‘Convicted of loose living? Was my great-grandmother a prostitute?’ Ebba gave Erica a surprised look.
‘She was a single woman with an illegitimate child, so she probably did whatever she had to do, in order to survive. I’m sure it wasn’t an easy life. She was also convicted several times of theft. Dagmar was generally thought to be a bit crazy, and she drank too much. There are documents showing that she spent a long time in an insane asylum.’
‘What a terrible childhood my grandmother must have had,’ said Ebba. ‘It’s not so strange that she would turn out to be mean.’
‘Growing up with Dagmar must have been very difficult. Today it would probably be considered scandalous that Dagmar was allowed to keep Laura. But those were different times, and there was an enormous contempt for unmarried mothers.’ Erica could vividly picture the mother and daughter. She had devoted so many hours to delving into the history of these women that they now seemed very real to her. She didn’t fully understand why she’d gone so far back in time when she was supposed to be unravelling the mystery of the disappearance of the Elvander family. But the fate of those two women had captured her interest, and she had kept on researching their stories.
‘What happened to Dagmar?’ asked Ebba.
Erica took out another sheet of paper. It was a copy of a black-and-white photo that appeared to have been taken in a court of law.
‘Good Lord, is that her?’
‘Let me see,’ said Anna, and Ebba held up the paper.
‘When was this picture taken? She looks so old and worn out.’
Erica referred to her notes. ‘It’s from 1945, which means Dagmar would have been forty-five. It was taken when she was committed to St Jörgen Hospital in Göteborg.’
Erica paused for effect.
‘And by the way, it was taken four years before Dagmar disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’ said Ebba.
‘Yes, it seems to be a family trait. The last report that mentions Dagmar is dated 1949. After that she seems to have vanished in a puff of smoke.’
‘Didn’t Laura know anything?’
‘I’ve been told that Laura had ceased all contact with Dagmar long before that. By then she was married to Sigvard, and she was living an entirely different sort of life to the one she’d had with Dagmar.’
‘Are there any theories as to what happened to her?’ asked Anna.
‘Yes. The most convincing was that she got drunk and drowned in the sea. But her body was never found.’
‘Yikes,’ said Ebba, picking up the picture of Dagmar again. ‘A great-grandmother who was a thief and a whore and who later disappeared. I’m not sure how to handle this.’
‘It gets worse.’ Erica was enjoying the fact that she had the full attention of her audience. ‘Dagmar’s mother…’
‘Yes?’ said Anna impatiently.
‘Er, I think we should have lunch first. We can talk about it later,’ said Erica, although she had no intention of waiting that long to reveal the rest of the story.
‘Tell us!’ shouted Anna and Ebba in unison.
‘Do either of you know the name Helga Svensson?’
Ebba paused to consider but then shook her head. Anna frowned, then her eyes widened in recognition.
‘The Angelmaker!’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’ said Ebba.
‘Fjällbacka is famous for more than the King’s Cleft and Ingrid Bergman,’ Anna explained. ‘We also have the dubious honour of being the hometown of the Angelmaker, Helga Svensson, who was beheaded. In 1909, I think.’
‘No, 1908,’ Erica corrected her.
‘Beheaded for what?’ Ebba was still confused.
‘She murdered children who had been left in her care. Drowned them in a basin. It wasn’t discovered until one of the mothers regretted her decision and returned to fetch her child. When she didn’t find her son there, after Helga had sent her letters about him for a whole year, the mother got suspicious and went to the police. They believed her story, and early one morning they stormed into Helga’s house. She was there with her husband and the children – both her own daughter and the ones that Helga was caring for. It seems they were lucky to be still alive.’
‘When the police dug up the cellar floor, they found the bodies of eight children,’ Anna interjected.
‘How awful,’ said Ebba, the colour draining from her face. ‘But I don’t understand what this has to do with my family.’ She gestured towards the stack of papers on the table.
‘Helga was Dagmar’s mother,’ said Erica. ‘The Angelmaker, Helga Svensson, was Dagmar’s mother, and your great-great-grandmother.’
‘You’re not serious?’ Ebba stared at Erica in disbelief.
‘It’s true. So you can see why I thought it was a strange coincidence when Anna told me that you make jewellery with little angels.’
‘I wonder if I should have left this stone unturned,’ said Ebba, but she didn’t sound as if she meant it.
‘But it’s so exciting that…’ Regretting her choice of words, Anna stopped herself. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’
‘I think it’s exciting too,’ said Ebba. ‘And I do see how ironic it is that I make this sort of jewellery. How strange. It makes me wonder about fate.’
A shadow passed over her face, and Erica suspected that she was thinking about her son.
‘Eight children,’ she said. ‘Eight little children, buried in a cellar.’
‘What would make a person do something like that?’ wondered Anna.
‘What happened to Dagmar when they executed Helga?’ Ebba wrapped her arms around herself. She seemed more vulnerable than ever.
‘Helga’s husband – Dagmar’s father – was also beheaded,’ said Erica. ‘He was the one who had buried the bodies, so he was considered an accomplice to the murders, even though it was Helga who had drowned the children. So Dagmar was orphaned and ended up living with a farmer’s family outside of Fjällbacka for a number of years. I don’t know what her life was like with them. But I can imagine that things must have been difficult for her, as the daughter of a woman who had killed eight children. People around here wouldn’t forgive a sin like that.’
Ebba nodded. She looked completely exhausted, and Erica decided that they’d heard enough for one day. It was time for lunch. Besides, she wanted to check her mobile to see if Gösta had called. She crossed her fingers that he’d heard from Junk-Olle. She was hoping that they would finally have some luck.
A fly was buzzing at the window, throwing itself repeatedly against the pane in a hopeless battle. It was probably puzzled. There was no visible obstruction and yet it kept slamming into something. Tobias understood how the fly must feel. He watched it for a while before slowly reaching out his hand and catching it between his thumb and forefinger. He watched in fascination as he pressed his fingers together, squeezing the fly until it was flattened. Then he wiped his fingers on the windowsill.
Now that the buzzing had stopped, the room was utterly silent. He was sitting in Ebba’s desk chair, with the things she used for her jewellery-making spread out in front of him. A half-finished silver angel lay on the desk, and he wondered whose sorrow it was meant to ease. Although it didn’t necessarily have to be for someone who was grieving. Not all the necklaces were commissioned to commemorate a death. Many people bought them simply because they were beautiful. But he sensed that this particular one had been ordered by someone in mourning. Ever since Vincent had died, Tobias had been able to sense other people’s sorrow even if they weren’t present. He picked up the half-finished angel and knew that it was for someone who felt the same emptiness, the same pointlessness that he felt.
He clutched the necklace harder. Ebba didn’t understand that together they could fill part of that emptiness. All she needed to do was allow him to come near again. And she had to acknowledge her guilt. For a long time he had been blinded by his own guilt, but now he understood much more clearly that it was Ebba’s fault. If only she would admit it, then he would forgive her and offer her another chance. But she said nothing, merely watching him with that accusatory expression, searching for guilt in his eyes.