Trondheim, 1767
Nils Bayer rode back toward Trondheim early in the morning. He headed across Småbergan near the fortress and saw the city spread below him in the dawn light.
It was a small town. After the years he’d spent in Copenhagen, he would always think of Trondheim as small, and he was afraid that would be his downfall, in one way or another. But at daybreak, he couldn’t help but like what he saw of Trondheim: its rickety wooden buildings with thatched roofs, its streets and alleyways, its coachmen, fiddlers, scholars, fishwives, men of rank and men of drunken stupors, its whores and lunatics. He felt a certain affection for this strange little country where he’d ended up. An inexplicable faith in the future reigned among Norwegians. Meanwhile, he came from an old country, a land that had enough to do just holding on to what it had. But in Trondheim, in small, poor Norway, there was good business to be done. A man could obtain the newest books from Europe. Research was being conducted. People were investigating new ideas. This was a new time for Norway.
Bayer remembered, on a damp evening when he’d been invited to Søren Engel’s home, Bishop Gunnerus, perhaps the wisest and most learned of all the Norwegians he’d met, had confided something to him.
“Norway is a country that will soon be reborn,” the bishop had said “That’s why people here are looking forward to the times to come.”
These thoughts should have made Bayer feel more optimistic, but they didn’t. They could do nothing to fend off the nightmarish images from the night before. He saw them over and over again in his mind. The light glinting off the muzzle of the gun. The Swede falling, dead, a patch of blood spreading across his white shirt. The legs sticking out of the grave. The river streaming past with its enticing offer of eternal oblivion. Nils Bayer had become a murderer since the last time he’d seen Trondheim. And it was as a murderer that he would live out the rest of his days in this city.
He clucked to the horse and set off for the ferry landing. Once he had reached the other side, he rode straight home and slept the rest of the day.
He was wakened in the middle of the night by a dream that he was back at the river. The two Swedes had risen from the grave and were staring at him, as if they felt sorry for him. Then the flies had come and settled over them. The insects came from all directions and gradually both corpses were covered with flies until they became buzzing shadows in the night. He raised the gun and fired a shot into the dark. Then the flies took off and disappeared, leaving nothing behind. The two bodies had vanished.
Bayer tossed and turned in bed, then reached for his flask, which he’d set on the night table. It was empty. There was nothing to drink except for a jug of water from Ilabekken that had been left standing too long. He greedily downed the water, noticing that he was shaking all over. His nightshirt was drenched with sweat. He tore it off and got dressed. Then he went out to fetch his horse and rode off into the night.
In Brattøra he woke the ferryman, paying him three times the usual fee to cross the river. Then he rode over toward the Ringve estate, arriving a few hours past midnight. Everyone was asleep, which was for the best, since he hadn’t come here to make a social call. He left his horse in the woods outside the estate and walked the rest of the way. Instead of taking the road to the courtyard, he headed through the tall grass and walked around the house to the backyard. There he found the flower beds that had been planted by the mistress, and he began to dig.
He dug with his bare hands, getting dirt under his nails. It was hard work, but he was driven by a dreamlike obsession. His memories of recent events, the lack of anything to drink, the bright night under the stars—all of this filled him with an intensity that made him forget the limitations of his stout, heavy body. After a while he found what he was looking for. He pulled it out of the damp soil and wiped it with the palms of his hands. Then he smiled for the first time in days. He took what he’d found and put it in the saddlebag on his horse.
He rode back to town. When he arrived, there were still a few hours of night left. This time, he slept soundly, and when he awoke, he finally felt rested.
He went over to his office. There he found Officer Torp, who jumped to his feet when the police chief came in.
“People have been worried,” Torp said, tilting his head to one side. “Where have you been?”
“I’ve been chasing a ghost,” said Bayer. Then he told Torp about his hunt for the Swede. But in this telling, the Swede managed to get away somewhere beyond Meråker and then disappeared into enemy country with the body of the dead man.
“We need to put this case behind us now,” he concluded.
“That would indeed be a good thing,” said Torp. “There is so much we have neglected these past few days. We’ve received so many complaints about watered-down beer, about Eriksen the baker selling moldy bread, and about selling in the marketplace without a permit. We have enough on our hands.”
“Yes, we certainly do have enough on our hands,” replied Bayer absentmindedly.
Then he sat, leafing through the notebook on his desk. It was the notebook that had belonged to the lutist Jon Blund, and after a moment he found a ballad that he liked. It was called “The Golden Peace.” He read the text, which had to do with deep slumber and sweet dreams, the kind of sleep that he wished for more than anything else. He noticed that this song was the last one in the notebook. After it, a page had been torn out, and the rest of the pages were blank. He tore out the ballad, then went over to the stove and placed the notebook amid the kindling on the floor. It would be put to good use in the fall. He turned to Torp, who was sitting at the other desk, seemingly engrossed in some important documents.
“There’s one more thing I have to do before I can devote all my attention to restoring order to the streets of Trondheim,” he said. “In the meantime, you’ll have to deal with the chaos as best you can, my dear Officer Torp. I suggest that you start with the moldy bread. It sounds like a serious matter that might bring in a sizable fine for the town treasury.”
Then Bayer folded up the pages containing the words of the lullaby, stuck them in his waistcoat pocket, and left.
“And you want only three copies?” asked Mr. Winding, holding the text in the air as if he could read it better from afar.
“That’s all a poor police chief can afford, I’m afraid,” said Bayer with an apologetic smile.
“You could order a less expensive printing. It’s not that we can’t produce the engraving that you want for the front. I have excellent craftsmen in my workshop, some of the best in the realm, if I may say so myself. But it will take time and cost money to create that sort of image.”
“But that’s what I want,” said Bayer firmly.
“The price will be charged accordingly, as I said. I won’t be able to get this done until . . . let me see. On the morning of the third of July, I will be delivering the first issue of this gazette’s reports. I can have your prints done a little later that day.”
“Good. The same day as Nissen’s publication. I’ll have the same date on the front, as a reminder.”
“Fine. So you want this image you’ve described? Slumbering people, the title ‘The Golden Peace,’ the date, and the name Jon Blund printed on the cover, along with the text that comes before the song? And on the three following pages, the text and melody. This may turn out to be one of my finest prints,” said Winding, sounding pleased. “But I’ll have to ask you to pay in advance.”
Bayer took out his wallet and emptied it on the printer’s counter. Then he took his leave and went back to his lodgings. In the bedroom, he knelt down and pulled something out from under the bed. It was the big, heavy metal object he’d found buried in the yard on the Ringve estate. Taking it with him, he set off for Søren Engel’s mansion.
It was the servant with the dark complexion who once again opened the door. They exchanged a few jokes, and then the servant, just as he’d done last time, ushered Bayer into the brightly lit library.
“Pardon me, but would you like me to take this . . . this . . . item for you?” asked the servant, motioning discreetly at what Bayer was carrying.
“No, thank you. I’m planning to consult your master about this,” replied Bayer.
Søren Engel kept him waiting nearly half an hour. Bayer didn’t mind, because wine had been set on the table as soon as he’d arrived. And he took an entertaining book from the shelves behind him. It was a copy of the play La Vida es sueño, by the Spanish playwright Pedro Calderón de la Barca. With this book to read, the time passed quickly.
“Forgive me,” said Mr. Engel. “But I’m a busy man. If you’d given me some advance warning, it would have been easier for me to make time for you.”
“Oh, I’m fine with waiting a bit, when there’s plenty of sweet wine and reading material,” said Bayer cheerfully, setting the book down on the table next to him.
Engel smiled broadly.
“Do you know what defenestration means, my good Søren Engel?” Bayer asked abruptly.
“Of course I do,” he replied. “Who hasn’t heard about the monstrous events that took place in Prague during the last century? But why do you ask, Police Chief Bayer?”
“Let’s come back to that in a moment, if you don’t mind.”
“Certainly,” said Engel, smiling uneasily.
His face turned stony when Bayer took out the metallic object he’d hidden under his chair. It was a beautifully cast figure. Anyone who was familiar with such things would have recognized it as a weather vane.
“Do you happen to recognize this?” asked Bayer softly, holding it up for Engel to see. The merchant turned pale.
“Where did you get that?” he asked curtly.
“I found it buried in the yard at Ringve. Don’t you think that’s strange?”
Engel just glared at the police chief.
“Let me tell you a story,” said Bayer. “Let’s call it a little dream that I had.”
Engel still didn’t speak. He leaned forward and poured the last of the wine from the carafe into his glass. He drank it all before saying, “I hope this won’t take up too much of my time.”
“No, it’s a very precise dream. And it’s not particularly long,” Bayer told him. Then he began his tale.
“Once upon a time, there was a man who possessed a fortune greater than anyone else’s in the town where he lived. He also had two beautiful daughters, but no male heir who could take over the flourishing family businesses and carry on the family name.
“As you can imagine, such a man would be very particular about whom he would allow his daughters to spend time with. Whoever won their hearts would become the son he lacked and the future administrator of his dazzling fortune. One day this merchant traveled on holiday with his wife and two daughters to visit some other highborn friends who lived in the country. There they planned to take part in the springtime festivities. It was a costly affair, and musicians had been hired to elevate the mood. After a while, things grew so merry and lively that the wealthy gentleman forgot to be as vigilant as usual when it came to watching his daughters. The elder girl happened to strike up a conversation with one of the musicians, a poor but charming foreigner who was most handsome. The two of them left the celebration to stroll among the flower-filled meadows that surrounded the estate. There she gave him a blossom.
“The next day the gentleman and his family went back to town, unaware that a new member of the family had begun to grow in the elder daughter’s womb.”
Here, Bayer paused as he looked at Søren Engel. His face was pale, his eyes very dark. His hand was clutching the stem of the wineglass so tightly that his knuckles had turned red. Bayer realized that he needed to finish his story quickly, before Engel exploded and threw him out.
“Only, a few months later the truth became apparent. The elder daughter was forced to confess her sin, and it was quickly decided that she should be sent away to give birth to her child in secret. But that was not enough for the poor patriarch. The thought that the filthy and impoverished troubadour was the father to his only grandchild was too much for the man to bear. And so he conspired with his friend who lived in the country. Together they invited the lutist out to the friend’s estate with promises of a new engagement. When he arrived, they invited him up to the dining room, which is on the second floor, and from there they threw him out of the window. That is called defenestration. An execution that employs a window.
“The poor lutist struck a weather vane that was fastened to the entrance gate below and was skewered on the metal spire. The weather vane bore an astonishing resemblance to the one I found buried in the garden of the Ringve estate. The weather vane created a huge entry wound in his abdomen, but only a small exit wound where the tip of the spire stuck out of his back. And there the lutist was left hanging, bleeding until he was drained of blood. At some point the weather vane broke off, and the man fell into the courtyard, where the two gentlemen stood waiting.
“In my mind, I picture this happening late one night after all the workers on the estate had gone to bed. The two murderers decided to transport the body as far away as possible from the scene of the crime. And so they took the deceased down to Ringve Bay, where the owner’s new boat was moored, and then they sailed with the corpse to the other end of town. There they carried the body ashore, not leaving any trace behind. It wasn’t long until daybreak, and only a few hours since the last tide. They counted on the body being carried away on the waves, so that it would be unrecognizable before anyone found it. To make the job of the salt water even easier, they removed the dead man’s clothes and threw them into the sea on their way back to the estate. They might also have done this to humiliate this tramp even further, this man who had been so bold as to lay hands on the daughter of the town’s richest and most powerful man.”
Bayer stopped and drank the rest of his wine. He knew it would be a long time before he would taste wine of this quality again.
“What are you trying to tell me with this story of yours?” asked Søren Engel, his voice ominous.
“Nothing. I’m not trying to tell you anything. I just felt it was important to tell this story to someone who would listen,” he replied.
“Is it money you want?”
“No, not at all. Justice is all that a police chief strives for as reward for his efforts.”
“And how did you plan to achieve justice in this matter?” asked Engel. “You know that although I may treat you as a friend, I am more powerful than you could ever imagine in those twisted dreams of yours.”
“There are many different ways to achieve justice,” said Bayer. “And sometimes a person has to wait a very long time. But I am equally as patient as you are rich and powerful.”
“Then you will have to go somewhere else to wait. You have no proof, nothing that would hold up against my word and the witnesses whom I can produce to speak on my behalf.”
“I never said that this matter would come before a judge. I said that justice comes to those who have the patience to wait for it,” replied Bayer. He said nothing about his own witness, the Swedish gentleman who had followed the lutist out to Ringve on that evening and had seen the whole thing from the meadow near the estate. He was a witness who would never enter a courtroom on this side of the grave, and so he might as well never have existed.
Bayer stood up and bowed. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, and his head spun, but he forced himself to meet the gaze of Søren Engel one last time.
He didn’t yet know what sort of justice awaited this enormously wealthy murderer. He knew that the only punishment he could mete out lay in the words he had spoken and this last look. No matter how much money Engel had, he would have to live with his deeds, sleep with them every night, and dream about them while he slept.
“I must ask you never to set foot in my house again,” said Engel as the police chief left the room.
Feeling surprisingly lighthearted, Nils Bayer made his way across town until he reached the pub. There he dug deep into his pockets to find a few pennies. Enough to help me through the rest of the day, he thought.
Ingrid came over to fill his glass. They smiled at each other like old friends, and she could tell he didn’t feel like talking at the moment. She let him sit there in peace all afternoon, and when evening came, she brought over a plate of dried meat and sat down across from him at the small table in the corner.
“You need to eat some solid food, my dear police chief,” she said gently, putting her hand on his shoulder.
He gave her a wan smile.
“I’ll eat something if you’ll marry me,” he said. Both of them knew that it was said in jest. But both of them knew that he meant what he’d said.
This time she gave him a look that he’d never seen before.
“I’ll marry you the day you put away the bottle. I grew up with a father who was lost in the grip of alcohol. It was liquor that set fire to my home and robbed me of my family. I’ll never marry you as long as you keep drinking. Show me that you can stay sober until Christmas, and then I’ll give your proposal serious consideration,” she said. Then she leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Now eat,” she told him, and left.
When Bayer staggered home that night, he was feeling ebullient and self-confident. He was lost in his own thoughts, which were unusually simple for a change.
“Six months without a dram. I can do that. Neptune, the god of the sea himself, knows that I can do it. I’ll keep myself afloat.”
When he reached Kalvskinnet, he decided to stop by his childhood home, but his mother refused to let him in, telling him to come back when he was sober. Then he reeled home to his own bed and dreamed happy dreams about Ingrid Smeddatter without any clothes on.
Three days later, he went to see Winding to pick up his prints. He hadn’t had a drop of anything but boiled water in those three days, which caused him to shake and sweat. But he was feeling better now. A little better each day.
Bayer studied the three prints with satisfaction. He tucked them under his arm and went back to the office, where he found Torp, who was in a splendid mood.
“A messenger from the prefect is waiting for you,” he said, beaming from ear to ear.
“You don’t say,” replied Bayer in measured tones as he glanced at the man sitting on a chair at the back of the office.
“I’ll leave you to talk in peace,” said Torp, going out to the stairwell.
Bayer greeted the messenger, who told him the purpose of his visit.
“After much consideration, our honorable prefect has reached the conclusion that for a long time the police chief of Trondheim has not been properly appreciated, as befits the important position that he holds. For that reason, the prefect wishes to elevate our city’s police chief to the same level as police chiefs in other parts of our country. He has decided to grant to you, Nils Bayer, the right to keep half a skilling for every barrel on which duty is paid upon delivery to our city. You will find all of the details described in this letter.”
At this, the messenger bowed and handed Bayer a piece of paper sealed with wax that was imprinted with the prefect’s coat of arms.
“I understand,” said Bayer, tossing the document on the desk. “I understand all too well. Please convey my best greetings to the prefect and his house.”
Bayer ushered the messenger to the door. As he bade the man farewell, Torp come back in.
“What fabulous news,” he said.
“That depends on how you look at it,” replied Bayer. “Everything in life has its price.”
Torp gave him a confused look.
“But something good may come of this after all,” he added. “And we soon may be able to increase your wages ever so slightly.”
“Only if the police chief sees fit to do so,” said Torp with a bow.
“Now go out there and keep order in Trondheim. That’s what I’m paying you for, isn’t it?”
Torp bowed again and went out the door with a smile on his face. Evidently he had long since stopped trying to make any sense out of the police chief.
Nils Bayer set down two of the broadsheets that he was still holding, then took the third with him. He went over to the Hoppa. There he found Ingrid Smeddatter sitting alone in the empty dining room.
“Quiet morning?” he asked, smiling.
“Quiet and peaceful until you arrived,” she said, laughing.
“I have a present for you,” said Bayer.
She took the broadsheet that he handed her and studied it.
“How lovely it is,” she said. “But why would you give me a present?”
“Because we’re three days closer to Christmas,” he told her.