And fortuitously, I caught the first smile in the room. It was fleeting and a touch overbearing, just as Leonard Schelderup fell silent. A few seconds later the smile was gone, and I never found out whether she saw that I had noticed. But I did. My gaze had swung almost instinctively a couple of places to the left to catch the reaction of the youngest person in the room.
At first glance, I thought it was my advisor, Patricia, who had somehow or other managed to sneak both herself and her wheelchair into Magdalon Schelderup’s home and had joined them at the dining table. Then I started to wonder if it was in fact all an absurd nightmare. Only, I didn’t wake up. The ten guests who remained seated at the table were very much alive. Magdalon Schelderup stayed where he was, lying stone dead on the sofa by the door. The young woman who sat to the right of his empty throne at the head of the table was of course not Patricia, though the girl who was sitting there also had dark hair and the same deliberate movements and held herself in the same self-assured manner.
Only, as far as I could see, this young woman was fully able, and about half a head taller than Patricia, as I remembered her from the previous spring; and also somewhat younger. I had never seen this woman before entering Magdalon Schelderup’s house. But somewhere, I had heard that his youngest child was an extraordinarily beautiful daughter, who left those she met awestruck.
Her gaze was no less bold when her eyes met mine. Another fleeting smile slipped over her lips.
It was in those few seconds that I stood there looking into the eyes of the eighteen-year-old Maria Irene Schelderup that I realized there was only one thing to be done. And that was first of all to gather as much information as possible about the death and the deceased from her and the other guests. Then I would have to hurry home and phone the number without a name at the back of my telephone book. The number to a telephone that sat on the desk of Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann, the professor’s daughter, at 104-8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. I had, with a hint of irony, written it down next to the emergency numbers for the fire brigade and the ambulance service.
III
I established the actual circumstances of Magdalon Schelderup’s death within minutes of my arrival. The ten statements were as good as unanimous.
Magdalon Schelderup had informed all those present, in writing, that he wanted to gather those closest to him for an early supper on the second Sunday of every month this spring. According to his manager, who was present, this had been done in a formal letter dated 2 January 1969. The food and drink would be served punctually at 4.30 p.m., and it would be considered ‘extremely unfortunate’ if not everyone was there, whatever the excuse. Those invited were Magdalon Schelderup’s wife, Sandra, and his young daughter Maria Irene, who both lived with him at Schelderup Hall. Others who were in the family and shared his surname were his sister Magdalena, his former wife Ingrid, and his grown-up sons Fredrik and Leonard. Magdalon Schelderup’s secretary, Synnøve Jensen, was also invited, as was Hans Herlofsen, his manager of many years. The last two people on the invitation list were an elderly couple, Else and Petter Johannes Wendelboe, whom Magdalon Schelderup had known since the war.
All those invited had taken the hint and arrived on time to every Sunday supper so far. The first four had passed without any drama. Today’s, however, had started rather differently. All the guests were sitting in their usual places when Mrs Sandra Schelderup put the food on the table at half past four. Once they had helped themselves, but before anyone had started to eat, they were interrupted by the fire alarm, so they had all left the table and the room for a few minutes and gathered by the front door on the ground floor.
It was quickly established, however, that it was in fact not the fire alarm that had gone off, but rather a recording of a fire alarm playing on the stereo system.
Magdalon Schelderup had cast an evil eye around the table, but all the guests had categorically denied any knowledge of this humorous little prank. Their host had been unusually agitated and annoyed by what had happened, and sat for a minute at least, deep in thought, without wishing everyone bon appétit. Then he had barked an unexpected command at one of his guests, his youngest son Leonard, to test the food on his plate.
‘I have a suspicion that the food on my plate has been poisoned. I am sure that no one would disagree it would be of less consequence if you were to lose your life than if I were!’ had been how he put it. No one had protested.
Leonard had been visibly nervous and had tried to say that surely there was no reason to suspect that the food was poisoned. His father had curtly replied that in that case, there was no reason to be scared of tasting it. After a couple more minutes of increasingly oppressive silence, the clearly terrified Leonard had eaten a slice of meat, half a potato and a piece of carrot from his father’s plate. When the young Leonard looked just as healthy five minutes later and said that he didn’t feel any symptoms of any sort, his father had declared dinner served at six minutes to five.
None of the other guests had reacted to the food. Magdalon Schelderup, on the other hand, had had an acute reaction, whereby his throat and mouth swelled up dramatically. Unable to talk, he had waved his hands around and pointed down the table – seemingly at his two sons. His pulse had been dangerously high and racing, according to his wife, who had helped him over to the sofa after the attack. He then experienced violent cramps and died only minutes later. Magdalon Schelderup had clutched his heart in the final minutes of his life. The guests all agreed that heart failure was the most likely cause of death, though acute breathing problems were also a possibility.
The link became clear when the deceased’s wife detected evidence of powdered nuts in the meat still left on his plate. Young Leonard had covered his face in horror. He was so upset that he was unable to say for certain whether he had noticed a faint taste of nuts or not, or if there had been no trace in the piece of meat that he had eaten. The fact that Magdalon Schelderup suffered from a life-threatening nut allergy was well known to those in his closest circle. And for that very reason, nuts of all kinds were strictly forbidden on the property. Magdalon Schelderup had always been a strict enforcer of this rule.
It was swiftly established that all the guests had known about his nut allergy and that nuts were forbidden. They would all have had the opportunity to sprinkle some powdered nuts on his plate in the confusion that ensued after the fire alarm. They were the only ones who could have done it. Magdalon Schelderup had given his staff time off during these Sunday soirées. The host and his ten guests were alone in the house.
The food had been prepared by the host’s current wife, together with his former wife, who was also one of the guests. They sent each other scathing looks, but were in absolute agreement that there had been no nuts, in any shape or form, anywhere near the kitchen when they were making the food. And there was indeed no trace of nut powder on any of the plates other than that of Magdalon Schelderup. It therefore seemed most likely that the deadly powder had been added to the food after it had been put on the table. Which meant that it had been added by one of the guests, who had come not only with powdered nuts, but also a strong desire to kill the host.
I spent the next three hours taking down personal statements from all the ten witnesses in a guest room on the ground floor that became an improvised interview room. At nine o’clock, the deceased was collected by a police doctor, and I did not think there was much hope of getting any more from the ten survivors.
While it was quite clear to me that Magdalon Schelderup’s murderer had been sitting at the table, I still had no idea of where he or she had been sitting. And fortunately, neither did I know that it would take me seven long and demanding days to solve the crime, even with Patricia’s help. Nor could I have predicted that evening that any of the ten guests from Magdalon Schelderup’s final supper would follow him into death in the week that followed.