Echoes From the Dead (25 page)

“You! With the cap!”

The boy stops. He looks around suspiciously, and Nils cautiously stands and waves to him. “Over here.”

The boy changes course and takes a few steps toward the

bush. He stands there staring at Nils, without saying a word.

“Do you work here at the sawmill?” asks Nils.

The boy nods proudly. “It’s my first summer.”

His voice very nearly cracks, and he speaks with the Smaland dialect.

“Good,” says Nils. He is making a real effort to sound calm

and friendly. “I need some help. I want you to fetch August Kant.

I need to talk to him.”

“The boss?” asks the boy in surprise.

“August Kant, the boss, that’s right,” says Nils. He holds the boy’s gaze and extends his hand to show that he is holding a whole onekrona coin between his fingers. “Tell him Nils is here. Go to the office and tell the boss he has to come.”

The errand boy nods, without any reaction to the name Nils,

and quickly grabs the coin. Then he turns away, without any great hurry. He pushes the coin deep into his pocket.

Nils breathes out and settles back down behind the bush.

That’s it, everything will be all right now. His uncle will look after him, hide him until everything has calmed down. No doubt he’ll have to stay out of the way here in Smaland for the rest of the summer, but he’ll just have to put up with that.

He has to wait again, for far too long. At last he hears steps approaching the barn. Nils raises his head, smiling, and takes a step forwardbut it isn’t his Uncle August. It’s just the boy with the cap again.

Nils looks at him. “Wasn’t he in the office … the boss?” he asks.

“Yes.” The boy nods. “But he doesn’t want to come.”

“Doesn’t want to?” says Nils uncomprehendingly.

“I’m to give you this,” says the boy.

He is holding a small white envelope in his hand.

Nils takes it, turns his back on the boy, then opens it.

There is no letter in the envelope, just three bills. Three onehundredkrona bills, folded up.

Nils closes the envelope and spins around.

“Was that all?” he asks.

The boy nods.

“The boss didn’t say anything… He didn’t send a message?

The boy shakes his head. “Just the letter.”

Nils lowers his eyes and stares at the bills.

Money, that’s all he got. Money to get away, and it’s a very clear message.

His uncle doesn’t want anything to do with him.

He sighs and looks up again, but the boy is gone. Nils catches a glimpse of him as he disappears around the corner of the barn.

Nils is alone again. He’ll have to manage on his own.

So he has to get away. Where to?

Away from the coast, first and foremost. After that, something will turn up.

Nils looks around. The insects are humming, the scent of lilac fills the air. Everything is green, the dark rich green of summer. To the northeast he can see a little strip of blue water.

He will come back. They might be able to chase him away

right now, but he will return. Oland is his island.

Nils looks at the water for one last time, then turns and strides back into the safety of the fir trees in the forest.

A broad path made of large limestone slabs led up to Martin

Malm’s big white house; Julia looked at the building and thought of Vera Kant’s house in Stenvik. It was about the same size, but of course this one had been painted and was well looked after, and somebody lived here. But who lit a candle in Vera Kant’s house late at night? Julia couldn’t stop wonderinghad she really seen the light at the window?

She held on to Gerlof’s arm as they opened the heavy iron

gate and made their way over the rough stones. Maybe he was

supporting her as much as she was supporting him, thought Julia, because she was feeling nervous now.

For her, this was a meeting with Jens’s murderer. If Martin

Malm had definitely sent the sandal, then he must be the murdererwhatever reservations Gerlof might have.

The path stopped at steps leading up to a broad mahogany

door with an iron nameplate that said malm. In the middle of the door beneath a small stained glass window was a bell, shaped like a little key.

Gerlof looked at Julia. “Ready?”

Julia nodded, and reached out toward the bell.

“Just one more thing,” said Gerlof. “Martin had a brain hemorrhage quite a few years ago. He has good days and less good days, more or less like I do. If this is a good day, we can talk to him.

“Okay,” said Julia, her heart pounding.

She twisted the bell and a muted but prolonged ringing could be heard from inside the house.

A shadow appeared behind the glass panel after a moment,

and the door opened.

A young woman was standing in front of them. She was small

and blonde and slightly wary.

“Hello,” she said.

“Good afternoon,” said Gerlof. “Is Martin home?”

“Yes,” said the girl, “but I don’t think he”

“We’re good friends,” said Gerlof quickly. “My name’s Gerlof Davidsson. From Stenvik. And this is my daughter. We wanted to call on Martin.”

“Okay,” said the girl. “I’ll check.”

“Could we come into the warmth in the meantime?” asked

Gerlof.

“Of course.”

The girl stepped back.

Julia helped Gerlof over the threshold and across the marble floor of the hallway. It was spacious, with dark wooden panels on the wall, showing off framed photographs of old and modern ships. Three doors led off into the house, and a wide staircase led to the upper floor.

“Are you a relative of Martin’s?” asked Gerlof when they had closed the front door behind them.

“I’m a nurse from Kalmar,” the girl said, shaking her head

and walking toward the middle door.

She opened it and Julia tried to see what lay beyond, but there was a dark curtain on the other side.

She and Gerlof remained where they were, in silence, as if

the big house with its closed doors didn’t invite conversation.

Everything was as hushed and solemn as in a churchbut when

Julia listened carefully she thought she could hear someone moving about upstairs.

The middle door opened and the nurse came back out.

“Martin isn’t feeling too well today,” she told them quietly.

“I’m sorry. He’s tired.”

“Oh dear,” said Gerlof. “That’s a shame. We haven’t seen

each other for several years.”

“You can come back another time,” said the nurse.

Gerlof nodded. “We’ll do that. But we’ll call first.”

He was moving backwards toward the front door, and Julia

reluctantly went with him.

Outside the air seemed even colder than before, Julia thought.

She walked beside Gerlof in silence, opened the iron gate, and then looked back at the big house.

She could see a pale face staring at her through one of the

broad windows on the upper floor. It was an elderly woman,

standing up there and gazing intently down at them through the window.

Julia opened her mouth to ask if Gerlof recognized the woman, but he was already at the car. She had to move quickly to get the door open for him.

When she looked at the house again, the woman at the window

had vanished.

Gerlof settled into his seat and looked at his watch.

“Half past one,” he said. “Maybe we should get something

to eat. Then we need to pop down to the liquor store. I promised some of my neighbors at the home I’d make a few purchases. Is that okay?”

Julia got behind the wheel.

“Alcohol is a poison,” she said.

They ate the pasta dish of the day at one of the few restaurants in Borgholm that was open during the winter. The dining room was almost empty, but when Julia tried to get Gerlof to discuss the visit to Martin Malm, he just shook his head and concentrated on the food. Afterward he insisted on paying, then they went off to the liquor store, where Gerlof bought two bottles of schnapps flavored with wormwood, a bottle of advocaat, and six cans of German beer. Julia had to carry it all.

“Time to go home now,” announced Gerlof when they were

back in the car.

He had the carefree tone of someone who had enjoyed a successful day in town, and it annoyed Julia. She slammed the car into gear and pulled out onto the street.

“Nothing happened,” she said once they were on their way

and had stopped at a red light east of Borgholm.

“What do you mean?” said Gerlof.

“What do I mean?” said Julia, turning north onto the main

road. “We achieved nothing today.”

“But we did. First, and most important, we had delicious cakes at Margit and Gosta’s,” said Gerlof. “Then I got a closer look at Blomberg the car dealer. And we also got”

“Why did you want to do that?” interrupted Julia.

Gerlof didn’t reply at first.

“For various reasons,” he said eventually.

Julia took a deep breath.

“You need to start telling me things, Dad,” she said, staring fixedly through the windshield. She felt like stopping the car, opening the door, and throwing him out on the alvar. It felt as if he were teasing her.

Gerlof was silent for a while longer.

“Ernst Adolfsson got an idea in his head last summer,” he

said. “A theory. He believed that my grandchild, our Jens, went out onto the alvar in the fog that day, not down to the sea. And he believed that Jens met a murderer out there.”

“Who?”

“Nils Kant, perhaps.”

“Nils Kant?”

“Nils Kant who’s dead, yes. He’d been dead and buried for

ten years at the time … You’ve seen his gravestone, after all. But there were rumors …”

“I know,” said Julia. “Astrid told me about them. But where

did the rumors come from?”

Gerlof sighed. “There was a mailman in Stenvik… Erik

Ahnlund. There was a story he used to tell after he’d retired, to me and Ernst and anybody else in the village who was prepared to listen to him; he said Vera Kant used to receive postcards with no sender’s name on them.”

“So?”

“I don’t know when they started to arrive, but according to

Ahnlund she kept getting postcards from different places in South America in the fifties and sixties. Several times a year. Every one with no sender’s name.”

“Were they from her son?”

“Presumably. That’s the most likely explanation.” Gerlof

looked out across the alvar. “Then of course Nils Kant came home in a coffin and was buried in Marnas.”

“I know,” said Julia.

Gerlof looked at her.

“But the postcards kept on coming even after the funeral,” he said. “From abroad, with no sender’s name.”

Julia glanced quickly at him. “Is that true?”

“I think it probably is,” said Gerlof. “Erik Ahnlund was the only one who actually saw the postcards addressed to Vera, but he swore they kept arriving for several years after Nils’s death.”

“And that made people in Stenvik think Kant was still alive?”

“Definitely,” said Gerlof. “People have always sat around

chatting in the twilight hour. But Ernst wasn’t much of a one for gossip, and he thought the same thing.”

“And what do you think?”

Gerlof hesitated.

“I’m like the apostle Thomas,” he said. “I want proof that he’s alive. I haven’t found it yet.”

“So why did you want to see this Blomberg?” asked Julia.

Gerlof hesitated again, as if he were afraid of appearing old and gaga.

‘John Hagman thinks Robert Blomberg might be Nils Kant,”

he said at last.

Julia stared at him. “But surely you don’t think that?”

Gerlof slowly shook his head. “It seems a bit farfetched,” he said. “But John made a number of points. Blomberg was a seaman, as I said. He grew up in Smaland and went to sea as an engineer when he was just a teenager. He was away for many

years … twenty or twentyfive years, or more. Eventually he came home and moved to Oland. He got married here, and had children.

I think his son is the one who was in the workshop today.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly suspicious,” said Julia.

“No,” agreed Gerlof, “the only odd thing really is that he was away for so long. John’s heard rumors that Blomberg was kicked off his ship, then drifted around some port in South America as a downandout alcoholic until some Swedish captain finally brought him home.”

“But Blomberg can’t be the only person who’s moved to

Oland?”

“Oh no,” said Gerlof. “Hundreds of people have moved here

from the mainland.”

“And does John suspect them all of being Nils Kant?”

“No. And I didn’t think Blomberg was anything like him either,”

said Gerlof. “But you see what you want to see, don’t you?

My motheryour grandmother Sarasaw a goblin once when she

was young… Do you remember? She used to refer to him as ‘a gray man’…”

“Yes, I’ve heard that story,” said Julia, “you don’t need to”

But there was no stopping Gerlof.

“Whatever it was, she saw him one spring day toward the end

of the nineteenth century as she was standing down by Kalmar Sound doing her washing, outside Gronhogen. She suddenly heard rapid footsteps behind her, and he came rushing out of the forest… A little man, about three feet tall, in gray clothes. He didn’t say a word, just ran toward the sound, straight past Sara without even looking at her. And when he reached the water, he didn’t stop… Mother called out to him, but he kept on going, straight out into the water, until the waves washed over him and he sank beneath the surface. Then he was gone.”

Julia gave a brief nod. It was a bizarre talemaybe the strangest of all the stories told by her family on Oland.

“A goblin who commits suicide,” she said, a little sarcastically.

“Now, there’s a thing you don’t see every day.”

“Obviously the story isn’t true,” Gerlof went on. “But I believe it. I believe my mother saw a goblin, or at least some kind of natural force or unknown phenomenon that she interpreted as a goblin.