Trondheim, 1767
June nights in Trondheim never got as dark as the haunting thoughts that ran through Nils Bayer’s mind. Aching after a long day on horseback, he dragged his enormous body the short distance from his lodgings to the hospital. On this summer night the bluish gray light seemed as heavy as it did in the middle of winter. His flask, which he’d filled in Ringve with wine simmered with sage, was already empty. Which was a shame, because the captain had assured Bayer that the drink would do wonders for his digestion, his state of mind, and his memory. He hadn’t noticed any improvement in the first two, and the latter was not something he needed any help with—unfortunately.
Officer Torp had given him a detailed report. Yesterday two guards had transported the cadaver from the beach to the hospital. There the pastor of the hospital chapel had arranged for a simple coffin for the troubadour, and a sexton had prepared the body for burial. Then it had been placed in a room in the cellar. This morning the sexton had arrived to nail down the lid of the coffin, only to discover that the corpse was gone.
Nils Bayer met the pastor outside the huge wooden hospital building. The parish pastor was an educated Laplander who, in addition to being a cleric, was also an adjunct at the Seminarium Lapponicum. This was a school established to train missionaries, men who were dispatched to tame the free savages of northern Norway and turn them into devout Christians. With men like the hospital pastor in the lead, the heathens were to be drawn into the fold of the pious in the Lapps’ own language. Apparently the pastor was still working on a catechism in this incomprehensible language
The parish pastor was a civilized man. He greeted Bayer, addressing him by his full name and title.
“One of the lunatics must be behind this,” he said. “They live in the room above the cellar, where the coffin was placed. I can’t even begin to imagine the monstrous treatment one of those demented idiots might have inflicted upon the cadaver. That poor troubadour’s body may have been desecrated most atrociously. Oh, what a gruesome thought!”
The police chief looked at the pastor, whose face had paled beneath his dark hair.
“Isn’t it true, Reverend, that the door to the lunatics’ quarters is locked every evening from the outside with a most robust lock? A lock, I am told, that was imported from Germany and is said to be even stronger than the one used on the city gate at night.”
“Yes, that’s true. We use such a lock not only in the evening but also for most of the day. The town is right to protect itself from the insane.”
“No doubt. But was this lock not in use last night for some reason?”
“Of course it was. No lock is used more diligently than this one. Of that I can assure you.”
“And there was no sign that this lock on the door to the lunatics’ quarters had been broken during the course of the night?”
“No, none at all.”
“And the windows to this so-called loony bin are secured with bars?”
“The room has no windows. Only a slot in the wall up near the ceiling to let in a little light. But there are bars on both the inside and outside of the slot.”
“I see. Could you then explain to me, Reverend, how one of these lunatics could have exited his quarters, gone down to the cellar, and stolen the body? And if he did manage to do this, where would he have taken it?”
“As you no doubt know, Chief, we have our own guard here.”
“Yes, I know that. Mikkel Hanssen,” said Bayer.
He knew this particular guard better by the name “Falling Down Mikkel.” The man had a low tolerance for liquor, which made him unsteady on his feet after only a few glasses. This didn’t mean he was any less keen on drinking than any other Trondheimer. Bayer enjoyed having a drink with him at the tavern, and until the man lost his footing and had to stagger home at an early hour, Falling Down Mikkel was always good company. This weakness of his had the advantage that he never got drunk enough to end up in a brawl, and Bayer had never had to arrest him. And in his opinion, that alone was a good enough testament to the man’s character.
“I wouldn’t want you to think we don’t trust him completely. But what if he had a slight lapse in judgment? Even the most hardhearted of us can occasionally feel pity for the lunatics and forget about the forces that underlie their insanity,” said the parish pastor somberly.
“So your theory is as follows, Reverend,” said Bayer, trying not to laugh. “Mikkel, the guard, allowed one or more of the lunatics out in the night so that they could steal the cadaver in the cellar and possibly take it with them back to their quarters or to some other dark cranny in our city. And there they did unspeakable things. And then?”
“I grant you that it may seem unlikely. But the idea that anyone in their right mind would make off with a dead body seems even less credible. Don’t you agree?”
“I assume that no one has gone in to count the lunatics?”
“What do you mean?”
“If they’re all in their quarters, then we can set your theory aside, Reverend, and focus on other possibilities.”
“We wanted to wait to open the door to the lunatics’ quarters until you were present in person, so we haven’t counted them, no. But what if we’re right? What if the body is in there? The mere sight of it would make me wish I were blind. The very thought! What a gruesome notion!”
“Where is Mikkel?” asked Bayer drily. “We need the key.”
“I thought it best to take charge of the key myself until you arrived.”
The parish pastor took out a big iron key from a pocket in his robes. “Kindly follow me,” he said, now sounding calmer and with more of a Laplander’s accent to his words.
Bayer walked behind the pastor, wondering if the man truly believed his own strange theories. Somewhere he’d heard that the Lapps believed people could leave their bodies to set off on a spiritual journey. Maybe this was what the pastor feared that the lunatics had done: moving in spirit form down to the cellar to make off with the corpse. That might be why the pastor came up with the implausible story about Falling Down Mikkel, in order to cover up his own beliefs. Bayer was glad he wasn’t plagued by the delusions of religion. He had no patience for either the heathens or the Christians. For Bayer, the world was what he could see, and nothing more.
Inside the hospital, the pastor lit a lantern and handed it to Bayer along with the key. Then he pointed at the door, keeping a good distance away as the police chief stepped forward.
“How many are there?” Bayer asked before putting the key in the lock.
“Seven. There are seven lunatics,” said the parish pastor, intoning his words so that they sounded almost biblical.
Bayer turned the key. The lock opened with a gurgle that sounded almost the same as when a man took the first swig from a bottle of imported aquavit. Falling Down Mikkel was apparently very meticulous about keeping his locks well oiled.
Then Bayer opened the door and peered into the darkness. He raised the lantern, holding it up in front of him, and saw the light reflected in the eyes of the insane. They were lying on bunks along the walls. One was sitting in the corner muttering to himself. He abruptly lifted his head to look at the lantern Bayer held, as if it might offer him salvation. Disappointed, he again lowered his gaze to the filthy plank floor, having seen Bayer’s stout form, which bore no resemblance to that of an angel.
Here they sit, thought Bayer. Their only crime is believing in a world other than the one they’re living in. He counted them. There were seven lunatics. They were all there. The room stank of sweat, rotting food, urine, and excrement, but nothing that smelled like a corpse. Bayer shut the door and once again locked away their lunacy.
“And you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, Reverend, around the time the body disappeared?”
They were now outside again, standing between the main hospital building and the church. Both men faced the church, a beautiful octagonal building that the Dutchman Johan Christoffer Hempel had designed more than half a century earlier. Bayer had finally convinced the pastor to consider other possible suspects than the lunatics.
“Have any strangers visited lately?”
“No. At least no one who might have done something like this.” The parish pastor gave him a determined look.
“Does that mean you have had strangers here?”
“You might say that. But I can assure you that this wasn’t a plunderer of corpses by any means. There was a most distinguished gentleman here this morning. He said that he’d heard our hospital extolled highly. He praised our hospital and said he wished to make a generous donation. When he asked to be shown around, I saw no reason to refuse him. Truth be told, there was something I needed to tend to in the sacristy, so I allowed him to move about freely. He left very abruptly, but I assume he will return soon, and his donation will be much appreciated.”
“And this visit was before the sexton went to the cellar to seal the lid of the coffin?”
“Yes, it must have been, because it was the sexton’s shouts that interrupted me at my work inside the church. The poor man was greatly distressed when he found the body missing, and he ran shouting and screaming through the church.”
“I can understand that. But tell me one thing: This distinguished gentleman, this generous supporter of the physician’s art, did he happen to speak Swedish?”
“Now that you mention it, he did speak Swedish.”
Nils Bayer bowed and thanked the pastor for his time. Then he hurried as fast as his stout body would carry him back to the police station. There he got out a pistol that he’d acquired when he was working in Copenhagen, although he’d never fired it. He loaded it and stuck it in a valise, along with a number of other essentials.
Then he went over to the stable, where he saddled his horse and tied the valise to the saddle. Before he left town, he rode over to the tavern where he’d tried to run into this Swedish gentleman. He was in luck and caught the innkeepers before they went to bed after a long summer night with many guests. There his suspicions were confirmed. The Swede had stopped by the tavern at dawn and in great haste had packed up his belongings. Then he bade the innkeepers farewell and rode off. The woman of the house noted that his horse was uncommonly handsome. Of more interest to Bayer was that he was planning to ride back to his homeland by way of the old road, the one used by pilgrims during Catholic times. He’d mentioned something to the innkeepers about a meeting at the border in two days’ time, and that was why he had to depart so suddenly.
Nils Bayer cursed as he rode out of town. The Swede had a whole day’s head start. His only consolation was that the other man was heavily laden, which would prevent him from maintaining any great speed. Besides, he’d have to stop occasionally and take detours so other travelers wouldn’t see the cadaver on his horse. Still, Bayer would be forced to ride all night to have any chance of catching up with the man.
Of course, the story of a meeting at the border might be nothing but a lie, and the Swede could have taken any number of different routes back to his homeland. But it somehow fit with the picture that had begun to take shape in Bayer’s mind. Besides, he had no other choice but to gamble everything on the toss of this particular coin.
Early the next morning he arrived at the river in Stjørdalen. From there he followed the trail on the north side of the valley, heading toward Sweden. He was more exhausted and achy than the horse he was riding, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone for so long with only water to drink. But he was determined not to give up or to allow his steed to rest until he had searched the whole of Stjørdalen, all the way up to the copper mines at Meråker.
He almost made it through the entire day without resting, and he was close to fainting when he reached a good-sized farm just before Meråker. He decided to stop and ask for a small glass of beer.
He was feeling both resigned and thirsty. He was near the border, and he feared that the Swede had slipped away with the corpse. Perhaps he should ask for more than just a small glass. Bayer wished he could drown his sorrows, but he knew they were much too good swimmers for that.
“Beer is in short supply up here in the valley at this time of year,” said the farmer. “You should come back in the fall, and we’ll show you that our beer is just as good as any you can get in town. But if you’re thirsty, we have something else to offer a traveler.”
“And what might that be?” asked Bayer, hope in his voice.
The farmer went into the house and soon returned with two hefty glasses.
“Genuine Swedish herb aquavit,” he said with a smile and handed one glass to Bayer. “We went to the market this past spring, and we’ve been saving this for our most distinguished visitors.”
Bayer knew that up here in the valley his elegant Dano-Norwegian speech was enough to make him an honored guest in anyone’s home. Especially when they heard that he had nothing to do with the mining operations. No one here knew about his meager circumstances back in town, and they paid no attention to the stains or mended patches on his vest. Here he was an educated man, a man of stature.
He thanked the farmer politely for the aquavit. He had an urge to down it in one gulp, but he restrained himself. The farmer expected Bayer to show a certain refinement in return for the hospitality, and he intended to comply, at least with the first glass.
They drank a toast and then took a polite swig of the liquor. It warmed Bayer’s whole stomach, seeming to spread all the way out to his skin.
“Those Swedes indeed know how to grow herbs,” he commented.
The farmer laughed heartily.
“You haven’t by chance had any other visitors during the past day, have you?” asked Bayer feigning indifference.
“No. Weeks can go by in between visits from townsfolk,” said the farmer. “And travelers to and from the mines never stop here.”
“I understand,” said Bayer. Then he offered another toast, and when he took another swig, which was bigger and less controlled than the first, he gave up all hope.
Four glasses later the farmer’s hospitality had reached its limit, and Bayer had no more jovial anecdotes to tell. Besides, the bottle of strong Swedish aquavit was now empty, and the police chief had no intention of staying the night on the farm. So he offered his thanks and led Bucephalus out to the courtyard and into the woods on the other side.
After walking alongside his horse for a short distance, he attempted, with much huffing and puffing, to climb into the saddle. It was then that he noticed how strong the Swedes brewed their liquor. It took him several attempts to mount the horse. Only on the fourth try did he manage to fling his leg over the saddle, but no sooner was he seated than he suffered a violent fit of dizziness, which could just as well have been the result of a lack of solid food as a surfeit of drink. Suddenly, he slid off the saddle on the side of the path where the land sloped down to the river. He fell to the ground and began tumbling swiftly down through the forest until he struck a tree trunk and lay still, unconscious.
How long he lay there in that passed-out state, he didn’t know. But when he came to, the twilight of the summer night had crept in. He could tell that he’d pissed his trousers and his face was covered with his own vomit. He was in miserable condition, and his only wish was that the night would swallow him whole. If it had been winter, he might have frozen to death there. He wondered whether that might have been an agreeable way to die and he cursed the summer. Doctor Fredrici had once told him that people who had nearly frozen to death said that, toward the end, the most pleasant sensation of warmth filled their body as the frost seemed to lose its grip. Yes, Bayer thought. That’s how I’d like to die.
That was when he noticed the campfire. At first he thought it was hovering in the air. Then he realized that he was lying on his back with his head pointing down the slope, and that what he saw was down by the riverbank. He got to his feet as quickly as he could, given that he was starving, hungover, and exhausted. Then he once again studied the landscape. Someone was sitting down there next to the fire.
Filled with excitement, he made his way back up to the path where Bucephalus, to his great relief, was calmly grazing. He tied the reins to a tree, took his gun from the valise, and set off down the slope again.
He approached the camp as slowly and soundlessly as he could. The last part of the way he crouched down to creep through the vegetation.
Then he stopped.
A man was sitting near the fire, his back turned to Bayer. It looked like he was cleaning some fish he’d caught, preparing them for his meal. A short distance away stood the man’s horse. And a little bit farther away was something lying on the stones. It was a big bundle wrapped in sailcloth. That had to be the body. Bayer had found his troubadour. With his right hand he pulled his gun from the pocket of his vest, taking a firm grip on it.
Then he slowly crept closer. As he was about to take his first step onto the riverbank, the sole of his shoe landed on a fallen branch, which made a crack loud enough to be heard over the rushing water. The man with the fish whirled around. But by now the police chief was near enough, and since he had a gun, he had the advantage.
“Kindly toss your knife into the river, my good man,” he said with a wry smile.
The man had been using a knife to clean the fish. He had no other weapon within reach. The man studied the gun Bayer was holding. Perhaps he was evaluating its quality and the likelihood that it might fail to fire if the gunpowder were damp, or the possibility that the gun might backfire and send the lead right into the pudgy face of its owner. Perhaps he also took note of Bayer’s disheveled state and how his body was far from athletic. Most likely he was assessing whether Bayer’s reflexes might be so sluggish that he could leap forward and knock the gun from his hand before Bayer even managed to pull the trigger. But after staring at him for several moments, the man apparently decided that in spite of everything the odds were in Bayer’s favor, so he flung the fishing knife in a high arc into the rushing current.
“What can I help you with, sir,” he asked drily. And Bayer knew at once that this was an adversary after his own heart.
Bayer looked at the Swede. His jacket was made from the finest velvet, and the collar of his silk shirt was cut according to the latest fashion. Even though his clothing had acquired a few stains after days of traveling, his appearance was still impressive.
“You serve a wealthy gentleman, as I understand it.”
“Forgive me,” said the Swede, clearly insulted. “But what do you know about me?”
“I know that a Swede who travels all the way to Trondheim to fetch a dead body would not do so just for his own amusement,” replied Bayer. “It must be profitable for you in some way. For honor or money. Presumably both. And that also means that someone has sent you and is willing to pay for your services.”
“So who are you?” asked the Swede, and now it was evident that he’d gained a certain respect for Bayer.
“Forgive me for not introducing myself. How tactless of me. My name is Nils Bayer, and I am Trondheim’s police chief.”
“Police chief. That means your duties include keeping order in town and checking the cargo that ships have on board upon arrival. Important work in the service of your king. But if I might inquire, what are you doing out here in the wilderness?”
“Allow me to be blunt with you. You seem like the sort of man who appreciates blunt speech.”
The Swede nodded.
“I’m here to ensure that yon deceased troubadour is allowed to rest in peace.”
“You certainly are blunt. And how to you plan to ensure that?”
“By obtaining an explanation for his mysterious death. You see, there is one thing that doesn’t make sense in this whole strange story. J’ai une mouche dans le casque, you might say. I’m almost certain that you came to Norway for the purpose of killing the victim. His present status might bear witness to the fact that you’ve succeeded in your mission. But then I have to ask myself: If you really were the one who took his life and you need to prove his death by taking his body back to your employer—an employer who is so powerful that he does not dare cross the border for fear of the political implications this would have between our two countries—why didn’t you take the body right away? Why go to the trouble of letting someone find him on the shore, only to steal his body back from the hospital? It seems rather . . . how shall I put it? Absurd.”
The Swede studied Bayer in silence. Perhaps he was again considering how he might disarm the police chief. Bayer thought it was probably best to give the man time to think.
“So I’ve reached the conclusion that you did not kill him.”
“Then why have you followed me here?”
“First,” said Bayer, “because the king of Denmark and Norway, like your king, does not look kindly on grave robbers. On behalf of our highborn ruler I could have put a bullet in your forehead by now, and that would have been the end of it. But I had a different proposal to make. The primary reason for my presence here is that I would like to solve this case. I don’t know what motivates you. But for my part, it is continuity, rationality, seeing that everything falls into place. That is what gives me peace in life.”
“Thank you for this insight into your noble mind,” said the Swede acidly.
“Let me remind you, sir, that I am the one holding a weapon and that you, as a grave robber in a foreign land, are not in a particularly favorable position. Therefore, I ask that you listen to my proposal. There are two parts.”
“Let me hear it,” said the Swede.
“First, I would like you to introduce yourself and tell me what you know about the troubadour’s death. Second, if you are able to confirm the assumptions that I have already made, then you, sir, will help me bury the man here in Norwegian soil. You will not be allowed to mollify your employer by reporting deeds that you did not personally carry out.”
The Swede stared longer at the gun than at Bayer. Then he sighed and said, “My name is Teodor Granqvist. I am Count Erik Gyllenhjärta’s most trusted retainer. And to explain simply: I know this troubadour as Christian Wingmark, and he insulted my master in the most disgraceful manner. The count has every right to seek the revenge he desires. And as you have so shrewdly pointed out, he is waiting for me at the border.”
“I see,” said Bayer. “But you arrived too late to exact this revenge, didn’t you? Our lutist had other talents besides his musical skills. He also knew how to acquire powerful enemies. Am I correct?”
“That appears to be so.”
“You tracked him down to Trondheim. I can tell you are a man of great resources. Kindly tell me that you also know about the circumstances surrounding his death.”
The Swede smiled.
“You’re not entirely without resources yourself. Most importantly, perhaps, is that you don’t give up very easily.”
Then he began to recount what he knew, and Bayer listened with satisfaction. The tale he told was the missing piece in a puzzle that Bayer had tried so many times to complete in his mind. When the Swede was done, Bayer was so elated that he almost forgot to keep his gun raised. But he quickly pulled himself together. Now all that remained was the part of the agreement with which Granqvist would not comply unless the threat of sudden death stood just a few feet away; his life was in the hands of a drunken and erratic police chief from Trondheim.
“I see that you have an excellent shovel tied onto your saddle,” Bayer said, noticing how husky his voice sounded. “And I see a bottle there.” He pointed to the liquor bottle lying next to the fish that had been prepared for the campfire. “You take the shovel, and I’ll take the bottle,” he said.
Granqvist got up and tossed the bottle to Bayer, who reacted faster than the Swede had anticipated, catching it in his left hand without losing his grip on the gun.
“The shovel,” he said sternly. “And no more tricks, please.”
The Swede did as he was told, and together the two men walked a short distance into the woods.
“Dig!” said Bayer. He sat down on a rock and pulled the cork from the bottle with his teeth.
Teodor Granqvist was a big man, and a powerfully built one. What Bayer possessed in sheer size, Granqvist had in muscle strength. He dug until he hit rock, and they both realized that the troubadour would have to be content with a shallow grave, no more than three feet deep.
“That will have to do,” said Bayer. “Let’s fetch the fiddler. I know he is longing to rest.”
Granqvist led the way back to the riverbank. There he singlehandedly lifted the cadaver onto the horse and then led the magnificent steed over to the grave. Bayer, holding his gun, kept a good distance from him, not too far away and not too near. He watched as Granqvist set the bundle in the grave.
It turned out that the grave was not only shallow but also too short, and the corpse lay there with its legs sticking up in the air.
Granqvist grabbed the shovel and jumped down into the grave.
“This won’t take long,” he said as he began hacking at the ground with the shovel to make the grave longer.
Bayer went over to inspect the work. That was when Granqvist saw his chance to attack. He filled the shovel with clay and then with lightning speed tossed the dirt up at Bayer, who was leaning over the grave.
The damp clay struck him like a heavy rag right in the face, filling his mouth and nostrils with soil. He took a step back, gasping for air as he clung to the gun. The Swede leaped out of the grave and lunged at the police chief. Bayer held the gun behind his back, making it difficult for the Swede to grab. Instead the Swede grabbed his left arm and yanked Bayer down into the grave on top of him. Both men landed on the corpse. But the Swede had failed to take Bayer’s weight into consideration and when the police chief fell on him, even from such a modest height, it was enough to knock the wind out of a strong fellow like Teodor Granqvist.
Bayer felt the Swede go limp beneath him. For a moment Bayer lay still. Feeling bruised, he managed to pull himself up onto his knees.
The Swede was winded but not unconscious as he lay there on top of the corpse. Desperately, Bayer tried to crawl out of the grave, but his adversary had mustered his strength and once again reached out for him. This time the Swede got hold of the gun. He grabbed Bayer’s wrist and pulled the pistol toward him. But Bayer was still holding on tight, and as the barrel swung toward the Swede’s chest, the police chief pulled the trigger. It was not a deliberate action; it happened in the heat of battle, a reflexive movement. The gunpowder reacted to the striking of the hammer, exploding into the barrel and sending the bullet into Teodor Granqvist.
It killed the man instantly.
He fell back, and Bayer felt as though it happened so slowly that he seemed to hover in midair. Granqvist struck the sailcloth that was wrapped around the dead troubadour and then rolled down to rest beside him in the grave. Bayer was kneeling beside the legs of the two dead men, and there still wasn’t enough room for the men’s legs; they were stuck up past his shoulders.
Even though Bayer hadn’t eaten a thing since the previous night, there was still something in his stomach that demanded to get out.
Then he sat there shivering for God only knew how long.
Finally, he crawled on all fours out of the grave and crept over to the liquor bottle that was lying near the rock where he’d been sitting only a short time ago. He grabbed it and emptied it in one gulp. Then he tossed the bottle aside with his left hand, which made him realize that he was still holding the gun in his right. Without thinking, he stuck the barrel into his mouth. The steel was still warm from being fired. He closed his lips around the metal.
And pulled the trigger.
Of course he hadn’t reloaded the gun. This was merely an act. Something to cleanse himself.
Then he stood up and took off all his clothes. Slowly, like a sleepwalker, he went down to the river. He waded in until the water was up to his waist. Then he lowered his big, miserable body into the river. He ducked his head under, and for a moment he thought about staying there. But something inside of him wanted to keep on breathing. At last, he raised his head out of the water, gasping for air.
After he had given himself a good washing, he waded back to shore and put his filthy, foul-smelling clothes back on.
Then he did what he had to do. He made room for the men’s legs and even said a few words before he shoveled earth over them. But from the lips of a heathen such as himself, his words were without solace. He buried the gun and Granqvist’s possessions with the bodies. Then he cut the Swede’s horse loose. He went back to Bucephalus and climbed into the saddle.
On his way back to town he gave a wide berth to the hospitable farmer’s property. During the whole ride back he felt like an empty sack swaying on the back of the horse.
Nils Bayer had found the explanation he was seeking, but it had come at a price, and he never would have agreed to it if he’d known beforehand.