Last Rituals (20 page)

 

 

"Yes and no," Matthew said. "He wasn't allowed to see her, but one of the guards took pity on her and passed on messages which became more and more hopeless and sad, the scribe says. And as regards your second question, all the letters except one were written while she was in prison and the husband was working on her release. That was written after she was let out. It describes a fate that's worth bearing in mind when we complain about our own troubles."

 

 

"In what way?" asked Thóra, without really wanting to hear the answer.

 

 

"You have to remember that in those days, medicine wasn't anything like what we know today, just nonsense really. You can't begin to imagine how much pain the sick and injured went through, let alone the mental state of a pretty girl who had been much admired for her looks. When she was released, one of her feet and all her fingers were crushed to powder. No ears. Her body covered in knife marks from searching for spots on her that would not bleed. And other things that are only hinted at and not described. What would you do under such circumstances?" Matthew looked at Thóra again.

 

 

"Did she have children?" Thóra asked. Instinctively her hand moved up to her ear—she had never thought about how indispensable a part of someone's appearance they were.

 

 

"No," said Matthew.

 

 

"So she committed suicide," said Thóra, without pausing to think. "You can put up with endless suffering and pain for your children, but not for much else."

 

 

"Bingo," Matthew said. "They lived on an estate by a brook and she hobbled over there the night she got home and threw herself in. If she'd been in better shape she could have swum to safety, but wearing a heavy dress, which was the fashion then, with a useless leg and hands, she wasn't capable of much."

 

 

"What did he do—is that mentioned in the letter?" asked Thóra, trying to keep the thought of the young woman out of her mind.

 

 

"Yes, it is. In the last letter he says he has taken away the most precious thing in Inquisitor Kramer's life, just as Kramer had taken the most precious thing in his life—and now it's on the long path to hell," Matthew said. "It doesn't say who or where the victim of his vengeance was, nor how hell came into the picture. Contemporary records give no further hints. Then he tells the bishop to sleep well—accuses him of failing to answer his appeals in time and says that is a matter for God's servant to answer to his master. Then he quotes from the Old Testament, which as you know is about something quite different from forgiveness. I can't explain it exactly but his last words are some kind of veiled threat, which I don't know whether he carried out—the bishop died a few years later. He may well have got rid of the documents, not wanting them to be preserved in the Church archive."

 

 

"That sounds dubious," said Thóra. "If he wanted to get rid of them, why didn't he burn them? They weren't exactly short of fires."

 

 

Matthew concentrated on steering into a parking spot near Harald's apartment. The ones directly outside it were full. "I don't know—maybe he visualized Saint Peter and God and didn't want to draw attention to the content of the letters by burning them. Smoke rises up to heaven, after all."

 

 

"So you think the letters aren't forgeries?" Thóra asked.

 

 

"No, I didn't say that. There are certain points in them that don't fit."

 

 

"Such as?"

 

 

"Mainly allusions to that awful book of Kramer's. The scribe calls it a flowery account that does little to conceal the diabolical origin of its contents."

 

 

"Couldn't he mean
The Witches' Hammer
? After he wrote it, Kramer must have used it in his investigations of these so-called witches. I would assume he practiced what he preached."

 

 

"That doesn't fit," Matthew said. "That extraordinary piece of literature is said to have been published in 1486."

 

 

"Have the paper and ink from these letters been dated?" Thóra asked.

 

 

"Yes, they more or less fit but that's not crucial. Forgers have used old paper and old ink or paint to deceive owners who can afford to have such tests done."

 

 

"Old ink?" repeated Thóra doubtfully.

 

 

"Yes, or something resembling it. They make ink from old substances or dissolve it from old documents that aren't likely to fetch a high price. It produces the same result."

 

 

"What a lot of bother to go to," Thóra said, relieved that she had never decided to become a forger.

 

 

"Hmm," said Matthew as they got out of the car.

 

 

"But why did Harald have the letters?" she asked. "Did he believe they were genuine or forged?"

 

 

Matthew shut the door to the driver's seat and opened the rear door. After carefully wrapping the wallet of letters inside his jacket, he placed it on top of the box and bent over to pick everything up. If he was cold in just his sweater, he didn't show it. "Harald was convinced they were genuine—he was obsessed with the riddle of who or what it was that Kramer lost in the scribe's revenge. He made countless searches to find an allusion to it in documents from all over Germany and even went to the Vatican library for that specific purpose. But he couldn't find a scrap of evidence. Kramer isn't so well known in other respects; he was around more than five hundred years ago."

 

 

Thóra noticed footprints in the snow at the corner of the building, leading toward the front door of Harald's apartment. She gestured to Matthew with her chin to indicate these fresh signs of traffic—the footprints only led in one direction so they could hardly have been left when the post or newspapers were delivered. With a finger to his lips, Matthew made his way around the side of the building. Thóra followed quietly.

 

 

As they rounded the corner, they saw a man standing a short distance from the front door. He had backed away to look up at the windows on the upper floor. He gave a start when he saw Thóra and Matthew. His mouth moved silently for several seconds before he finally stammered: "Did you know Harald Guntlieb?"

 

 

 

CHAPTER 17

"How do you do? My name's Gunnar Gestvík, head of the history department at the university."

 

 

He shuffled his feet in front of them, unsure of himself. His clothes looked well made; he was wearing a smart winter coat from a label that Thóra recognized from her ex-husband's wardrobe. Beneath it he was dressed in a suit with a loud, carefully knotted tie and light blue shirt collar protruding from it. His whole manner suggested a calm and collected professional man. But at this moment his calm and collectedness were stretched to breaking point. Gunnar had clearly been caught off guard by this encounter and was desperately calculating his next move. Thóra knew this was the man who found Harald's body, or, more accurately, had it thrust upon him. Why he should want to visit his former student's apartment was a mystery to her. Maybe part of the process of acceptance, on the advice of a psychiatrist?

 

 

"I was in the neighborhood and decided to see if anyone was here," said Gunnar hesitantly.

 

 

"Here? At Harald's flat?" Thóra asked, surprised.

 

 

"Of course I didn't expect to meet him in person," Gunnar said quickly. "I meant whether the caretaker or someone else was here."

 

 

Matthew could not understand a word and left the talking to Thóra—but the name registered at once. He slipped past her and flashed his eyes to signal that she should invite the man in. He fished the keys out of his pocket and opened the door.

 

 

Gunnar watched Matthew with a strange eagerness. "Do you have access to his apartment?" he asked Thóra.

 

 

"Yes, Matthew's working for Harald's family and I'm representing them too. We're unloading some of his belongings that we fetched from the police. May I invite you in? We'd be pleased to have a quick word with you."

 

 

Gunnar could hardly conceal his glee. He gratefully accepted the offer after glancing at his watch and pretending that he could just squeeze in a visit. He followed Thóra inside. In spite of his elegant appearance he was not quite the perfect gentleman—at least, he did not offer to help her carry the heavy monitor upstairs.

 

 

Gunnar's reaction was similar to Thóra's when she had first entered the apartment. Not even bothering to hang up his coat, he walked in a trance into the living room and began studying the objects on the walls. Matthew and Thóra took their time, put down their loads and hung up their coats. When Matthew hung his up he removed the leather wallet containing the letters and took it to the bedroom. Thóra stayed to keep an eye on Gunnar. She walked over to him and stood by his side, although she could hardly bring herself to interrupt his appreciation of the old works of art on the walls.

 

 

"This is a remarkable collection of art," she commented. She tried to recall what Matthew had told her about the paintings but was unsure that she could do it justice, so she decided not to try to show off.

 

 

"How did he get hold of all this?" Gunnar asked. "Did he steal it?"

 

 

Thóra was astonished. How could the man entertain such a notion? "No. He inherited it all from his grandfather." After a moment's hesitation she ventured: "Didn't you like Harald?"

 

 

Gunnar was taken aback by the question. "Oh, yes, goodness me. I was extremely fond of him." His tone did not exactly ring true and Gunnar seemed to realize as much. He quickly tried to rectify this. "Harald was an extremely intelligent young man with a good command of history. His approach to his work was exemplary, which is unfortunately becoming rarer these days."

 

 

Thóra was still not convinced. "So he was a model student?"

 

 

Gunnar forced a smile. "You could say that. Of course his appearance and behavior were rather unconventional, but you mustn't judge young people's fashions. I remember the Beatles and the fashions they started. The older generation didn't think much of them at the time. I'm old enough now to realize that the youthful spirit wears many disguises."

 

 

Comparing Harald and the Beatles was pushing it, to say the least. "I'd never thought of it that way." She smiled at Gunnar politely. "But of course I never knew him."

 

 

"You said you were a lawyer, so what business are you doing for Harald's family—does it concern the will? The objects on these walls are worth a pretty penny."

 

 

"No, it's nothing like that," replied Thóra. "We're double-checking the murder investigation—the family is having trouble accepting the police findings."

 

 

Gunnar stared at her, his eyes like saucers. His Adam's apple bobbed up and down. "What do you mean? Haven't they caught the murderer, that drug dealer?"

 

 

Thóra shrugged. "We have reason to believe that he isn't the killer." She noticed that Gunnar, for some reason, wasn't particularly pleased by this news. She added: "It'll all come out in the end. Maybe we're wrong—maybe not."

 

 

"It might not be any of my business, but what is there to suggest that this man is innocent? The police seem convinced they've got the right man in custody—do you know something the police don't?"

 

 

"We're not concealing information from the police, if that's what you're implying," Thóra snapped. "We're simply not satisfied with some of the aspects of their findings."

 

 

Gunnar sighed. "Do forgive me for being so pushy; I haven't quite been myself since this happened. To tell you the truth I hoped it was coming to an end. It's been extremely difficult for me personally and it's tarnished the reputation of the department."

 

 

"I understand that," said Thóra. "But surely it's not right to convict an innocent man to save the department's reputation, is it?"

 

 

Realizing the implication of his words, Gunnar spluttered: "No, no, no. Of course not. One tends to put one's own interests first, but naturally there are limits. Please don't misunderstand me."

 

 

"So what brought you here anyway?" asked Thóra. She wondered what was keeping Matthew.

 

 

Gunnar turned away from Thóra to examine one of the pictures. "I was hoping to get in touch with someone who is dealing with Harald's affairs. I seem to have found the right person."

 

 

"Why?"

 

 

"When Harald was murdered he had recently…how shall I put it…yes, recently borrowed a document from the university, a document that was never returned. I'm looking for it." Gunnar did not take his eyes off the picture.

 

 

"What document?" Thóra asked. "There are hundreds here."

 

 

"It's an old letter to the Bishop of Roskilde from around the year 1500. We borrowed it from Denmark so it's important that it doesn't go astray."

 

 

"That sounds quite serious," Thóra said. "Why didn't you approach the police about it? They could surely have located the document."

 

 

"This has only just come to light—I had no idea about it when I was being interviewed, otherwise I would have asked them to let me have it. By coming here I was hoping to avoid having to go to the police and to solve the problem more simply. I don't particularly want to give another statement. That's an experience I've had too much of already. The document is completely unrelated to the murder, I can promise you that."

 

 

"Maybe not," said Thóra. "Unfortunately, I haven't come across it. But we haven't gone through all Harald's papers yet. It may well turn up."

 

 

Matthew hurried in holding some papers in one hand and sat down on the elegant sofa. With a flamboyant gesture he invited them to do the same. Thóra sat in the armchair and Gunnar went to the sofa directly opposite Matthew. Thóra described Gunnar's business to Matthew, who did little more than repeat almost verbatim what she had said—he had not come across the document, but that didn't necessarily mean it wasn't there. Then he put the papers on the table. He addressed Gunnar in English: "You supervised Harald's research, if I'm not mistaken?"