At ten past five, I slowly descended the stairs that led to the front door. My progression was slow, partly because the situation had given me a lot to think about, but mainly because I hoped that I might bump into Maria Irene.
And this, it turned out, was not difficult. She came out of one of the side doors on the ground floor just as I reached the bottom of the stairs. It was of course no coincidence that I was walking slowly down the stairs or that she came out into the hall at that moment. I think we both understood that the moment we stood face to face. Neither of us had anything in particular to say, so it was a brief, pleasant encounter. She also assured me that she had full confidence in my investigative skills and dutifully noted down my telephone numbers in case she needed to contact me.
I took the liberty of commenting on how impressed I was with the maturity she had shown in the face of such disappointment, given the strange story of the two wills. She replied that she of course wished it had been otherwise, but that 25-35 million was still an extraordinarily fortunate start in life for a young woman.
I was uncertain as to whether or not to give her a hug when we parted, but wisely offered a firm hand instead. I noticed her mother standing like a silent statue a few feet away from the top of the stairs. There was now no doubt in my mind that I liked the daughter better than the mother. I still had conflicting feelings for the daughter, but had to confess to a growing fascination for the beautiful and serene young woman.
I had an hour-long stopover at my office prior to departing for Patricia’s, but all I did was sit there looking through the case documents without becoming any the wiser. The mysterious letter that had arrived in the morning post lay on top. At half past five, I put it and the other papers in my briefcase. If I had not already needed advice and illuminating comments from Patricia, I certainly did now that I had received the letter. Unless somehow there was a rather well-informed and sardonic joker behind it, the letter entailed not only a sarcastic dig at the police, but also a threat of more murders.
The faces of the ten guests who had sat round the table at Magdalon Schelderup’s last meal and during the reading of the will flicked through my mind as I drove to Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. It was not clear to me which of them might have written the letter, or who the letter’s threatening last line might be referring to.
X
After my experiences that day and the growing sense of unease at Schelderup Hall, it was a pleasure to enter the familiar and safe surroundings of 104-8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. The rooms were just as spacious and the stairs just as long as I remembered from the year before. Patricia’s father, Professor Director Ragnar Sverre Borchmann, was just as impressive and reliable but, if possible, even friendlier, when I met him at the front door. Either he had not been told about Patricia’s stressful experience during the dramatic conclusion of the murder case she assisted me with the year before, or he was doing an extremely good job of pretending to have forgotten.
Once again he informed me that he had not seen his daughter as alive as she had been during and after last year’s investigation since the accident that had left her paralysed from the waist down. She was now already showing the same keen interest in the mystery surrounding the murder of Magdalon Schelderup and he had high hopes that she might be able to give me valuable advice. I thanked him heartily for letting his daughter be involved with the investigation, and he shook my hand for the third time when we parted. His goodwill had been rather a surprise. Talking to Professor Director Ragnar Sverre Borchman always took time, even when you said very little yourself. It was already a quarter past six and the starter was on the table when the maid showed me into the library with a small understanding smile.
To my enormous relief, Patricia appeared to be unaffected by the strain that last year’s events had put on her nerves. She sat radiant by the table, ready to hold court, and showed no sign of having taken up smoking again as she had in the final stages of the our first case. The air was clean and Patricia’s face was as bright as the summer sun. I could neither see nor hear any changes in the now nineteen-year-old Patricia, compared with the eighteen-year-old with whom I had shared ten intense days of investigation the year before. The pile of books she was reading at the moment included a detective story by the American author Rex Stout, a Russian book with several chessboard diagrams on the front cover and a thick English book about the great battles of the First and Second World Wars.
As had been the case when we first met, we made no attempt to shake hands. Now that I was once again in the middle of a murder case, it felt quite natural to be sitting here, asking for advice.
Patricia listened with intense concentration and made copious notes, while I used the time it took for us to eat the asparagus soup and half the beef tenderloin to tell her about the day’s events. As was her wont, she listened patiently until I had finished my account of the facts of the case. She finished her last slice of tenderloin and washed it down with a glass of iced water, deep in thought. And then she took off at speed.
‘First of all, I should congratulate you on another good day’s work. The case is clearly very complicated, but you have already managed to draw out an impressive amount of information that answers a number of my questions.’
She pointed casually to the detective novel in the pile of books.
‘Your talents are indeed greater than those of Archie Goodwin in Rex Stout’s novels. So I for my part, despite being well under half the size, will have to try to surpass Nero Wolfe’s ability to spot brilliant connections without physically leaving the safety of my home.’
Despite Goodwin’s popularity with the opposite sex, I was not entirely happy with the comparison. Nor was I comfortable with being reminded of what had happened, or what could easily have happened, when I persuaded Patricia to leave the safety of her home for a few hours during the last case. So I hastened to ask what she had to say about the case so far.
All of a sudden, Patricia became very serious.
‘That this case is not likely to be any easier to solve than the last one, but that it may be even more gruesome. Although many things from Harald Olesen’s past were revealed in the course of the investigation, this Magdalon Schelderup already appears to be a man with some very unsympathetic sides – indeed, a man who might therefore leave an even more indelible mark on the people around him. We are obviously dealing with a rather unique murder in terms of Norwegian criminal history. I am starting to believe that we are also talking about a remarkable murder victim, for better or worse, but mainly for worse. So my first observation is that we will find an exceptionally strong connection between the murder and the victim’s life and personality. It is far too early to have an opinion as to who might have put the powdered nuts in his food. I can imagine several options that would imply that all ten guests could be murderers.’
I nodded and ventured something myself.
‘I have also thought that there are similarities between this case and last year’s, and that your human fly concept could also apply to several of the potential murderers here.’
Patricia shook her head thoughtfully.
‘Yes, that’s true, but I would be inclined to say rather that we are dealing with ten satellite people.’
She smiled at my confusion and quickly continued.
‘I’m so sorry, without thinking I used a term that I coined myself and have used so frequently since that I forget it is not an established concept for other people… Human flies are people who have experienced something so dramatic, not to say traumatic, that they continue to hover and fly round this event from the past for decades. Satellite people are very similar, but not quite the same. They are individuals who for whatever reason move in a more or less fixed orbit round another person. It is a phenomenon that can be found in many relationships and at all levels of society. For example, it might be a kind mother who even when she is a very old lady herself continues to circle round a sick child, or a son who though grown still gives his all to his father. It could easily be argued that our longest-serving prime minister Einar Gerhertsen’s editor brother was a kind of satellite person to his sibling. And the wife of the current leader of the Labour Party, our next prime minister, also only orbits her husband.’