As ever, the break of dawn brings chaos and tumult to Indebetou House on its perch at the top of Castle Hill. Winge rubs his eyes, trying to forget about his lack of sleep and wondering if there might be a pot of coffee with a few drops left for him somewhere in one of these rooms.
The stairwell is full of people on their way out or in and others who are simply waiting here in lieu of a better place. The police authority staff are still struggling to adapt to their new premises and their new master. No one has yet managed to pair the right room with the purpose for which it would be best suited.
Barely a year has gone by since the move to Indebetou House, and according to mean-spirited rumors, the only reason for the upheaval from Garden Lane was to save the city face after the former owner of the house managed to gain access to the deathbed of King Gustav and came away with a barely legible royal signature on a deed which promised him twenty-five thousand dalers in exchange for a drafty and decrepit building that had long stood abandoned. Too warm in summer, too cold in winter.
The house is strangely asymmetrical, leaning into the hill where it stands between the cathedral and the empty lot where the ruins of the recently demolished Great Tennis Court are still strewn about.
In the dim morning light, familiar faces are mixed with strangers. With displeasure, Winge picks out Teuchler and Nystedt, two thugs in the agency’s employ who are half carrying a man whose blackened eyes and split lip bear witness to the fact that he has just confessed to whatever it is he has been accused of. Secretary Blom passes Winge in the crowd at that moment and rolls his eyes when their eyes briefly meet. More than two decades have gone by since such methods were outlawed, but Teuchler and Nystedt remain children of another time.
Those who know Winge’s name and appearance without being more closely acquainted with him turn their faces to the floor at his approach. He can feel their eyes on his back once he has passed them by. On his way up the stairs he notes that no one has yet removed the former police chief’s coat of arms from the wall: yet another sign of the lack of order that has plagued the agency since King Gustav joined his fathers.
Almost two years have gone by since Anckarström’s shot rang out in the masquerade ball, but at the police agency it is as if the report echoes still. With the crown prince only thirteen years old and not yet of age, the conflict over power broke out even before the monarch lost his long struggle with death. The former police chief Nils Henric Aschan Liljensparre, a favorite of King Gustav, who had built the police agency from the ground up and had himself led its operations for almost three decades, was one of the powerful men who saw his opportunity and showed his ambitions openly: to have the king’s weak-minded brother, Duke Charles, appointed to rule as the prince’s guardian, a puppet regent.
Instead, this thirst for power became Liljensparre’s undoing. Baron Reuterholm took the place that Liljensparre had selected for himself, and while the baron rules the country in the duke’s name, Liljensparre has been dispatched to Swedish Pomerania. At the beginning of the year, Reuterholm gave the office of police chief to crown attorney Johan Gustaf Norlin, an appointment it is said that the baron has already had reason to regret. Like others who are able to see things clearly, Winge knows the reason: Norlin is a righteous man.
Up on the third floor, chairs have been placed along the walls of the corridor. Winge hugs himself and slaps his shoulders in order to force the blood out into his frozen fingertips. The damp, cold air tickles his throat and he has to take shallow breaths in order to keep his cough at bay. He is forced to wait another quarter of an hour in the draft from the leaky windows before the door to Norlin’s quarters is opened and he is shown in.
Like the rest of the house, Norlin’s office is in disarray. The elegant desk is barely visible under the piles of papers that cover it. Norlin is standing by the window. Norlin is not much older than Winge, but the past year has been filled with sleepless nights that have aged him beyond his thirty years. Along the collar of his formal coat, his skin is red and chafed where his fingernails have tried repeatedly to scratch an itch. A speckled cat is perched on the windowsill, purring as Norlin strokes its neck.
“One of the few inhabitants of this house that is still of sound mind and has reasonable priorities.”
He gently pushes the cat down onto the floor, leans his back against the windowsill, and crosses his arms.
“Well, was your examination satisfactory?”
“It was ill-advised of me to imply that the officer had been drinking. His reaction was completely justified. It is a very unusual crime.”
“Apart from your competence, there is another reason that I have asked you to handle this affair, Cecil. You are not formally a part of the agency and you can work in the dark. Reuterholm has his eyes on me and there are few things that rile the baron more than discovering me doing actual police work. The baron would rather have me implementing his censorship regulations than making the city safe for the general public. Have a look.”
Norlin holds up a folded paper with a freshly broken seal.
“This is a letter signed by Gustaf Adolf Reuterholm, in which he demands to know why no progress has been made in the investigation he demanded regarding a rumor that he has tried to poison the crown prince. The same rumor claims that his hunger for power can be traced back to impotence and a long list of perverse tendencies. The baron feels that he has waited long enough to see those responsible taste the rod, and now demands that I provide him with a full account of my efforts.”
“Since I haven’t done anything, it would probably be best not to. The man is out of his mind. Reuterholm is nothing but a despot, without friends or family to provide a sense of stability. He’s trying to get the fortune-teller Arvidsson to speak with the dead on his behalf. Vain, testy, and resentful to boot, just like King Gustav himself as time went on. Fear of revolution and betrayal is a pestilence that spreads to all whose posteriors come too close to the throne. His Majesty asked my predecessor to recruit a cadre of informants to report on gossip and conspiracies among the people. The problem is not that people are unhappy. The problem is that Liljensparre’s informants were asked to look for discontent in the wrong places. While King Gustav had nightmares of the revolution in France spreading to the far north and did everything in his power to eavesdrop on republican chatter in the coffeehouses, his killers were sneaking around among members of his own court. He was so afraid of the commoners he never met that he believed the nobles—right in front of his face—were harmless.”
Norlin gestures at his desk.
“Even if I do my best to ignore Liljensparre’s gossips, I still have to receive their reports, the one more preposterous than the next: there is an Ödman who complains that someone called Nilsson has sung ‘La Marseillaise’ during a night of heavy drinking in Strängnäs. A cavalry officer with doubtful sympathies is said to have praised the notorious schemer Juhlin for his tie pin. Kullmer and Ågren wore long trousers to church, to the delight of Weinås and Falk. Carlén is hiding writings by Thorild under his pillow. And so forth. While I am distracted by this, important matters suffer. But Liljensparre, that old tyrant, felt that these things were of the highest level of interest. No doubt you’ve heard the nickname the men of the agency gave him? ‘The Arse,’ from his middle name, Aschan.”
Winge regards the pile of letters, takes one, and gives it an indifferent glance before he puts it back. Norlin lifts up his wig and throws it on top of the piles as he scratches his hair.
“By way of the rumor mill, I understand that Reuterholm is already looking for my replacement.”
“I have heard that the question has been put to Magnus Ullholm. A name that you know all too well.”
“Do you know how long you will last?”
“No. But when the baron sets his mind to something, things tend to happen quickly. Ullholm will not allow your assignments to continue. So this is a matter of urgency, Cecil.”
Winge brings his hand up to the bridge of his nose and massages his swollen eyes. His drowsiness causes blurred points of light to dance across his field of vision.
“I am the last person you need to remind what is urgent.”
Norlin invites Winge to sit in an empty chair. He cracks the door and calls out into the corridor for some coffee, an order that is swiftly obeyed by whoever happens to be closest. With a heavy sigh, Norlin sits down across from Winge.
“Well, let us return to that corpse that was fished out of the lake. What hopes do you have of finding the person responsible?”
“I have reason to believe that the body was put in the water only a few hours before he was found. I plan to look for witnesses who may have been in the neighborhood shortly before nightfall.”
“That seems to me a thoroughly hopeless undertaking. Is that all?”
“There is one more thing. The body was naked but partially wrapped in a black cloth of a kind that I have not seen before. It seems too costly a fabric to be discarded in such a way. Experts in these matters may know more.”
Norlin appears lost in thought and is nodding to himself.
“Keep things that you do discreet, and not only because of Reuterholm. There is discontent festering out there. We had an agitated mob at the castle gates earlier this year, howling for blood, and all because a nobleman had managed to scratch a burgher with his rapier. Every act of violence has to be handled with the utmost care. Do me that favor.”
A maid knocks at the door and enters bearing a coffeepot and tin cups. Norlin pours and Winge puts his thin lips to the rim of the cup to meet the life-giving brew. While the cat unselfconsciously jumps up in anticipation of curling up on Norlin’s lap, Norlin gazes over at Winge with concern.
“I’m sorry to say it, Cecil, especially since I know that I am not entirely innocent of the cause, but damn it, you look awful.”