Anders Knutas 04 - The Killer's Art

by Mari Jungstedt

  ‘Is that right? But what do Dardel’s sexual inclinations have to do with Gotland?’ Knutas sounded tired. This news was not as exciting as he had hoped.

  Jacobsson’s eyes were shining. It wasn’t hard to see that she was interested in the artist’s life. ‘Well, there’s more. Do you know anything about Wilhelmina von Hallwyl – the archduchess with the Hallwyl palace in Stockholm?’

  ‘No, I’ve never heard of her before.’

  ‘The palace is on Hamngatan, right across from Bern’s Restaurant and Berzelii Park – you know, next to Norrmalmstorg. A fantastic place. Duchess Wilhelmina von Hallwyl was fabulously wealthy, and she devoted her life to collecting things that are now on display there: art, silver, oriental porcelain and ceramics. I think there are close to five thousand objects, and she donated both her home and the collection to the state. You really should go there the next time you’re in Stockholm,’ said Jacobsson enthusiastically. ‘But this is where the story gets really unbelievable. Duchess von Hallwyl had four daughters, and one of them was Ellen, who married a top military officer, Henrik de Maré. They had a son, Rolf, and they moved to Berlin because Henrik was the military attaché there. The son needed a tutor, and so Ellen hired a young man named Johnny Roosval. Now it so happened that Ellen and Johnny fell in love. He was twelve years younger than her and a complete nobody, while she was part of high society and from a noble family. All the elements for a classic drama. Ellen defied convention; she got divorced from her military husband and married the young Johnny Roosval!’

  Jacobsson clapped her hands in delight, while Knutas still looked puzzled.

  ‘OK, but what about Gotland?’ he said wearily.

  ‘Yes, I know. We’re getting to that. Naturally the whole thing caused a big scandal – bear in mind that this was around 1910! The archduchess Wilhelmina von Hallwyl broke off all contact with her daughter and took her grandson, Rolf de Maré, away from Ellen. But Ellen and Johnny were still very much in love, and they had their dream house built – on Gotland. It was called Muramaris, of course. It was finished in 1915, and Ellen also had a small summerhouse built for her son. It still exists today, and it’s known as Rolf de Maré’s cottage. Ellen was an artist and sculptor, and Muramaris became her studio. She was the one who made most of the sculptures in the garden. Johnny Roosval later made a name for himself, and he became Sweden’s first professor of art history. That gave him access to the more exclusive homes, and do you know what happened next? Well, the sour old Duchess von Hallwyl took Ellen back into her favour, and she was allowed to resume contact with her son. So Rolf de Maré spent a lot of time at Muramaris during the summers. And guess who he often brought along? Nils Dardel. He even ended up designing the garden at Muramaris. There’s a lovely baroque garden in the grounds, you know. And the estate is in such a beautiful location, right near the sea. Isn’t that a romantic story?’

  Jacobsson leaned back in her chair with a pleased look on her face. She took another sip of her coffee, which was now cold.

  ‘It’s a good story, all right,’ said Knutas, relieved that it was finally over. ‘So there is a link between Nils von Dardel and Muramaris, after all. But what on earth does all of this have to do with Egon Wallin?’

  ‘Well, I’m not really sure, but it was so interesting to read about him – Dardel, I mean. He was a fascinating person, such a complex personality,’ said Jacobsson dreamily.

  Knutas seemed to have had enough of Nils Dardel for the morning. He drained the last of his coffee and stood up. ‘Good work, Karin. It’s time for our meeting. Afterwards I think I’ll head out to Muramaris.’

  He didn’t dare admit to Jacobsson that he’d never set foot in the place before, even though he’d driven past the sign a thousand times on the way out to his summerhouse.

  When Hugo Malmberg picked up the morning newspaper under the letterbox, he discovered a folded slip of paper that had landed partway under his extravagant wooden shoe rack from Norrgavel. It was a nice little piece of red paper. He thought it might be an unusually small advertisement, yet he had an eerie sense of foreboding as he opened it. Only a single word was printed inside: ‘Soon’. He went into the kitchen and sat down. The dogs were yapping at his feet, as if they too felt there was something menacing about the mysterious message.

  He automatically wrapped his dressing-gown more tightly around him before he looked at the word again. It had been written with a black marker in bold letters – the same sort of print that might be used for an invitation to a party. Soon. What on earth could that mean? He felt a cold sweat come over him at the thought of its intent. This was clear evidence that he was actually being stalked. He hadn’t been imagining things, after all.

  Ever since he’d seen the man on Västerbron on that Friday night, he’d had a feeling that someone was spying on him. He’d also started to wonder whether he might be losing his mind.

  But now there was no question. Somebody was after him. He suddenly felt vulnerable even in his own home, and he nervously glanced around the flat. This person knew where he lived, had come into the building and stood in front of his door. With trembling hands, Malmberg reached for the phone and punched in the number for the police. He had to wait a long time before he was transferred to someone who told him that if he wished to file a report, he would have to come down to the police station in person. Impatiently Malmberg hung up.

  He sank down on to an armchair in the living room and tried to collect his thoughts. The only sound was the antique clock on the wall, ticking nervously. He needed to think clearly and objectively. Did this have anything to do with Egon’s murder?

  In his mind he went over recent events, the people he’d met and what he’d done, but he couldn’t recall anything out of the ordinary.

  Then he happened to think about the young man standing outside the gallery. There was something about his expression.

  After he’d pulled himself together, Malmberg did go over to police headquarters on Kungsholmen and filed a report. The inspector who took the details seemed moderately interested. Malmberg was advised to come back if he received any further threats.

  When he left the police station, he didn’t feel a bit reassured.

  Knutas began the morning meeting with a question that had been nagging at him all weekend, although he’d pushed it aside out of sheer self-preservation. He had wanted to be able to devote himself to his family in peace and quiet.

  He dropped a pile of weekend newspapers on the table. The headlines screamed: ‘MURDERER BEHIND ART THEFT’, ‘HUNT FOR KILLER AT ART MUSEUM’ and ‘PANIC IN THE ART WORLD.’ All of the newspapers made reference to the TV news programmes on Friday evening, when Johan Berg had reported that a sculpture stolen from a gallery in Visby owned by the murdered Egon Wallin had been left in front of the empty frame in Waldemarsudde.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ asked Knutas.

  Everyone seated around the table looked worried, but the question prompted only muted murmuring as a few people shook their heads.

  ‘Who leaked this to the press?’ Knutas fixed his eyes on his colleagues.

  ‘Maybe you need to stop for a moment and calm down,’ said Wittberg crossly. ‘It didn’t necessarily come from here. Maybe somebody in Stockholm leaked the news. So many people are involved in this case that it makes the risk of a leak even greater.’

  ‘So none of you has talked to anyone outside of this room about the sculpture?’

  Before anybody had time to answer, the door opened and Lars Norrby came in. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he mumbled. ‘My car wouldn’t start. I’m really getting tired of this freezing weather.’

  His eyes fell on the evening paper with the big headline that Knutas was holding up, and then he caught sight of the rest of the papers spread out on the table.

  ‘That was unfortunate,’ he said, shaking his head.

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ growled Knutas. ‘Do you have any idea how this got out?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I
’ve only given out the bare essentials to the press. As usual.’

  ‘The county police commissioner is on my back, demanding an explanation. What do all of you think I should do about it?’

  There was utter silence in the room until Kihlgård spoke.

  ‘Come on now, Anders. What makes you think the leak came from here? Plenty of people might know about the sculpture being found at Waldemarsudde. The museum employees, for example. Can you really trust them not to talk?’

  His colleagues seated at the table immediately agreed with him.

  ‘All right, we’re not going to waste time trying to find out who leaked the information. But let me emphasize again how important it is for all of you to show discretion,’ said Knutas. ‘Things like this can harm the investigation, and we can’t afford to have that happen. Lars, could you send out an internal memo about this?’

  Norrby nodded without changing expression.

  Knutas decided not to wait any longer and went out to Muramaris right after lunch. He’d rung the owner after the morning meeting. He’d explained briefly why he’d like to see the place, although without going into detail. He didn’t need to. She’d seen the newspapers and understood perfectly the reason for his visit.

  As he turned off the main road and headed towards Muramaris, he thought it was strange that he’d never been here before. The road meandered down towards the sea with stands of stunted pines and spruce trees on either side. When he rounded a curve, the house and the entire estate came into view. It stood on a plateau with woods all around and the sea far below the steep cliff. The big, sand-coloured main building looked like a Mediterranean villa with large mullioned windows. The house was enclosed by a wall, and the garden was austerely laid out with low hedges and shrubs that were now covered with snow. Sculptures had been placed here and there, looking ghostlike in the desolate grounds. In one corner stood a small structure built in the same style as the main house. It looked as if it might be a gallery or an artist’s studio. In the distance stood a cluster of small wooden cabins.

  He parked in front of the main building and got out to look around. The owner was nowhere in sight. He glanced at his watch and realized that he was a little early. He breathed in the fresh air. What a peculiar place. The building looked abandoned, like a decaying beauty. It seemed to have been unoccupied for years. The sculptures were like mementoes of a bygone era. Art and love had both flourished here at one time, but that was clearly long ago.

  Now the owner came walking towards him along the gravel path from the cabin area. She was a stylish woman in her fifties with her blonde hair drawn into a knot on top of her head. She was wearing bright-red lipstick but no other make-up. Even though they were about the same age, Knutas didn’t know Anita Thorén. They’d gone to different primary schools before starting secondary school, but even then they hadn’t frequented the same circles.

  She gave him a friendly but slightly wary look as they shook hands.

  ‘Well, truth be told, I’m not sure exactly why I’m here,’ he explained. ‘But I wanted to see the original of the sculpture that was found at Waldemarsudde.’

  ‘Of course.’

  They went around the corner, and there it stood, against a wall. ‘It’s called “Yearning”, and I think you can see that emotion in her eyes, can’t you?’

  ‘Is it a woman? I can’t really tell.’

  ‘Yes, I agree that there’s something rather sexless about her. And that fits in well with Dardel … the androgynous, slightly indeterminate …’

  Anita Thorén looked as if she were seeing the sculpture for the first time. A genuine enthusiast, thought Knutas. Imagine taking over a place like this. It would undoubtedly require a real commitment, and he admired that sort of person, someone who had a genuine passion for something.

  ‘The sculptor’s name was Anna Petrus. She and Dardel were contemporaries, and she was also good friends with Ellen Roosval.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard the whole story about how he often came here. And that he was the one who designed the garden,’ said Knutas, feeling like a real expert.

  ‘And that wasn’t all,’ said Anita Thorén. ‘That art thief really knew what he was doing when he placed a sculpture from Muramaris under the empty frame. It was actually here that Nils Dardel painted “The Dying Dandy”.’

  Knutas raised his eyebrows. ‘Is that so?’

  ‘That’s what people say, at any rate. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  She led the way through a creaking wooden gate. The house had certainly been grand and imposing in its day, but now it looked dilapidated and run-down. The walls were crumbling in places, the paint was peeling off, and the windows were in dire need of repair. They used the side entrance and entered an old-fashioned kitchen.

  ‘There,’ she said, pointing to a room next to the kitchen. ‘It was in there that Dardel painted “The Dying Dandy” during the same summer that he designed the garden. He walked around the property with the head gardeners, explaining how everything should look. It’s all described in letters and other documents from that period. But Dardel also worked on his painting. First he did a watercolour with a similar motif, but using other colours, and with three men standing around the dandy. In that version he was holding a fan in his hand instead of a mirror. The first painting had a much more blatant homosexual theme.’

  Knutas was listening dutifully, but he wasn’t particularly interested in art history.

  Next they went into the drawing room, where a magnificent fireplace made of Gotland sandstone dominated the space.

  ‘Ellen was both a painter and a musician, but her primary interest was sculpture,’ said Anita Thorén. ‘She studied with Carl Milles, among others. She sculpted this enormous fireplace. It’s almost nine feet high, and it was the centrepiece around which the rest of the house was built. The reliefs symbolize the four elements – earth, fire, air and water. Others represent human love, suffering and work. That figure over there is the goddess of love,’ she added, pointing to one of the beautiful reliefs etched into the stone. ‘On June the twenty-first, the summer solstice, the last rays of the setting sun strike her face. That’s the shortest night of the year. Well actually, there’s practically no night at all.’

  They walked through the music room and the library, then went upstairs to have a look at the bedrooms while Anita Thorén told him the history of the house. Outside they stopped by Ellen’s studio as well as beside a large house for the caretaker who looked after the garden.

  ‘He’s really the only one here in the wintertime,’ said Anita. ‘My husband and I live in the city and just come out once in a while to check on things.’

  ‘But what about the cabins over there? What are they used for?’ asked Knutas, pointing to the identical wooden cabins near the edge of the woods. They looked newly built.

  ‘We rent them out in the summertime. I’ll show you.’

  Anita Thorén led the way over to the group of cabins, which stood a good distance away from Muramaris and close to the woods. She unlocked the door to one of the cabins and showed him inside. It was plainly furnished but with the requisite comforts. Directly below the plateau where they stood were some steps leading down to the beach.

  Standing by itself was a red-painted cottage that seemed older than the others.

  ‘That’s Rolf de Maré’s cottage,’ said Anita. ‘Ellen had it built for her son so that he could have some privacy when he spent his summers here.’

  They went inside. There was a simple kitchen with a wood stove, a big bedroom with two twin beds, and a small toilet and shower room. That was all.

  ‘So this is where he lived,’ said Knutas, nodding as he surveyed the bright floral wallpaper on the walls. ‘And Dardel also came here?’

  ‘Of course. He came here often over a period of several years. As I said, they were quite open about their homosexuality, at least as much as was possible in those days. Rolf de Maré was also Dardel’s benefactor; he helped him financially and gave him a
great deal of support psychologically. Dardel’s life wasn’t exactly carefree. They also stayed in touch by letter. Later they spent a lot of time together in Paris. Rolf de Maré was the founder of the avant-garde Swedish Ballet in Paris, you know. And Dardel created the set designs and costumes for several performances. They also travelled together, going to Africa, South America, and all over Europe. Rolf de Maré was probably the person who was closest to Dardel, except maybe for Thora, whom he later married. And his daughter Ingrid, of course.’

  As Knutas listened to Anita Thorén’s account, an idea started to take shape in his mind. He stood there in the cottage, now smelling of damp in the winter, with its low ceiling, and listened to the sound of the sea outside. He suddenly felt that he was standing at the very hub of what this investigation was all about.

  ‘Do you rent this cottage out too?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Anita Thorén. ‘But only in the summer. The water is turned off in the winter, and besides, there’s no demand for it. Except in a few cases.’

  Knutas was instantly alert. ‘What sort of cases?’

  ‘Well, sometimes I make an exception. For instance, there was a researcher here not too long ago. He wanted to rent it in connection with the work he was doing on some project.’

  Knutas felt his mouth go dry. ‘When was this?’