Cardell windmills his healthy arm to pump blood into his frozen fingertips and he jumps in place to keep warm. He has been waiting for more than half an hour in the yard outside the low house. The maid, who has refused to let an unknown man pass the threshold—let alone someone like Cardell—has forced him to wait outside until her mistress is ready. When he asks for something warm to keep the cold at bay, she snorts loudly and slams the door in his face. He is thoroughly sick of waiting. Each time he looks up at the Katarina parish clock—which he can bring into view above the ridge of the tiled roof by putting one boot on the chopping block and balancing on top of it—he is convinced the clockwork has frozen and that the hands no longer move. Finally the door opens again and the same sullen maid’s round face appears in the gap.
“You can step into the hall now and have a cup of warm beer, if you like. My mistress will see you soon.”
The thought of something warm is enough for Cardell to banish any thoughts of vengeance. He brushes the snow from his shoulders and stamps his boots carefully before he steps inside. The house smells of newly baked bread. Once his coat and scarf have been hung up, he feels the heat of the stove start to thaw his stiff shirt and he sighs in gratitude.
The mistress of the house waits beyond the kitchen in a poorly illuminated room. Widow Fröman is still dressed in black from the hem of her dress to her cap, although it has been many years since her husband passed on. She must be nearing sixty. He has the impression that the couple remained childless and that lack of family has made the grief for her departed husband a fixture of the house. Despite the modest dimensions of the chamber, the widow makes a formidable impression where she sits close to the fire. Her back is as straight as a poker. In her flinty face, Cardell sees no hint of self-pity, only a measured dignity, an expression that tells a hurtful world that she is ready and able to answer in kind. Cardell finds his neck, which hardly bent an inch for his officers in the artillery, tilt towards the floorboards as of its own accord. He clears his throat.
“Good day.”
He has the feeling that Mrs. Fröman scrutinizes him from head to toe without even moving her gaze, and that she reads off him everything she needs to know. She allows a few moments to pass before she replies.
“They tell me your name is Cardell and that you are a watchman. What matters you have to discuss with me go beyond my powers of imagination, and the fact that my life rarely presents me with surprises is the only reason that you are here right now and have not been shown the door. So, what do you want?”
Cardell feels his ears—recently so cold—suddenly glow with heat, and he squirms uncomfortably. He realizes that he has been wrong about the old woman’s firm gaze. She is blind. As his own eyes grow accustomed to the dark, he sees that hers are covered with a milky membrane. He shivers involuntarily and tries to find the right words.
“I’m sorry to arrive unannounced, and let me express my humblest condolences for your husband’s all too hasty departure . . .”
She silences him by raising her hand.
“Hush, watchman. Magpies do best when they croak, not when they try to sing like nightingales. Arne Fröman, pastor in Katarina parish, may he rest in peace, has been gone many a year, even if his corpse was surely so soaked in brandy that any worm daring to dig itself within a foot of his coffin must have died on the spot. That I still feel grief says more about myself than about our blessed pastor. Come now, watchman, you’d do best to stop pussyfooting around and get right to it.”
Cardell nods before he remembers she can’t see. He searches for courage inside himself and is surprised to find it there.
“You live awfully modestly here, it seems to me, in view of Pastor Fröman’s prominence.”
He feels a measure of satisfaction when he sees that she flinches a little at the words before she regains her self-control. He hurries on.
“Tell me, do you perhaps recognize the name of Ullholm? Magnus is the first name.”
He feels something shift in the room, as palpable as an icy draft from a newly cracked pane. Every dry hint of sarcasm is gone when she answers.
“Yes. I remember Magnus Ullholm.”
“I’ve been told that Ullholm fled to Norway with the church’s widows’ fund some years ago. Perhaps this included money that could have been helpful to you, Mrs. Fröman, after your husband’s demise.”
Cardell wonders if it is possible for someone who is already sitting still to sit even stiller, but observes that if anyone is capable of such a thing, it is Mrs. Fröman.
“There’s no need to remind me who Ullholm is or what he did. I know it all too well.”
“Surely there are others in the same situation as you, Mrs. Fröman, who also remember Ullholm’s name. They probably have children and grandchildren who have been denied a secure childhood because of what he did. I imagine that you would know their names, all of them.”
“I imagine I would.”
“Tell me, Mrs. Fröman, since you spent so many years as the wife of a God-fearing man, do you recall the expression ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth’?”
Mrs. Fröman pulls her lips back to reveal a row of sharp teeth. It takes him a moment to realize that she is smiling.