After his brief absence, Svenning interrupts them with the papers that have been requested. Winge studies the signatures in particular detail, Svenning’s own alongside the other that should belong to Erik Three Roses but is not much more than a blot of ink struck through with some wavy lines.
“Did you sign this at the same time?”
“No, I signed it first, alone, two copies. Later I had one of them sent back to me, countersigned.”
“You have never met face-to-face?”
Svenning shakes his head.
“Did you not find that strange?”
“Not really. If he weren’t a busy man, he wouldn’t have had need of my services. There was nothing for me to question.”
Winge’s one hand has made its way to a lock of hair at the nape of his neck, which he has started twirling.
“Tell me, what was your first task as newly appointed foreman here?”
“To appoint new staff.”
“Everyone had been discharged?”
Svenning shrugs.
“So I would assume. To find replacements isn’t difficult. Laborers of that sort come thirteen to the dozen and it’s a buyer’s market.”
Cardell cuts in gruffly. “D’you have any idea where Erik Three Roses might be found?”
“No. For as long as my salary is paid, I see no reason to inquire as to his whereabouts.”
The heat of the day lingers under the trees, though the sun has started to sink low, a red glow flickering through the branches. Flies and midges gleam as they swarm in and out of slanting beams. Cardell has unhooked his wooden arm and lets it hang over his shoulder by its straps.
“I have seen my fair share of bloodletting, and even so, I have trouble imagining how the hell there could have been stains all the way up there.”
“And how goes your reasoning now?”
“Colling is right so far. Not only was her daughter murdered, but a great deal of effort has gone into concealing what happened. The room has been scrubbed clean, all those who must have been in the house at the time scattered to the four winds.”
“There is only one person who should have been in the room at the same time as Linnea Charlotta, and that is the groom. The fact that he has disappeared does not speak in his favor, especially when the disappearance has been staged in such a way that it seems the tracks have intentionally been swept away. If we find Erik Three Roses, I dare wager we will also find her killer.”
Cardell nods in agreement.
“I’ve heard of such things before, though never with as tragic an outcome. The bride and groom are both young, he as brash on the outside as tremulous inside, drunk to boot, and when he can’t get it up, the disappointment sets in, so he takes to his fists and makes sure that she is the one to pay for his injured manhood.”
“So does Occam’s razor cut: it is the simplest explanation taking everything into account, and so the most plausible. But nevertheless, we still need to find Erik Three Roses.”
The main room of the house is almost empty. Despite the warmth of the evening, there is a fire in the hearth, a fire that roars so that the flames stretch far up the chimney. The widow is burning those belongings that can neither be sold nor given away. She is sitting on a stool by the fireplace with a small axe, chopping up old chairs, tools broken beyond repair, and household items that have endured the wear and tear of generations until their weight has finally exceeded their worth.
The sweat has carved tracks through the soot in Margareta Colling’s face. She stares into the hearth and keeps her gaze locked there, even though Winge and Cardell have stepped over the threshold.
“Well?”
Cardell sits down on the bench and puts his arm on the floor beside him.
“Do you know what became of the groom after the wedding?”
Colling breaks a cracked wooden platter over her knee and sets the pieces on the bonfire.
“I saw the carriage when it left the estate, and I ran after it to ask where he was going. I never saw Erik, and the driver was a Frenchman. He called out a few words in his own language and laughed, then took the road towards Stockholm, the same way you came.”
“Can you recall what he said?”
“It is not a language I have mastered, but I have done my best to remember how it sounded.”
She made a few attempts to relay the words as Emil Winge tried carefully to ascribe meaning to the sounds.
“Le ton beau des vivants?”
“Yes, that’s how it sounded. Just like that. But if it is Erik you are after, you’re barking up the wrong tree. He never killed my daughter.”
Cardell leans forward.
“Why not?”
Colling turns sharply on her stool, her tone livid.
“That boy loved and respected Linnea Charlotta above all else, to the extent that he never even touched her when they had the run of the woods all summer, far from watching eyes, and even though she would likely have been willing. They were to be man and wife, and no obstacles were too great. I saw them reunite when he came home from his trip, and the love that shone in his eyes was of a kind I had never seen. For her sake, he had suffered greatly for many months. He would never have hurt a hair on her head.”
Emil Winge stands at the door with his gaze on the woman’s anguished features.
“Sometimes one strong emotion will transmute into another.”
She shakes her head violently.
“He was a good boy. He only wished her well.”
Cardell can’t meet her eyes, and he turns away with an expression of distaste.
“And yet blood has splashed all the way up into the chandelier above his bridal bed.”
Tears add new lines in the soot on her face.
“If Erik killed my daughter, there is no goodness in this world.”
Neither of them is able to respond to her, and they can do nothing else but leave her to burn what remains of the life she once lived.