by Pat Herbert
“Thank you, Mrs Harper,” he said, stepping into the hall.
“Wipe your feet,” she instructed, noticing he wasn’t his usual ebullient self. “Is anything wrong, Doc?”
“Oh, not to worry,” he said dismissively, removing his sodden jacket and giving it to Mrs Harper to deal with. “Is the lad in his study?”
“Yes, go on up,” she said, hanging his coat on the hallstand.
“Thank you,” he said, as he climbed slowly up the stairs.
It may have been a coincidence but, as Robbie entered the room, the sun peeked from behind a cloud, letting in a thin, watery stream of light that played gently on his sandy hair.
“Welcome home, Robbie,” Bernard greeted him, clapping him on the shoulder and shaking him vigorously by the hand.
“Thanks, old boy,” Robbie replied. “Nice to be back.” He didn’t look it, though.
Bernard was shocked by his haggard and drawn features. “What’s up?” he asked, fearing he already knew the answer.
“Prepare yourself for a shock, Bernie,” Robbie replied, seating himself opposite his friend. “Carl’s dead.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Bernard said, unsure whether to give the big bluff man a comforting hug. Their friendship had never been demonstrative in that way, and he didn’t know how to start. He settled for a sympathetic tap on the shoulder. “What happened?”
“He had a heart attack on the train to Bergen,” Robbie told him. “I tried to resuscitate him, but it was no good. He was gone. I can’t say I was surprised, although I hadn’t expected him to keel over quite so soon. I would never have let him travel if I’d thought that.”
“I’m so sorry, Robbie. What did you do?”
“I called his parents in the States. I found his home address among his effects. They were really upset and shocked, because they knew nothing about his illness.”
“So, are they arranging everything. All the formalities?”
“Yes, well, they want him to be buried in the family plot. In Manhattan, I think. Somewhere there. Long Island.”
“I see.” Bernard didn’t know what else to say. There didn’t seem anything he could usefully add.
“He hated his home town, he told me once,” said Robbie with an ironic smile. “I hope he won’t mind.”
“I don’t suppose so,” said Bernard encouragingly. “It’s better for him to be among his own family, don’t you think?”
“Probably,” said Robbie, not looking all that sure.
“It’s such a shame,” said Bernard. “Oh, here’s Mrs Harper with the tea. That’s most welcome.”
She placed the tea tray on the table beside Bernard and left without speaking. She had heard the sad news through the study door and, for once, had nothing to say.
The two friends drank their tea in silence, listening to the comforting sound of the rain spatter against the window pane. Then Bernard spoke. “So, I suppose, what with all that happening, you didn’t manage to find the children again?”
“What do you think?” Robbie said drily. “When would I have had a chance? Carl died on the train just before we arrived at Bergen. I spent the rest of the time talking to his parents and the Bergen authorities.”
“It was a silly question. I suppose you’ll drop the whole thing now, will you?”
“Not on your life!” exclaimed Robbie, searching his pockets for his trusty pipe. “Have you got any matches?”
Bernard retrieved a box from the mantelpiece. “Here. But how are you going to translate what they say?”
“Oh, I’ll find someone, don’t you fret,” Robbie replied. “But I need to find the spot again. It was under a particularly fine spruce, if I remember rightly. I think I’ll be able to find it, but I must go back soon, or I’m sure to forget. You must come with me this time, man. It’s nearly the end of August, so you must be due for a few days’ leave now.”
Bernard looked at his friend in bewilderment. “I’ll come with you, by all means, as soon as I can arrange it. But what use will I be? I can’t speak Norwegian.”
“No matter. You know the spot where I saw them. At least you can help me find that.”
“Certainly, Bernard. But I don’t know what’ll happen then. If you see the children again, how will you communicate with them?”
“We’ll have to see, won’t we? First things first. Let me find them again. I simply must find them again.”
Bergen, September 1948
A week later, Bernard and Robbie were back in Bergen. It was the beginning of September and Bernard had promised the Archdeacon to be back in London for Harvest Festival at the end of the following week. It was a matter of life and death, he had told his superior, which was true. The Archdeacon, like Pontius Pilate, washed his hands of the matter. If Bernard could arrange for his congregation to be looked after, he supposed he could see no problem.
The two friends booked into the hotel they had stayed in last time, but there was a different man behind the reception desk. On enquiry, they learned that the manager was himself on holiday – in London, of all places.
Their first morning dawned sunny and quite warm, and they set out with the hotel’s standard packed lunch of spam and cheese sandwiches, plus a tomato. This was an addition to last time and seemed to indicate that things were looking up. The fruit was still as strange, though.
The pair set off but were astounded at what they saw when they reached the edge of the forest. What was once a densely tree-populated area, was now a sparse wilderness. They looked all around them, and then stared at each other in bewilderment. There was no doubt about it, the trees had been decimated. There was no way of knowing where that special tree was now. In fact, it didn’t seem to be there at all. It had, along with many others, been chopped down for the Christmas market.
Robbie rushed round and round in panic. “The trees have all gone!” he cried, stating the obvious.
He slumped down beneath one of the few remaining trees by the lake, and Bernard sat down beside him. “It’s a blow,” said Bernard, “but we should have thought about it, you know.”
Robbie sighed. “What d’you mean?”
“It’s the time of year when Norway exports its trees. It’s probably one of their most lucrative trades.”
“Oh, my God,” exclaimed Robbie. “I think you’re right! So our tree’s probably on its way to somewhere to be sold as a Christmas tree?”
“That’s what I would guess,” said Bernard, opening up his sandwiches.
“What can we do now?” said Robbie hopelessly. “It’s a bit of a facer, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Bernard couldn’t think of any words of comfort. Poor Robbie. He had lost a close friend and now he’d been foiled in his attempt to find out what had happened to those poor children. He must be feeling pretty sick, he thought. The two made their way back to the hotel disconsolately. The young man behind the desk smiled at them as they came in.
“Will you be dining here tonight, gentlemen?” he asked them brightly.
“Yes, please,” said Bernard. “We’ll be checking out tomorrow morning, so can you please have our bills ready?”
“Of course, sir,” said the young man. “But I thought you were staying till the end of the week?”
“Yes, we were, but our plans have altered. Or rather they’ve been altered for us.”
“Indeed?” The young man cocked an enquiring eyebrow. “May I ask what’s happened, sir? Maybe I can help?”
“Your English is very good,” observed Robbie.
“That’s because I am English,” said the man.
“Ah, that would explain it. Well, maybe I can ask you...” Robbie glanced sideways at Bernard, who gave him a warning look. He decided to ignore it.
“Do you know anything about the murder that took place here back at the end of March?” he asked.
“You mean that young widow on the farm?”
“That’s right. Do you know if anyone was convicted of her murder?”
&
nbsp; “No. Not so far as I know. It’s a complete mystery. There was this man the police were trying to track down, but they have drawn a complete blank. He just seems to have vanished. It was some workman or other that occasionally helped out on the Dahl farm.”
“Do you know if they ever found the children?” Robbie then asked him.
“No. They never have. It’s very sad, especially for the murdered woman’s parents. They’ve offered a substantial reward for any information concerning them or the mysterious man.”
“Really? Do you know their names?”
“Er – who? The parents?”
“Yes.”
“I think they’re called Heglund. The police will be able to tell you. But what interest do you have in the case? Are you private detectives? I thought your friend here was a priest?” Bernard’s dog collar was, as usual, very much in evidence.
“Er, no, we’re private eyes,” winked Robbie. “My friend’s in disguise.”
Bernard gave him a black look but didn’t say anything.
“Really? How exciting! Have you got any leads?”
“Young man, you know better than to ask that.”
“Oh, of course not. Sorry. Anyway, are you still checking out tomorrow morning?”
“No. We’ll be staying another night, thank you,” said Robbie, before Bernard could speak.
Later, after dinner, Bernard grumbled darkly. “What are you playing at, Robbie? Making out we’re private detectives, of all things. Are you completely barmy?”
“Probably. But we are private eyes in a way. Me, especially. I’m acting for those poor little children. They’ve got no one else.”
“What about the police?”
“Well, yes, them...” Robbie said slowly. “But they don’t know what we know...”
“Oh, you mean about them being dead?”
“Precisely.”
“But we don’t really know that for sure, do we?”
“Now, Bernie,” said Robbie warningly. “I thought you believed I’d seen their ghosts?”
Bernard laughed. “Okay, okay. Point taken. But why stay another day? We can’t usefully achieve anything now that the tree’s gone.”
“I want to talk to the Heglunds before we go back. Maybe we can get some clue from them.”
“But what if they don’t speak English?” asked Bernard reasonably.
“Hmm, I hadn’t thought of that. Never mind, we won’t know until we meet them, will we?”
“But what good will it be to meet them? They don’t know anything more than we do,” Bernard pointed out. “And, anyway, should we be intruding on their grief?”
“Not in the normal way, no. But I’d still like to meet them.”
Bernard gave up. He decided to go along with whatever his friend wanted. Maybe he would solve the case in the end. He certainly deserved to.
The next morning the two friends made their way to Bergen police station in their quest to find the Heglunds. Robbie had wondered whether he should tell the police about his sighting of the ghostly children, but Bernard had been doubtful.
“What would be the point?” said Bernard, over breakfast. “The police will just think you’re mad and probably ban you from bothering the Heglunds altogether. If they don’t lock you up for wasting police time or being a lunatic, or whatever.”
Robbie had to concede and agreed not to mention any psychic manifestations to the Politimester.
They entered the police station with some trepidation. It was an austere building, almost forbidding in its grey stone aspect, and they felt like they were entering some kind of mausoleum. Very unlike a typical English police station, this was more like a library or museum, with its high ceilings and rarefied atmosphere. Nobody was speaking above a whisper.
Robbie approached the desk sergeant, who was standing stiffly behind the glass-fronted counter. He could hear his footsteps echo hollowly on the polished tiled floor and began to feel intimidated the closer he got to the officer. The man looked very spruce in his smart uniform, but he had a forbidding air of gloom and despondency that seemed to brook no nonsense.
“Do you speak English?” Robbie asked.
The policeman gave him a look of utter disdain. “A little,” he said. “What is it?”
“Ah, well, my name is Doctor Robert MacTavish, and my friend here is Reverend Bernard Paltoquet. We are from London – England.”
“I know where London is. State your business.” The man wasn’t exactly rude but bordering on it.
“Er, we, er, wondered if we could have the address of the Heglunds – the parents of Marianne Dahl who was murdered in March this year.”
“And why do think I should give it to you?”
“We think we may be able to help them get over their loss.”
“In what way?”
“That is personal. Between ourselves. It is a matter of extreme delicacy, you understand?”
“No.” The answer was blunt, leaving no possibility of misinterpretation.
Bernard nudged his friend. “Come on, Robbie, let’s go. We’re not getting through to him at all.”
But Robbie was having none of it. “No, Bernie, I need to do this.” He turned back to the policeman who was now writing something in a thick, leather-bound ledger.
“I’m sorry to be insistent,” said Robbie.
The man looked up from his ledger, seemingly surprised to see him still standing there. “What now?”
“I genuinely think we can help this couple in their hour of sorrow. I can’t explain, but, believe me, we wouldn’t have come all this way from England if we didn’t think it would serve any purpose.”
The man sighed. “Your travel arrangements are no concern of mine. If you visit Norway, that is for you. My concern is to stop interfering – er, how do you term it in your country? – ‘busybodies’ from bothering the bereaved family. We are working on solving this case, and it is people like you who are stopping us from doing our job. Are you in any way related to this family?”
“No. We’ve never met any of them. Well, I say that, but in a way, I have. But I don’t think it will make sense to you.” And looking at the man’s stolid expression, he could see that was obvious. Robbie was sensible enough to realise that any mention of ghosts would have him thrown out in seconds.
“Is it possible to see whoever is in charge of this case, do you think?” Robbie decided to try another tack.
“No. Not unless you have any evidence to give him.” The man was still bordering on rudeness without quite overstepping it. “Otherwise, would you and your friend please leave? We are too busy to listen to you anymore.”
Bernard decided to intervene at this point.
“I wonder if someone who is not involved directly may not be of comfort to the family? I’m a man of God, you see, and my friend here is a doctor. We do have some connection with the case, I can assure you and, as Dr MacTavish just said, we would hardly come all the way from England just on a whim.”
“On a whim?” The man obviously didn’t understand. “Is that some kind of aeroplane?”
“No, no,” grinned Bernard. “Look, we have something serious to tell the family. Please help us to help them. Just give us the address, that’s all we ask.”
Just then, a younger officer appeared behind the counter. “What’s going on, Karl? Who are these gentlemen?”
Robbie jumped in. “We are concerned with the Dahl murder,” he said, “and we need the Heglunds’ address.”
The second policeman seemed much more approachable than the first one, who had retired into a side office.
“In what way are you concerned?”
“We are English and have come all the way from London,” he told him. “We think we can bring some comfort to the parents of Mrs Dahl.”
“How?”
Bernard spoke now. “Christian comfort,” he said, smiling beatifically.
“You’re not reporters, are you?” The young officer looked at them suspi
ciously.
“Of course not,” said Bernard.
A few minutes later, Bernard and Robbie were outside the police station, looking pleased with themselves.
“Well done, Bernie!” exclaimed Robbie. “You little charmer, you.”
“It’s the collar,” pointed out Bernard meekly, handing the piece of paper with the Heglunds’ address to his friend. “No one can distrust a vicar – well, unless they’re just pretending to be one. Although I think he gave us the address in the end just to get rid of us.”
“You’re probably right,” laughed Robbie.
The Heglunds lived in Oslo, not Bergen, which was a bit of a blow to the pair. But, nothing daunted, they bought train tickets and set off right away.
Bernard looked at his friend as they sat facing each other in the rather rickety steam train heading for the Norwegian capital. He pondered whether to tell Robbie about his further encounters with Diabol, and how he had known that Carl was going to die. It wouldn’t make any difference, of course, whether he knew or not, but he felt he had a right to know anyway.
“Nice scenery,” observed Robbie, as he settled back in his seat and lit his pipe.
“Yes, indeed, most pleasant,” concurred Bernard. They rode in silence for several minutes. Then Bernard cleared his throat. “Robbie?”
“Yes, old chap?”
“I’ve got something to tell you, and I don’t know how you’ll take it.”
“Well, you won’t know till you tell me,” said Robbie, reasonably.
“No, of course.”
Clearing his throat again, Bernard proceeded to tell him about his further encounters with Diabol, and what had passed between them.
Robbie was horror-struck. “Dear God, are you telling me you knew all the time that Carl was going to die?”
Bernard looked out of the train window as he replied. “Yes, I suppose I did. But it’s not my fault, Robbie. I didn’t ask that horrid creature to confide in me.”
“Of course you didn’t, old boy,” said Robbie, looking thoughtful. “I’m just surprised Carl was supposedly taken down below. He didn’t deserve that. He was a bit of a one for the ladies, but he’d never done anything really bad, I’m sure. It must have been some sort of a mistake. A mix-up of names, maybe.”
