The Forest Lake Mystery Read online

  The magistrate spoke seriously, in a rather preachy manner, like a man used to being the most important person around and the one whose word has most weight.

  Holst sat pondering about how much he should say, but decided to tell him everything.

  “I regret to say that Annie was murdered in Denmark this spring,” he said, a little slowly again, emphasising the words strongly with a subdued voice. “We found her body in a forest lake in North Zealand, naked, without any clues that could lead to the discovery of who may have killed her and it’s the investigation of this that brings me up here.”

  The magistrate leant back in his chair, a little pale in the cheeks, and shook his head.

  “So that’s the way it’s gone for Annie – poor thing, after all, she was such a grand sight.”

  “I’m telling you,” continued Holst, “because I think it would be easier for her mother coming from you. Moreover, it’s important to me to learn everything that can provide us with clues, and it seems that Annie has maintained contact with her home.”

  The magistrate was overwhelmed yet again, until it struck him that this was a serious official matter so he pulled himself together.

  “How do I know that the gentleman…” he began a little awkwardly, “you understand… I’m not doubting you, but this is a serious matter.”

  Holst smiled and took out the necessary credentials, as issued by his superiors and provided with the appropriate endorsements by the representative of the Swedish state in Copenhagen.

  The magistrate bowed deferentially before the seal and the important-sounding name. That matter had been dealt with.

  “I’d be reluctant for this case to have to go the official way through the civil servants in the local jurisdiction,” Holst resumed. “It’s a private investigation and I’ve managed to keep the matter entirely secret in Denmark. The day will in all probability come when it becomes official, but before I can point to a particular man, I’m reluctant for the case to be made public. I therefore ask you to treat it with the utmost discretion.”

  The magistrate looked like a man who could hold his tongue – and he could too. He nodded.

  “Not even my own wife will come to hear anything about this – it’s probably also right, besides being compassionate, that old Mrs Bengtson doesn’t learn how poor Annie has met her end.”

  “That is perhaps… or rather, certainly… so,” said Holst. “You have access to the correspondence and you will perhaps permit me to see the letters here in your presence.”

  The magistrate rose and went over to the writing desk at the far end of the living room.

  “They’re here – Mrs Bengtson has asked me to keep them, to prevent the neighbours’ wives and maids running off with them. She’s been expecting Annie to come by with her husband at some point and bring her glory and joy… poor thing… this will be completely different… completely.”

  The magistrate stood with a pack of letters in his hand, neatly wrapped in a newspaper and bound with a pale red ribbon.

  “You mentioned a husband,” said Holst. “Was Annie married then?”

  “Hardly, but she wouldn’t admit to her mother that she wasn’t married. Besides, she was still travelling with this Sjöström, the lieutenant from Kristianstad, and it’s possible they’d got married, although in that case he would surely have written to Annie’s mother.”

  “So Sjöström,” repeated Holst, “hasn’t written since her death?”

  “He’s never written,” said the magistrate, “but she referred to him as her husband. Could he…? No, it isn’t credible… he probably hasn’t had any reason to.”

  Holst now told the magistrate in brief what he had learnt in Kristianstad about Annie – there was little new in it for him; he already knew most of it from her letters, albeit in a somewhat different light than the one Captain Kurk had cast over it.

  Annie had been home for about six months before going to Kristianstad, after her long trip abroad during which her mother had only heard from her a few times. That was before the magistrate’s time; his father had still been alive then, and he had never forgiven Annie for her part in his son’s death and had never spoken to Mrs Bengtson. But he died shortly before Annie returned and the letters which the magistrate had were all from the time after her departure to Kristianstad. They were brief, but quite specific in content and form. Holst took them with him to peruse them and become thoroughly familiar with their content – to read them one by one to get to know Annie through her own words. But before he tackled this task, he had to join in with the family meal and accept the magistrate’s hospitable offer of shelter.

  Not a word was spoken of the case at the well-filled table in the happy circle of healthy and cheerful children, but Holst settled in well with his hosts, who offered him every delight – just not alcohol, and he could manage without that.

  It was clear that the magistrate found the stranger to be a very respectable man, someone he could use; a man of few words and yet very straightforward.

  Holst thought the same of the magistrate.

  VII

  Thirty paces from the magistrate’s fence lay a small mud-built hovel, thatched with wood chips. The door frame had previously been painted red, but the colour had bleached and the clay was full of cracks. The windows were quite small and the door was at an angle and couldn’t close properly. There was only a living room with a deep alcove and a small oven at one end by a crooked chimney. The floor consisted of stamped clay and the household effects were old and worn. In the door stood an old wicker chair, which at one time had adorned the magistrate’s large hall, and in the chair sat a little, shrunken, shaking old woman spinning at her wheel, while an old half-blind cat was purring and brushing itself up against the bent legs of the chair and two small flaxen-haired neighbour children were messing around in a puddle right next to the door.

  The old woman’s small face was furrowed with wrinkles and yellow like parchment. Her greenish-grey hair lay divided over her forehead, sparingly covering her waxy yellow crown, and an old faded cloak shrouded the back of her head where her hair had completely fallen out. The only things living in this old face were her two big blue eyes, which despite her age and weakened sight were watching the youngsters playing as trustingly as a child; a kindly old-woman look in eyes that had cried often and long, that had seen a great deal of wickedness yet always looked beyond evil towards something that was high above the clouds and wasn’t of this world.

  This was old Mrs Bengtson, sitting in the door of her shack, waiting for Annie to come home with her husband and carry her off to a glorious life in her last days.

  The magistrate went over to her after they had eaten dinner, while his guest relaxed in the garden. He thought he had better prepare the old lady for the truth, no matter how heavy it might be. It feels so strangely difficult for people whose heart is dedicated to helping others to put their trust and faith in something that isn’t true, even though the concealment of the truth might mean happiness. He walked slowly, sensing how heavy his steps were yet feeling that it was his duty.

  “Good evening, Mrs Bengtson,” he said with a nod.

  The old lady nodded back. “Good evening, Magistrate.”

  The magistrate paused for thought.

  “At last we’ve got some warm weather.”

  “What did you say?” asked the old lady.

  “I said, at last we’ve got some warm weather.”

  “We have indeed…” said the old lady, her spindle spinning.

  “A man from the south arrived here this evening – all the way from Denmark. He says it’s much worse with the heat down there.”

  “Does he now?” replied Mrs Bengtson.

  “Yes,” said the magistrate, “it’s quite a bit hotter than here, he said. Annie wrote that last year too when she was down there.”

  “Yes, she did indeed, she certainly did…” the old lady sighed.

  She went silent briefly while the spindle spun.

&n
bsp; “It’s about time she wrote again, don’t you think? Let me see, how long is it now since we last heard from her?”

  “Four months, I’d say,” said the magistrate; now he was getting close.

  “Yes, it’s about time she wrote. She’s always been so good before in writing to her old mother, Annie has.”

  “She could of course be ill,” said the magistrate.

  “She could indeed,” said the old lady, “though she’s always been healthy and strong, but it can easily happen.”

  “Indeed it can,” said the magistrate, clearing his throat.

  The old woman was silent for a while, then it was as if her thoughts had converged on what the magistrate had said about the stranger from Denmark. She seemed to be searching for words.

  “I think the magistrate said that a foreigner had arrived from Denmark,” she said hesitantly. “Well now, Denmark isn’t all that small a country, so I don’t suppose he’s seen anything of Annie if she should be down there.”

  “Yes,” said the magistrate, “he has in fact; he has seen something of Annie.”

  “How is she then?” asked old Mrs Bengtson. “Is she well?”

  “No,” said the magistrate, “I’m afraid not. She had become very ill and was in the hospital down there in a city called Copenhagen.”

  “Oh dear, and what about her husband then, that Sjöström feller, isn’t he looking after her?”

  “He’s gone south to Italy on business, I think.”

  “But surely he’s coming back to Annie if she’s ill. Is she very ill?” exclaimed Mrs Bengtson. The old lady looked at the magistrate, so unmistakeably apprehensive that it cut him right into the heart.

  “Yes,” he said, “she’s quite ill, not just a little.”

  “Oh my God,” sighed the old woman, “so Annie is ill… yes, I thought that’s why she hadn’t written. But now I’ll pray to Our Lord that little Annie might regain her health and maybe even come up here once more before I close my eyes. I’ll pray to Our Lord for that, I will.”

  “Yes, goodnight, Mrs Bengtson,” said the magistrate, “you just pray to Our Lord for Annie.”

  He didn’t feel up to saying the rest and thought it was a good thing he hadn’t mentioned it.

  He went home, leaving old Mrs Bengtson sitting at the spinning wheel, sighing and thinking of little Annie.

  VIII

  Holst retired early to a bright, beautifully furnished gable room, in which the broad, comfortable furniture, in the same style as can be found in a first-class provincial hotel, could be attributed to the host’s consideration for the comfort of his distinguished hunting guests. He sat down at a large mahogany desk in order to immediately and eagerly cast himself over Annie’s letters. It was getting dark, so he lit the lamp and read through the night; it was light before he finished reading and he went to bed under the strong influence of what he had read, while the birds in the trees outside were beginning their morning chorus. But by then he felt he had learnt all he could from the letters. In all, there were over sixty of them, spread over a period extending from Christmas 1897 to March 1902. Some of them were without interest; they were almost all short, quite well-written and contained small pieces of information about Annie’s life or short greetings accompanied by small contributions of money. They were completely chronologically arranged, in line with the magistrate’s highly pronounced sense of order, according to which he was also accustomed to arranging discharge papers and servant references, numbered consecutively so that he could quickly find the most important ones. It was apparent that some of the more significant letters had been read out frequently to old Mrs Bengtson; it was very clear that these bore traces of often being taken out to comfort the old woman in the long winter evenings when she needed to hear something from her only child. There was a small note on the top of the package, where the magistrate had written numbers, such as: no. 16, letter about Little Elsa’s death; no. 30, Christmas celebration in Paris; no. 43, about Annie’s husband – and so on.

  The most important letters gave excellent, sequential information about Annie’s eventful life and Holst decided to make copies of them for use in the investigation. The individual ones of the greatest significance read thus:

  Dear Mum,

  I hope you have a merry Christmas if you’re healthy enough.

  Little Elsa and I are going to spend Christmas with Mrs Karlkvist in Västragatan. Elsa has sewn a warm cloak for you, which I hope will arrive with the post, along with a shawl I bought for you. I have sent 10 kroner to the magistrate. It isn’t much, but I’m not earning very much. The money that the Captain pays for Elsa goes mostly to her clothes and schooling, because she needs a good upbringing, which as you already know has been decided. She’s very bright and quite healthy, although a bit on the weak side, but that’s probably something to do with her upbringing and will no doubt get better on its own. It’s very lonely here, because I don’t really want to see people, and I don’t think many people know me here, which can only be a good thing. There have been some orders up to Christmas but people don’t come to me much and I’m not one for going round to customers, as you probably know. When I get more money, I’ll send you more, my dear Mum.

  So have a merry Christmas,

  From Elsa and your loving daughter Annie.

  Dear Mum,

  Elsa has been pretty poorly and can hardly go to school. The doctor says there’s something wrong with her chest, but we’re hoping for the best. So I can’t send any money, because medicine and the doctor are expensive and have to be paid. The Captain came by yesterday, you know him, the one who sends the money for Elsa, but I didn’t talk to him because as you know I don’t want to. I heard him asking Mrs Karlkvist if I was behaving properly and that she said yes, which is true, though God knows that you don’t get much for that, but I will do what you said for Elsa’s sake, so that she can be well brought up and get herself a good man when that time comes. For myself, I don’t think there’s going to be any more, and that doesn’t really matter because I know men and I don’t expect anything good from them. However, he did seem to want to do something to make Elsa well, whether it was because he had a twinge of conscience about Cedersköld, or thought that Cedersköld had been hard on us, I don’t know. Now I have to go in to Elsa and can’t write any more.

  Dear Mum,

  Elsa is very ill – the doctor says it’s very dangerous, but I can’t believe it because if Elsa should die, then nothing would matter any more and what would be the point of it all? The Captain hasn’t been here since last time, so I went to him but didn’t meet him because he didn’t want to. He has a young lieutenant called Sjöström, who is very kind to me. I don’t think he knows anything about it, but he received me well and gave me twenty kroner so I can send you ten. I am totally in despair and can’t do any sewing at all. And I had thought that since I just wanted to live a decent life, everything would go well, but it doesn’t. I’m very distressed and can’t write any more.

  Dear Mum,

  Elsa will never recover, the doctor has said so. She is so sweet and good and lies so quietly and says her prayers, but I can see from looking at her that she probably knows she’s going to die, because sometimes she looks at me with such big eyes and says, Mum! Do you think it’s so bad to die and do you think you just come to Our Lord? And what should I answer, because I’m sure I don’t know anything about it, but there’s a nurse that the Captain has sent and she knows better because I’m at my wits’ end and only know two old hymns, which I sometimes sing to her. But it’s very sad. Yesterday I wrote to ask him if he would come by because Elsa was probably dying. But he probably won’t. The Captain neither. Well, it isn’t his child either, even though he has promised the other one to be there for her instead of the father, but people are cruel, and the eternal God knows it. That time, I couldn’t help it, because I didn’t want to harm anyone, and it was his own fault anyway, but now it’s no use.

  Dear Mum,

  Elsa died
tonight. She had become so little and so thin and so transparent, and when she died it was like when a light goes out. I sat alone with her, she couldn’t say anything but just looked at me with such big eyes, and then she looked like her father, so I thought of him, I never usually think of him nowadays. Because I still firmly believe that it was his child, and not Cedersköld’s as I have said. But now that Elsa is dead, I will testify to God, as I testified when I tried to pray to Him that she may live and I die if it had to be, that I was innocent and that it was him who misled me and caused me such pain so that everything else followed. And now God has taken his child as he took his wife, if it was God who did it, because God couldn’t be part of such an act as the one which certainly took place there. God knows everything, they say, but although it’s a sin to say it, Mum, I don’t believe in God, because he wouldn’t be so cruel and evil to us poor people. I wish I was dead, but I have to live, because I’m no use to anyone, and we were all so happy for Elsa, but she had to die. Oh Mum, I’m so unhappy that I could walk out into the lake, but it’s as if Dad appears to me and it’s so terrifying if it should be true about the hereafter. Because Elsa believed she’d come to Our Lord, which she must do, as good and loving as she was, if there was any justice. I cry and cry and can only cry…

  There was a long gap between this letter and the next. It was dated 8th June, 1898, and read as follows:

  Dear Mum, so that was that birthday. Yes, you haven’t heard from me for such a long time, because at first, I was sick after Elsa’s death, and then so much happened which there’s no point in writing about. But I’m well and earning a lot of money in my work for some good customers. I grieved so much, you know, but then I was still young, and God’s will must be done. People are evil enough, but there are good ones in amongst them, and Lieutenant Sjöström is good to me. Not in that way, I’ll never do that again, because now I want to be a good girl, and now I have no child any more for people to talk about. I haven’t heard any more from him, but I get the money anyway. It’s not much – if I wasn’t earning well, it wouldn’t actually be any help whatsoever, but now I’m sending you 50 kroner so you can buy something nice for yourself, my sweet Mum.