to appreciate that and apologized as I left for being so emotional. New murders that unearthed old bodies were enough to rattle anyone’s nerves, she said. And it was easy enough to believe her, especially when I heard the safety chain going on only seconds after she had closed the front door behind me.
Magdalena Schelderup was increasingly becoming the incarnation of a bitter, lonely old woman. But I had to admit that she still had a sharp mind and sharp tongue. And I was not at all sure that she was not also a sharpshooter.
X
It was now half past six in the evening. The starter and main course had been eaten and the day’s events recounted. While we waited for the dessert to be served, Patricia sat in silence with a look of deep concentration on her face.
‘I do not like this case in the least, no matter how interesting it is. We are getting closer to the heart of the mysteries from the war and the past few days, but the details are becoming ever more alarming,’ she added after a pause.
‘The new letter . . .’
Her nod was very grave indeed.
‘That is one of the things I like least of all, yes. There may be a danger of more deaths. And what is more, the green pen mark on the envelope reinforces a terrible suspicion that I have and sends a shiver down my spine, even though I am sitting indoors in May.’
She was quite literally shivering in her wheelchair.
‘The letter is extremely short and very like the previous one, but there is not much more to be learnt from it, other than that it is possibly the same person who carried out both murders, or is there?’
To my astonishment, Patricia was already shaking her head.
‘This letter is very similar to the last one, but also very different. The same type of paper, the same type of envelope, the same type of stamp and the same type of typewriter. And both contain the same pretty useless rhyming. But whereas the first is very detailed in content, the second is noticeably vague. No date, no details of the murder, not even the name of the latest victim. There is nothing to indicate that the writer had even been to Leonard Schelderup’s flat. So it is best that we keep all options open for the moment.’
Beate came in with the dessert, which today was a delicious chocolate pudding with whipped cream. As usual, Patricia did not say anything while the maid was in the room, but then quickly carried on as soon as we were alone.
‘The disappearance of the ring is also ominous, even though I do not believe in fate or other such superstitious nonsense. Either Magdalena Schelderup is lying about why the ring has disappeared, or one of the others has taken it. Neither of which is accidental. So I am more or less certain that one of the parties involved now has the ring, and that he or she has a plan for it, though I have not the faintest idea of what that might be. And the fact that I have not the foggiest about something I need to know is very unnerving indeed.’
The latter was said with an ironic smile. But Patricia was serious again as soon as I asked my next question.
‘What are your thoughts about Hans Herlofsen?’
‘A lot of what he says may be true, but I doubt that it is the whole truth. The pot of gold left to him in the will, though overshadowed by the three main bequests, has been bothering me. It is not at all like Magdalon Schelderup to write off a debt as easily as that.’
I sent her a questioning look and she let out a patronizing sigh.
‘Let’s do a little thought experiment: you are Hans Herlofsen, you believe that Magdalon Schelderup was the Dark Prince, you owe him lots of money, you see that he is starting to get old and you have no reason to expect any generosity from his wife and daughter. What would you do?’
I thought for a while and had to admit that she had a point.
‘First of all, I would hope for the best, but that would not appear to be very promising in the case of Magdalon Schelderup. So, the other alternative would be to confront him with it.’
Patricia nodded.
‘Precisely – which is probably what I would do. Or discuss the case with Wendelboe, who I know Schelderup holds in awe. In fact, perhaps I would do both. Ask Wendelboe and Herlofsen about it tomorrow. When you speak to Wendelboe, ask him detailed questions about his wife’s involvement too. I suspect that he comes from the old school who would rather not lie to the police, but that he reserves the right not to say anything about things he is not asked about.’
‘The mysteries from the war, you mean?’
Patricia leaned forwards across the table.
‘We are discovering more and more interesting details and personal stories. It has been a very successful day in that way. Both Arild Bratberg and Mona Varden have been unable to move on from events in the past and are thus human flies. But they are also satellite people. Mona Varden i
s still orbiting her husband, nearly thirty years after his death. Bratberg had a kind neighbour who circled around him while he clearly was still caught in an outlying orbit around Magdalon Schelderup. And as far as the story from 1945 is concerned, I am surprised that no more attention was given to one very interesting detail in court. Hint: in search of lost time . . .’
Now, I had heard the book title In Search of Lost Time, but I could not remember who had written it, or see its relevance here. Patricia waited with a teasing smile until I lost patience and demanded that she give me an explanation.
‘It is incredible how often in court cases and investigations it is possible to overlook blatant problems in relation to time. It could be that there is not enough time for the given event to take place, or the opposite: that there is too much time. As is the case here. Magdalon Schelderup’s account may appear to be plausible. But quite some time must have passed between him waving to the policemen outside and them coming up the stairs and into the room; say half a minute, if not a whole minute. Which is a long time in a situation like that. The young Bratberg appeared to be completely petrified. And yet they came in at the door just as Magdalon Schelderup took the gun from his hand. He would have needed nerves of steel to shout out of the window when he was standing with an armed man who had just shot his colleague. But what is even more peculiar is that he took such a long time to take the murder weapon from the paralysed man. That may of course be what happened, but it could not have happened in the way he described in his statement.’
It did seem strange that neither I nor anyone else had thought about this. Out loud I said that I would definitely have thought about it had I been investigating the case. Patricia did not look convinced, so I moved swiftly on.
‘Whereas Arild Bratberg’s apparently insane statement . . .’
She responded on cue.
‘. . . given the time perspective, in fact works rather well, yes. It would seem that both the police and the court did not take the case seriously enough. The time issue is one thing. Another is that no one seems to have had intelligence enough to imagine that in some situations, apparently irrational behaviour is in fact the most rational.’
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