Читать книгу The Ice People 34 - The Woman on the Beach - Margit Sandemo - Страница 7

Chapter 2

So far, André was getting nowhere with Petra Olsdatter’s family tree. So instead he needed to look at that of Egil Holmsen, the father of her child.

He had his address.

Unfortunately for André, Egil Holmsen had remarried, so it was his young wife who opened the door. She had two small children hanging on to her and was expecting number three. It was very difficult for André to open an old wound such as the story about Petra. He simply couldn’t. Instead, he said that he was seeking information about a relative, which was why he wanted to speak to her husband. Was he at home?

She looked extremely curious and slightly nervous, but told André that her husband was working at the foundry.

So he still does, thought André. Yes, a job was something you clung to tooth and nail. If you lost it, you might be without one at all.

“Is your husband a foreman there?” he asked, because surely he must have been promoted in the past thirteen years.

The woman gave André a faint smile. “A foreman? Why would he be? No, he watches over the smelting furnaces. He’s always done that!”

No progress for Egil Holmsen then. He hadn’t shown much initiative when Petra was expecting his child. Except to make her pregnant. He had managed that. But afterwards? He had bowed to the will of his parents by labelling Petra a bad girl ...

André didn’t harbour any warm feelings for the unknown Egil. He had better look him up at the foundry. His wife shouldn’t have to suffer for his previous folly or weakness, or whatever you wanted to call it.

André was lucky enough to turn up in the middle of the lunch break, and Egil Holmsen went outside with him.

Behind the soot, sweat and oil that caked Egil’s face André saw a dark-haired man who would undoubtedly be attractive to women, but with a sluggish, off-hand manner. As if there was nothing in this world to be interested in. André had already discovered in Egil’s home that working in a foundry didn’t make one rich. But surely there must be something ...

No, André had no right to judge others. But he definitely didn’t like Egil Holmsen. So his tone may have sounded more aggressive than he intended when he explained somewhat sketchily what he wanted to talk about. “Certain things may indicate that the child Petra Olsdatter gave birth to belongs to my family. That is what I need to find out. So I want to know a bit more about your and Petra’s origins.”

“Why?” Egil asked, indifferently and rather grumpily.

André’s answer was short: “An inheritance.”

Slowly, a glimmer was lit in Egil Holmsen’s eyes. It was the first sign of life that André had seen there.

“What sort of an inheritance?”

“I’m not at liberty to speak about it yet. Right now, I just want to find heirs.” He had discovered that the possibility of inheriting money was the easiest way to get people to talk.

The foundry labourer looked at him with an almost interested glance. “How do you know?”

André understood his cryptic question. “The baby’s body showed certain characteristics that exist only in our family. Is it all right if I ask you some questions about your origins?”

“Yes, certainly,” the man answered, now almost impatiently.

With his notebook in his hand, André asked: “What are the names of your parents and where do they live?”

The answer came unexpectedly swiftly from Egil. The names didn’t ring a bell with André, but he wrote them and their address in his notebook. The father had passed away and only the mother was still alive.

“Could I have the names of your grandparents as well?”

Now Egil was getting a bit irritated. “Oh, hell! I don’t remember! Oh, my grandfather’s name was Guldbrand, come to think of it.”

“Perhaps your mother might remember?”

“That could well be. Are you and I related to one another?”

“I’m not able to answer that question right now. I need to work my way further back in the genealogical table.”

“Is it worth the trouble?”

André sincerely hoped that he wasn’t related to Egil. “Worth the trouble? If it wasn’t I wouldn’t have embarked on this long journey.”

That answer seemed to please Egil. A slow grin began to appear on his sooty face. “Yes, ask my mother! She’s bound to know!”

“Thank you, I’ll do that. Have you any siblings who might know more about your family?”

Egil chuckled. “Siblings? Yes, eleven! But they probably know nothing. Ask my mother!”

Eleven siblings ...? And three of his own at home!

On this early morning in a Trondheim street, with soot and filth everywhere, André knew that Egil was ruled out. Descendants of the Ice People didn’t have twelve children. However, he promised to ask the mother.

“Did Petra mention anything about her family? Her generation or the generation before her?”

Egil stared suspiciously at him. He didn’t want any rivals to the inheritance. “No, I don’t think Petra said anything at all. We never spoke to one another.”

André could imagine that they didn’t. Perhaps Petra had wanted to talk. He didn’t know about that. But this bloke here didn’t strike him as someone who would waste his time on that kind of nonsense.

André was a well-mannered young man. Right now, he wanted to punch the nose of the man facing him, but that was something you just didn’t do.

Immensely relieved, he walked back into town. The obnoxious Egil was ruled out as a member of the Ice People. Now Petra was the only one left.

Who might know more about her?

He felt that his hands were grasping at thin air as he tried to get hold of the thread that could unravel it all.

Who had known Petra?

Her first lover?

Not very likely. He probably wouldn’t have anything to say.

With his mind full of thoughts, André walked into the office he had visited the previous day. The lady at the desk recognized him straightaway. “Well, how are you getting on?” she asked.

“I’m at a standstill,” he admitted, and told the woman what his conclusion was. She looked at him and replied: “Then I see no solution other than the church registers.”

André nodded. “Of course, I’ve had them in mind as well.”

“But the parish office is closed for today and won’t open again until eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. However, I’ve investigated a few things here. I hope you don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

He gazed at her – he couldn’t quite recognize her from the day before. Something was different. Might it be her hair? Or was it the dress? The lorgnette was gone.

“Have you discovered anything?” he asked.

“Yes, I’ve spoken to someone who knew Ole Knudsen while he was alive.”

“Petra’s father? Excellent!”

“There are several members of the family who might be able to help you with information about Petra.”

A warning signal rang in André’s mind: several – that didn’t sound good.

“Are they relatives on her mother’s or father’s side?”

“On the father’s. The person I asked believes that Ole Knudsen’s siblings are dead. However, they had lots of children. Petra had many cousins.”

André took a deep breath. “Then we can rule out Ole Knudsen, because he’s not a relative of mine.”

The woman raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“People don’t have many children in my family,” he explained somewhat shyly. “They generally have one, and rarely two. In one single instance there were three. That was more or less an orgy!”

“What an extraordinary family trait!”

“We think so too, but it’s just how things are.”

“So you believe that if Petra is related to you, it will be on her mother’s side?”

“Yes, absolutely!”

Now the woman became businesslike. “Then we need to find the name of Ole Knudsen’s wife. We ought to be able to find it in the parish register, but about fifteen years ago there was a fire in the building housing the parish office. Quite a lot of papers were lost then. Whether the parish registers were affected, I don’t know. Nobody knows anything about Ole Knudsen’s wife, because she died young and I don’t think she came from this parish.”

“It’s awfully kind of you to spend time on my concerns.”

“Not at all! I can accompany you to the church office now. Via the back entrance. There’s always someone there, even outside office hours.”

André followed her readily and they walked through the many corridors in the administration building.

“By the way,” said the woman, “I also ferreted out something else. The name of the father of Petra’s first child. Would that be of interest to you?”

“Not really, but he might know something about Petra, which might be important. You’re an angel, Miss ... I’m sorry, what is your name?”

“Mikalsrud. Nette Mikalsrud.”

She stopped in the empty corridor and lowered her voice. “He’s called Theodor Brandstedt and he’s a well-known politician. He’s head of the Trondheim education authority and harbours ambitions to become mayor – at least! I know him well through my job and I was pretty ... surprised.”

“Shocked?”

She hesitated. “Yes, absolutely!”

“Who is your ... excellent informant?”

“Oh, my immediate superior is a nice man, but his wife is a terrible gossip. That’s why he knows so much.”

They continued down the corridor and ended up in the parish office, where a young man listened to their request. André suspected that the law of maximum devilry had been in force here as well: the current parish register had been burnt. Only the covers and some charred flakes of the pages were left.

They felt dejected as they returned the way they had come, and André thanked the woman for her assistance.

As he left the place, he thought to himself what a peculiar woman she was. She had been so helpful, which he hadn’t expected when he first met her. Anyway, I’m grateful. I must give her something in return. Chocolates? Or flowers? I’m absolutely sure that she won’t accept money – which, anyway, I can’t afford. The journey up here was more expensive than I had reckoned with.

When André got back to his hotel, a fat envelope was waiting for him. It was from Linden Avenue. They had agreed in advance which hotel he would stay at. In the envelope, there was a handwritten letter, quite long and not all that new. And a small packet. Another sheet of paper was enclosed on which Benedikte had written to him:

My dear son,

Immediately after you left, I was searching for something among the Ice People’s old treasures when I came across these objects, which I don’t recall seeing before. They were among Vanja’s things so they must have belonged to her.

I have read the whole handwritten letter, which is interesting. You should do the same. Perhaps you may find a clue? If you look at the other sheet of paper, you will see a short footnote written by Vanja.

Of course, André looked straightaway. Vanja had written in her neat handwriting:

These objects were found in the house where Petra Olsdatter lived. Since there was clearly quite an interest in them and an outright struggle between the cousins, I seized them without anybody’s knowledge. I am adding them to the Ice People’s treasure, because I came across a strange connection there.

Vanja Lind of the Ice People, 6 June 1900.

Fantastic! André was thrilled. Here was something tangible, something that had belonged to Petra. Perhaps it could serve as a clue?

He opened the little packet.

Out dropped a locket.

The very object he was searching for.

It seemed precious enough to fight about for those who didn’t own anything.

He tried to open the pretty golden heart. But it was old and difficult to open. In the end he needed to use force to prise the two halves apart, so he used a knife.

A lock of hair. Blonde and fine. A child’s hair.

Some letters were engraved inside the lid. André twisted and turned the locket in the light trying to decipher them.

At long last, he got the inscription.

It said “Petra Eriksd. Nordlade 1829” in small, curly letters.

Petra, 1829? It couldn’t be this Petra because she was born in 1890. But it was quite common for a girl to be named after her paternal or maternal grandmother. The child must have been very small in 1829, you could tell that from the hair. And from quite a good, well-to-do family. Not everybody would wear such a locket. The owner must have been Petra’s maternal grandmother – she was said to have come from quite a prosperous home.

And the grandmother’s father was called Erik. Erik Nordlade. This was a good clue in the right direction. It was something he could tell his friendly informant.

Fancy Vanja not telling the others at Linden Avenue about this! Of course, she must just have forgotten. Vanja always had so much to think about. We knew that, didn’t we? That demon occupied all her thoughts.

His thoughts wandered back to the lady in the office. She really was a strange person. She had seemed so stiff and dismissive, but she was obviously very nice. He would like to have her as an ally. He could do with one in this strange town. How stupid and rude of him not to have asked her name until just now. Nette Mikalsrud.

He ought to talk further with her, perhaps this evening. But on the other hand, he didn’t want to intrude on her private life.

And anyway, he really didn’t have time. When he had finished his day’s work, whenever that would be, he needed to read Petra’s story. Not that he thought it would be of very great importance, but everything about poor Petra interested him. After all, he had so little to go on.

But first of all, he had to visit the notorious orphanage.

Nette Mikalsrud was sitting in her office, deep in thought. Fortunately, no citizens of Trondheim came to seek her help, so she was allowed to think in peace.

She already had pen and paper ready in front of her. Her cheeks were flushed with eagerness after being allowed to help, and she composed the sentences in her mind. Finally, she began to write.

Dear Mr Brandtstedt,

I am writing to ask for your kind assistance regarding Petra Olsdatter. At the moment, I am conducting an important investigation into her background and extraction.

The matter is, of course, strictly confidential. I am the only person involved in the investigation. My client knows nothing.

What I need is all the information that Petra Olsdatter may have given you about her background. This has to do with an inheritance, and if it shows that Petra belonged to a particular well-to-do family, her daughter stands to inherit a certain sum, which cannot be disclosed here.

I prefer to write to you rather than visit you at home or in your office. Discretion is a matter of honour.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely

Antonette Mikalsrud.

There! That looked good.

After a little hesitation, Nette wrote a similar letter to Egil Holmsen, the father of the other child. She imagined that he would find it easier to write things down on paper rather than come face-to-face with André Brink of the Ice People.

Then she went to the post office and saw to it that both letters would be delivered to the addressees the following morning. I need to be of some use, she said to herself with a smile. My client will be happy.

“My client.” What a fine expression. She had used the word in both letters.

The orphanage didn’t appear too inviting. Children’s voices rang out in big, bare halls and corridors. A strict woman with a white, starched apron and steel-grey hair walked up to him where he stood on the worn threshold, tracing the scratches in the bureau next to him with his index finger. Scratches that numerous children had made over the years. Lonely, orphaned children, abandoned to the discipline the grown-ups valued so much.

Confronted with the matron’s gaze, André felt like a child himself.

“Petra Olsdatter’s daughter? I certainly know who she was. God help me!”

“Was, did you say? Has the girl died?”

The matron stared at André stiffly. “Died? No! The little beast is leading a wild life!”

André was shocked. “But ... she’s only a child! Where is she now?”

“Mali’s no child. She’s eighteen. You’ll find her on the street. We’ve washed our hands of her! We did what we could to make her a decent, Christian human being, but she was impossible.”

André was overwhelmed with so much information all at once. “Wait a moment. Let’s take one thing at a time. Did you say that she’s eighteen? She can’t be. She ...”

“Petra Olsdatter was fourteen when she had Mali.”

André was speechless. Fourteen? Poor little girl!

André felt an enormous hatred towards the first father, Theodor Brandstedt, rising like sizzling lava. And towards Ole Knudsen, who had thrown his fourteen-year-old daughter out of the house.

The worst thing was that now it seemed that Petra’s daughter had been dealt just as harsh a fate as her mother. On the street? Good God!

But the age tallied. Mali would be eighteen years old now.

André pulled himself together. “Can I have as much information as possible about Mali? Her family tree is what interests me the most. Were there any other documents concerning her?”

The matron began to search in the bureau of scratched, dark wood. “I’ll check my books.”

After a while, she found what she was looking for. André had to read it himself: “Mali, daughter of Petra Olsdatter. Father unknown. Born 1 February 1894. When the child was brought to this orphanage, she was dressed in a baby’s tunic, shirt and nappy. Wrapped in a woollen blanket. No other belongings. The child was taken by force from the mother’s address; she lived in a wooden shack. Mali was in good health and it was established that she was not suffering from any contagious disease.”

That was all.

Not even a last name ...

André thanked the matron. He wanted to find out more about Mali’s many years at the orphanage – whether anything special had happened to her, whether she had been ill and so on, but somebody called for the matron to come, and the interview ended.

On the street! “Taken by force.” Poor little Petra!

Although Mali couldn’t be of much help, André would have liked to meet her and speak to her. If Petra was one of the Ice People, so was Mali. So it was his duty to help her. But he shuddered. She was obviously a very unruly girl.

Anyway, he needed to get on. He would have dinner now and afterwards he would read the story that had captivated Vanja and Benedikte.

Actually, he should have called on Theodor Brandstedt, but he didn’t feel up to it.

A small slip of paper awaited him at the hotel desk. It was from Nette Mikalsrud, who had dropped by. It was a short message: “Petra’s mother was called Gerd. Yours sincerely, Nette Mikalsrud.”

Thank you for this, my kind informant. Piece by piece, we are putting the jigsaw together.

After dinner, he stayed in his room. He kicked off his shoes and made himself as comfortable as possible on the bed, propping himself with all the pillows he could lay his hands on. Then he studied the notes.

They consisted of handwritten sheets, bound together with faded, light-blue silk ribbons. They and the sheets seemed pretty old.

There was no title, only a small piece of information in the same neat handwriting as all the rest:

“Written by Gerd Svensdatter in 1875 following the account of my mother, Petra Eriksdatter Nordlade.”

Gerd ... the mother of young Petra. Who was said to have come from a distinguished and well-educated family. The handwriting certainly testified to that.

And Petra Eriksdatter Nordlade, the maternal grandmother. The woman who had owned the locket.

The lineage was beginning to emerge. But the question was, was it the right one? And did it lead back to Christer Grip?

That could be difficult to establish.

André began to read and soon discovered that the authoress was well educated, with a certain poetic leaning. So why on earth had she married a rough person like Ole Knudsen?

Of course, he might have been handsome, charming and appealing in his youth. What did André know about that? Nevertheless, in his later years he had thrown his young daughter out, and André would never forgive him for that.

First, he looked again at Vanja’s short footnote on the second page: “I am adding these objects to the Ice People’s treasure, because I came across a strange connection there. Vanja Lind of the Ice People, 6 June 1900.”

So far, André hadn’t found anything that linked the locket and the notebook to the Ice People.

But then, he hadn’t begun to read the notes.

He did so immediately.