Satellite People (13 page)

A gentle smile crept over her wrinkled face when she replied.

‘Now I am thinking the same as you. In other words, how on earth does this all make sense and who on earth put the powdered nuts on my brother’s plate? And what is going to happen to
those of us who are left?’

Then she stood as well. I wanted to ask her something, but could not think of a meaningful question. And to my irritation I realized that I still could not work out what it was about her that
had changed since we last met. I was left with the feeling that the older Miss Schelderup was not only a wiser woman than she might at first seem, but that she also knew more than she was
saying.

I had been sitting on my own in the room for a couple of minutes when there was a sharp knock on the door, and in came Sandra Schelderup. She had come to apologize for her earlier outburst,
saying that the situation was obviously difficult and extremely emotional. She also wanted to ask if there was anything more she could do to help me.

I had a couple of questions about relevant details. I asked when the dogs had come the year before and who was responsible for tethering them. She replied promptly and without any fuss that her
husband had bought the dogs in the middle of summer. She had known nothing about them until they stood barking at the steps. She, her husband and one trusted servant were the only ones who knew the
dogs well enough to handle them. Everyone else, including Maria Irene, kept out of their way.

I soon understood that there was something she wanted to tell me, but had no idea what. So I eventually asked whether she had any new thoughts, in light of the day’s events. She beamed and
replied that one thought had struck her with renewed force. Given that Magdalon’s son, Leonard, and his mistress both had so much to gain from his death, and that he pointed to his son
shortly before he died . . . And that, as we knew, his mistress was pregnant, even though Magdalon had been convinced that he could no longer have children . . . Well, then perhaps it was not so
unthinkable that maybe they were in a relationship and had conspired together?

She admitted that it was perhaps no more than wishful thinking on her part. But maybe it was worth looking into all the same.

I did not like Sandra Schelderup any the better for this, but had to admit that her theory was not something that could be ignored. But I disliked her a little less when she once again
apologized for her display of temperament, before adding that she and her daughter would now leave the case in my safe hands. They were certain that I would manage to solve the apparently
inexplicable murder mystery. Her husband had no doubt known what he was doing when he contacted me. He had followed the case regarding Harald Olesen’s murder day by day and had sung my
praises at its conclusion. I must of course just call or drop in at any time should I have any more questions.

We finished the conversation by exchanging a few words about the continued police presence at Schelderup Hall. We quickly agreed that a police constable would remain on guard that night but
would be allowed to leave the next day, unless anything unexpected happened that might give cause for concern. Sandra Scheldeup promised to call me straight away if she remembered anything that
might be of importance and dutifully wrote down my telephone numbers in case she needed to get in touch quickly.

At ten past five, I slowly descended the stairs that led to the front door. My progression was slow, partly because the situation had given me a lot to think about, but mainly because I hoped
that I might bump into Maria Irene.

And this, it turned out, was not difficult. She came out of one of the side doors on the ground floor just as I reached the bottom of the stairs. It was of course no coincidence that I was
walking slowly down the stairs or that she came out into the hall at that moment. I think we both understood that the moment we stood face to face. Neither of us had anything in particular to say,
so it was a brief, pleasant encounter. She also assured me that she had full confidence in my investigative skills and dutifully noted down my telephone numbers in case she needed to contact
me.

I took the liberty of commenting on how impressed I was with the maturity she had shown in the face of such disappointment, given the strange story of the two wills. She replied that she of
course wished it had been otherwise, but that 25–35 million was still an extraordinarily fortunate start in life for a young woman.

I was uncertain as to whether or not to give her a hug when we parted, but wisely offered a firm hand instead. I noticed her mother standing like a silent statue a few feet away from the top of
the stairs. There was now no doubt in my mind that I liked the daughter better than the mother. I still had conflicting feelings for the daughter, but had to confess to a growing fascination for
the beautiful and serene young woman.

I had an hour-long stopover at my office prior to departing for Patricia’s, but all I did was sit there looking through the case documents without becoming any the wiser. The mysterious
letter that had arrived in the morning post lay on top. At half past five, I put it and the other papers in my briefcase. If I had not already needed advice and illuminating comments from Patricia,
I certainly did now that I had received the letter. Unless somehow there was a rather well-informed and sardonic joker behind it, the letter entailed not only a sarcastic dig at the police, but
also a threat of more murders.

The faces of the ten guests who had sat round the table at Magdalon Schelderup’s last meal and during the reading of the will flicked through my mind as I drove to Erling
Skjalgsson’s Street. It was not clear to me which of them might have written the letter, or who the letter’s threatening last line might be referring to.

X

After my experiences that day and the growing sense of unease at Schelderup Hall, it was a pleasure to enter the familiar and safe surroundings of 104–8 Erling
Skjalgsson’s Street. The rooms were just as spacious and the stairs just as long as I remembered from the year before. Patricia’s father, Professor Director Ragnar Sverre Borchmann, was
just as impressive and reliable but, if possible, even friendlier, when I met him at the front door. Either he had not been told about Patricia’s stressful experience during the dramatic
conclusion of the murder case she assisted me with the year before, or he was doing an extremely good job of pretending to have forgotten.

Once again he informed me that he had not seen his daughter as alive as she had been during and after last year’s investigation since the accident that had left her paralysed from the
waist down. She was now already showing the same keen interest in the mystery surrounding the murder of Magdalon Schelderup and he had high hopes that she might be able to give me valuable advice.
I thanked him heartily for letting his daughter be involved with the investigation, and he shook my hand for the third time when we parted. His goodwill had been rather a surprise. Talking to
Professor Director Ragnar Sverre Borchman always took time, even when you said very little yourself. It was already a quarter past six and the starter was on the table when the maid showed me into
the library with a small understanding smile.

To my enormous relief, Patricia appeared to be unaffected by the strain that last year’s events had put on her nerves. She sat radiant by the table, ready to hold court, and showed no sign
of having taken up smoking again as she had in the final stages of the our first case. The air was clean and Patricia’s face was as bright as the summer sun. I could neither see nor hear any
changes in the now nineteen-year-old Patricia, compared with the eighteen-year-old with whom I had shared ten intense days of investigation the year before. The pile of books she was reading at the
moment included a detective story by the American author Rex Stout, a Russian book with several chessboard diagrams on the front cover and a thick English book about the great battles of the First
and Second World Wars.

As had been the case when we first met, we made no attempt to shake hands. Now that I was once again in the middle of a murder case, it felt quite natural to be sitting here, asking for
advice.

Patricia listened with intense concentration and made copious notes, while I used the time it took for us to eat the asparagus soup and half the beef tenderloin to tell her about the day’s
events. As was her wont, she listened patiently until I had finished my account of the facts of the case. She finished her last slice of tenderloin and washed it down with a glass of iced water,
deep in thought. And then she took off at speed.

‘First of all, I should congratulate you on another good day’s work. The case is clearly very complicated, but you have already managed to draw out an impressive amount of
information that answers a number of my questions.’

She pointed casually to the detective novel in the pile of books.

‘Your talents are indeed greater than those of Archie Goodwin in Rex Stout’s novels. So I for my part, despite being well under half the size, will have to try to surpass Nero
Wolfe’s ability to spot brilliant connections without physically leaving the safety of my home.’

Despite Goodwin’s popularity with the opposite sex, I was not entirely happy with the comparison. Nor was I comfortable with being reminded of what had happened, or what could easily have
happened, when I persuaded Patricia to leave the safety of her home for a few hours during the last case. So I hastened to ask what she had to say about the case so far.

All of a sudden, Patricia became very serious.

‘That this case is not likely to be any easier to solve than the last one, but that it may be even more gruesome. Although many things from Harald Olesen’s past were revealed in the
course of the investigation, this Magdalon Schelderup already appears to be a man with some very unsympathetic sides – indeed, a man who might therefore leave an even more indelible mark on
the people around him. We are obviously dealing with a rather unique murder in terms of Norwegian criminal history. I am starting to believe that we are also talking about a remarkable murder
victim, for better or worse, but mainly for worse. So my first observation is that we will find an exceptionally strong connection between the murder and the victim’s life and personality. It
is far too early to have an opinion as to who might have put the powdered nuts in his food. I can imagine several options that would imply that all ten guests could be murderers.’

I nodded and ventured something myself.

‘I have also thought that there are similarities between this case and last year’s, and that your human fly concept could also apply to several of the potential murderers
here.’

Patricia shook her head thoughtfully.

‘Yes, that’s true, but I would be inclined to say rather that we are dealing with ten
satellite people
.’

She smiled at my confusion and quickly continued.

‘I’m so sorry, without thinking I used a term that I coined myself and have used so frequently since that I forget it is not an established concept for other people . . . Human flies
are people who have experienced something so dramatic, not to say traumatic, that they continue to hover and fly round this event from the past for decades. Satellite people are very similar, but
not quite the same. They are individuals who for whatever reason move in a more or less fixed orbit round another person. It is a phenomenon that can be found in many relationships and at all
levels of society. For example, it might be a kind mother who even when she is a very old lady herself continues to circle round a sick child, or a son who though grown still gives his all to his
father. It could easily be argued that our longest-serving prime minister Einar Gerhertsen’s editor brother was a kind of satellite person to his sibling. And the wife of the current leader
of the Labour Party, our next prime minister, also only orbits her husband.’

I noted that Patricia obviously knew a lot about Norwegian politics, but was keener to hear her explain the relevance of this new concept to the investigation. I did not have to wait long.

‘The phenomenon is in fact particularly evident in the wealthy upper classes, as is the case here. Many strong and powerful people, intentionally or unintentionally, encourage other people
to orbit them like satellites. Magdalon Schelderup was undoubtedly such a person, and obviously had nothing against it. As a result, these ten guests have moved round him in their various
individual orbits for years. And now it would appear that one of the satellites has broken loose from its path in a very dramatic fashion and crashed into the planet it was orbiting. This has
sparked a highly unpredictable situation. All the fixed orbits have been broken and chaos threatens a universe that has lost its centre point and organizing force.’

Now I understood the relevance of the concept. Patricia caught the fascination on my face and smiled.

‘As you see now, a little knowledge of geophysics can be useful in an investigation. Though things are possibly somewhat simpler down here on earth. There are also examples of countries
where millions of people continue to circle round one dominating person for decades and decades. One can only wonder what will happen to a country like Yugoslavia, where the pull of ethnicity and
religion is so strong, the day that Tito is no longer there as the unifying force. My guess is the country will no longer exist twenty years after his death.’

Much as I found Patricia’s predictions for the future of Yugoslavia fascinating, if somewhat exaggerated and utopian, I was at that moment impatient to get on with my murder
investigation.

‘So, you believe that even Petter Johannes Wendelboe is nothing more than a satellite person?’

Patricia smiled.

‘Fair point. Petter Johannes Wendelboe is definitely a big enough character to be his own planet, independent of Magdalon Schelderup. But he has chosen to stay in his orbit year after year
all the same. And he took his place at all these Sunday meals. The question as to why is therefore of great interest. Do you have any suggestions?’