The Forest Lake Mystery Read online

  This small railway station acts as the central square of the small town. Every time you stop there, you seem to see the same faces and it all becomes a bit humdrum, as if all the local men of note have agreed to meet at the same place at the same time, where a six foot ‘guard’ with a flaxen military moustache walks majestically up and down the platform, calling out, alerting people – and bowing to the upper classes and the especially generous travelling salesmen – and then suddenly, as if impelled by a higher power, starts bellowing:

  “Train to Hässleholm, train to Lund, train to Billeberga, train to Klippan, train to Ystad, train to Kristianstad.”

  And the Trolles, Bondes and Hamiltons nod to each other while the Perssons and the Lindkvists wipe the last drops of Wolke’s punch off their bristling moustaches and take their seats – in first and second class respectively in the mainline trains or in first class ‘private’, because on the private line trains, Trolle and Persson are merged into a common travel unit and get along just fine.

  The guard signalled the train to Kristianstad and Eigil Holst took his seat in a broad, comfortably equipped first-class compartment, while the bell tolled and the aforementioned ‘snorting steam horse’ began to move, foaming at the bit.

  The train slipped out from the station, first along the broad, royally approved, glorious stretch of the mainline, before swinging to the north-east past fields where large granite stones seemed to be projecting out of the womb of the earth as if representing the only thing it could provide, past the red, medieval, towering walls of Skarhult Castle, before meandering through cultivated fields near Kristineberg to the banks of a glorious lake, Ringsjön, where the Beck-Friises’ magnificent old Bosjö Abbey peered out between green trees across the sparkling lake.

  Holst sat by the window and looked out over the smiling countryside where castles and cottages lay in the sunshine by fertile fields and meadows. Without bothering about names and places, he just took in impressions which were entirely fresh and new and didn’t bring any old thoughts to mind – nor initiate any new.

  They were purely reflective travel impressions, where one only sees but doesn’t think.

  Opposite him sat a small, elderly gentleman, clearly a former military man, slightly balding, but as stiff as a Prussian and swaying as if on a steel spring, ready to shoot out some information, but too ceremonial to tilt forward before a question triggered the spring.

  He amused Holst – but Holst held his tongue. At Hørby Station, the spring failed to function and, as the train rolled on, the little man raised himself in his seat.

  “The gentleman is Danish, I believe?” he asked respectfully.

  Holst nodded.

  “Been in Sweden before?”

  Holst had not. The elderly gentleman, on the other hand, had been in Copenhagen countless times. He mentioned a dozen different cafés, unsullied memories that sparked a little twinkle in his slightly bloodshot eyes and galloped past a dozen well-known names until Holst took compassion on him and said he knew a Colonel someone-or-other who was his companion’s most intimate friend.

  Eventually Holst had to come out with his profession and his lieutenant title gave the steel spring the final crack. The Swede swung back and introduced himself with great congeniality as a former Lieutenant in the Vendes artillery regiment, Bror Sjöström by name.

  Holst bowed with honour and had now acquired a friend in Scania. The landscape changed while Ringsjön disappeared in the distance, the track climbed over pine-clad hills and ridges, while the train rolled up at numerous small stations where blond Trolles and Hamiltons passed the compartment with a rudimentary nod.

  “G’day, sir…”

  Sjöström knew them all.

  He took the time to say a little about each one, while pointing out over the district and mentioning the names of proud lineages and magnificent stately homes. Holst didn’t recognise any of them and received the speech in the same way as the changing images, without reacting. They were now approaching Karpalund, a junction shortly before Kristianstad. Lieutenant Sjöström bent towards the window.

  “Over there the Lieutenant can see Gammalstorp, a beautiful little property with some forest and several farms.”

  Holst nodded.

  “It belongs to a good friend of mine, Claes Ankerkrone,” continued Sjöström, “that is, the old man is still living in Denmark somewhere – a charming old chap – former Captain of Horse, with a daughter – one of the most beautiful girls you could possibly imagine.”

  Holst nodded mutely.

  “Monsieur Claes is a lively lad, a handsome, charming friend, married to a sickly English wife, and hard to keep under control. There was gossip about him last winter – his father had to intervene.”

  It was uncomfortable for Holst to hear this stranger talking about Ankerkrone.

  “I know the family…” he interrupted a little sharply.

  There was a pause.

  But Sjöström couldn’t hold back for long. He continued, as if cautiously feeling his way forward.

  “The Lieutenant knows the Ankerkrones from Copenhagen?”

  “Yes,” replied Holst abruptly.

  “Very pleasant people – exceedingly pleasant people, and especially since the Captain – but…”

  Holst was a little unsure as to whether he should interrupt or listen. He decided to let himself be informed; all things considered, his acquaintanceship with Ankerkrone was completely one-sided and it could be quite interesting to hear about him from one of his own countrymen.

  Holst turned to his companion.

  “But…?” he asked hesitantly.

  The Swede was equally hesitant.

  “Is the Lieutenant very familiar with Captain Ankerkrone?”

  Holst smiled.

  “No more so than that you could put him in the frame for the assassination of McKinley, if you wanted to. It would be most interesting for me to hear what a dreadful person conceals himself behind his charming exterior.”

  Sjöström looked up seriously.

  “So you’ve heard?”

  “Not a word,” continued Holst calmly.

  His companion lowered his voice.

  “Well you see, the matter’s so generally well-known, everyone’s talking about it here in Scania, otherwise I would need God’s protection for talking about the matter, but as I said, it’s public enough. Captain Ankerkrone was, as the Lieutenant knows, serving with the Scania dragoons; he’s never been really wealthy but was quite prosperous and married an Italian lady quite early in life, a Countess Cassini, who was very beautiful, quite extraordinarily beautiful, in fact. I remember her so clearly from the Amaranthe balls in Malmö and from parties at the manor houses in these parts. At that time, I was a young lieutenant and spent quite a lot of time at Gammalstorp – it must be around twenty years ago now, I suppose. Let me see… Claes is twenty-six… and Ulla… is eight years younger. That’s about right. Then Mrs Ankerkrone died suddenly – after a ball at Araslöv, the large manor house you can see down there by the woods.

  “The Captain took it very hard apparently, since he travelled south – his wife was a native of Venice – and the children stayed with his sister, the old spinster Miss Ulla Ankerkrone, who now lives in Trelleborg. Shortly afterwards, one of our regiment’s most dashing lieutenants, Baron Cedersköld, died. He’d gone to Italy at about the same time as Ankerkrone. Rumour has drawn a connection between the two deaths. I’m telling you this only because the story is already so public. But many voices were raised to have Mrs Ankerkrone disinterred. The servants claimed emphatically that very moving scenes had taken place between the Captain and his wife. After the wife’s death, it was established with tolerable certainty that an intimate relationship had existed between Cedersköld and the deceased but, as always when it comes to important people, the authorities turned a deaf ear. The case was never cleared up. Nor did we get to know the circumstances of Cedersköld’s demise. Some people said he’d fallen in a duel with an Italian o
fficer; others that he’d duelled with Ankerkrone somewhere in the Tyrol, but this surely can’t be true. The majority believe that he was quite simply murdered, pushed off a cliff at Ferdinandshöhe near Bozen. It was never cleared up. Ankerkrone returned after a few years, but he never again took up residence at Gammalstorp; he mostly lived in Copenhagen and is said to be there still. He never comes here.”

  Holst sat listening quietly. When the Swede had finished speaking, he smiled.

  “And you believe this story?”

  “Goodness only knows,” replied his companion. “It’s so long ago now, but people say Ankerkrone is in some ways quite different to how he was in the past. I haven’t seen him for many years. The daughter is said to be very beautiful and resembles her mother.”

  Holst remained silent.

  The train was approaching Kristianstad.

  “Where should one stay?” asked Holst.

  “The Masonic Hotel,” said Sjöström immediately, “the most beautiful and most comfortable house in the whole of Scania. I always stay there myself, and if the Lieutenant has some time available, I would be pleased to do the honours on behalf of my old garrison town.”

  Having a man who was so familiar with the town struck Holst as being a rather practical solution and since his companion, with typical Swedish tact, hadn’t posed a single question to him about his business, he decided to keep access open to anything the chance encounter could offer; if, for example, difficulties should arise in investigating the young girl from Kristianstad, whom he had christened Annie Carlson and whom he in his musings always referred to by that name.

  II

  There is a characteristic look about the façades of buildings in small Swedish towns that has an immediate effect. If one stays in such a town for a while, one soon realises that there is nothing that differs from our own small Danish towns, which is hardly surprising as it is a mere two hundred years or so since Denmark had to cede sovereignty of the area to the Swedish crown. For the visitor, they are just as hopelessly dull as Bogense or Ebeltoft, but the look is more elegant and the food is better. This applies to most small Swedish towns and it applies to a singular degree to Kristianstad. The town lies on the River Helge where, on its meandering from the highlands of Småland near Alvesta, it widens into the lake known as Hammarsjön; when approaching from the south-west, the highlands to the north-east give the impression of mountains behind a broad plain and the town is quite splendidly located with its canals and copses. Its old church was built by Christian IV of Denmark. Legend informs us that this was because of a dream that the gracious monarch had on a hunt when he stopped for a rest on that spot; if Christian IV really dreamt or not must be left as an open question, but the church stands there, looking so much like Holmen’s Church in Copenhagen that the people of that city instinctively look for the Stock Exchange and the statues of Tordenskjold and the mounted King Frederik VII in front of the castle ruins.

  Instead of those famous buildings, we must make do with Kronhuset, situated magnificently on a square with cannons deployed and where the Scanian High Court resides. Alongside are the barracks of the Vendes artillery regiment and the residence of the provincial governor with its slender columns, in addition to a sizeable number of public buildings and the masonic lodge which rules its side of the square – broad, powerful and rich in good food and Swedish punch.

  As previously mentioned, all together it gives the impression of a large city – particularly the Masonic Hotel which boldly dares to compete with major European city hotels, and where the Scanian nobility and officers of the Vendes artillery regiment contribute mightily to maintaining the illusion, which a glance at the rest of the rather quiet population in the county capital otherwise quickly destroys.

  The impression doesn’t last for someone who, after an excellent meal at the hotel, wanders out into the town, which, as suggested, quickly sinks back into modest rural restraint. Its proud buildings become simple details and all that remains in the memory is the glorious Christian IV who dreamt godly dreams, Hr. Gustafschiöld, born Abraham Hellichius, who together with King Gustav III of Sweden put his foot down with the Swedish estates, and the sad event a few years ago, when a specially hired train removed the Scanian Enskilda Bank with its cash in gold from Kristianstad, under the noses of its hungry citizens and indebted warriors, and took the reserves which the bank owned to Helsingborg.

  The main street is called Västra Storgatan, but in no. 17 there was no A. Vikander, the supplier of the garter Annie had worn and the direct reason for Holst’s trip to Kristianstad.

  This was the next disappointment he experienced and it affected him more deeply than the town’s, in his eyes, fading grandeur. Not only was A. Vikander not in Västra Storgatan, but there was no one of that name among the town’s drapers.

  This detail was of course quite unimportant, because even if Mr Vikander had been sitting in 17 Västra Storgatan in the best of health, selling his garters and enjoying his glass of Carlshamn punch, he would hardly have been able to remember the particular young lady who had bought garters off him that Holst was interested in.

  Upon closer reflection, however, Holst realised that the fact that A. Vikander was no more might be just as interesting and lead to indications about time that could further the investigation. It was a given that Mr Vikander had participated with honour in the Stockholm Exhibition in 1897 – so he must have been alive then. Now that he no longer existed, it was possible that termination of his existence could yield an important moment for the determination of who she had been.

  Holst managed to learn that Mr A. Vikander had certainly lived and been an esteemed and distinguished citizen of the good town, but one year after the exhibition in Stockholm, he had died under such circumstances that the priest in Christian IV’s magnificent church in Kristianstad could legitimately have repeated Anders Sørensen Vedel’s memorable words at the funeral of that king’s father: If the late-lamented gentleman’s favour had been less devoted to the enjoyment of strong drinks, which was unfortunately beyond all common measure etc. etc. – and that one of the contributing reasons for the omission of this mild reproach was probably that Mr A. Vikander, as well as the late-lamented Frederick II incidentally, was hardly a unique case among the brave citizens of Kristianstad.

  He had, however, died in 1898 and the business dissolved the same year.

  Now part of Mr A. Vikander’s stock of garters – not least in the light of the honour that had been bestowed on these useful articles in 1897 – could indeed have been transferred to his descendants, but these people would in all probability have taken the opportunity to link their own name as soon as possible to the distinguished article and it proved on closer examination that the excellent garter was in fact being sold as a patented article by a Mr Lindkvist in Arsenalsgatan, who had provided the original brand with the addition: Exclusive distribution by Oscar Lindkvist, 5 Arsenalsgatan, Kristianstad.

  Holst was thus left with the hypothesis of 1898 or the autumn of ’97 as the date and decided to try to ascertain whether, in the world that was enjoying life in Kristianstad in these years, there had been a young lady by the name of Annie, possibly Carlson.

  To enquire further, he could have turned to the local authorities, but it seemed easier to him in this respect to use his travelling companion, and especially the latter’s connection with the honourable Vendes artillery regiment, in that he reasoned that a lady like poor Annie, in the full spring of her youth, would probably have been known to the regiment’s young men and that their memories might be both brighter and richer in content than those of the local police.

  Lieutenant Sjöström and Holst had agreed to dine together, and Sjöström had held out the prospect of a visit to the regimental establishments, so Holst decided quite calmly to bide his time and take that opportunity to make enquiries. To pass the time he went for a walk in the area and before long had taken in the whole town. His thoughts turned back automatically to North Zealand and the Ankerkron
e family, and he had to admit that Sjöström’s tale of family drama had made quite an impression on him.

  He had become fond of the Captain, whose fine, sympathetic mentality had immediately fallen in with his, but he couldn’t deny that, properly speaking, it couldn’t be excluded that Captain Ankerkrone had good reason for spending the last years of his life in a foreign country, far from his ancestral estate. However, it seemed unlikely to Holst that he would have murdered his wife in jealousy, but it was evident from his own words and his bearing that he had lived through a grief that was more serious than usual. It struck Holst that Ulla had never talked about her mother, but little by little individual traits appeared that made it more than likely that there was a so-called skeleton in the Ankerkrone cupboard and that this skeleton was the mysterious event that was associated with her mother’s death.

  As always, one thought led to another and, almost against his will, Holst was led to a series of reflections on the Captain’s remarks on the occasion of the discovery of the corpse, and in particular on the examinations that had determined murder by poison, which admittedly could have been completely natural, but with reference to Sjöström’s tale – that is, to the local gossip – took on a deeper, more troubling character.

  These thoughts were gaining increasing ground in Holst, attaching themselves more strongly to the picture of the fine, handsome gentleman and leaving an involuntary stamp on this picture, so it wasn’t such a big step from there to Holst making his final decision that, when time permitted, he would spend it investigating this other mysterious death and try to penetrate the events that had accompanied it.

  For the time being, it was important to find Annie Carlson’s murderer, but first and foremost to prise out everything that could cast greater clarity on who she had been.