by Pat Herbert
“Yes, but there’s something else about that,” continued the doctor.
“Oh?”
“It seems that she imagines that she saw the murderer on the night it happened.”
“Oh, but that’s impossible!” exclaimed Berthina, “How could she?”
“Well, she obviously didn’t, but she is very insistent.”
“Look, I’ll try and calm her down, Doctor, and I’ll remove the paper. Give her a nice novel or something, instead. I’ve got to return her library book today, anyway.”
“That would be good.” The doctor looked as if he was about to say something else.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Well, it’s silly, I know, but is there any chance that she could be speaking the truth? About being there and witnessing the murders?”
“Of course not,” said Berthina dismissively. “The very idea!”
“Yes, it does seem crazy,” he ventured, “but she has been known to go wandering off on her own at night, hasn’t she? I mean, she did so last night, you told me.”
“Well, yes, but I don’t think she ever got as far as the forest. It’s at least five kilometres from here.”
“I think you underestimate her,” smiled the doctor. “Didn’t you say the police have brought her from further away than that?”
“Once, yes,” Berthina remembered. “But, really, I’m sure she would have told me at the time if she’d witnessed any murders.”
“Not necessarily,” said the doctor. “Her memory is not what it was. She can remember things from her early childhood with crystal clarity, but things that happened yesterday, for example, she will have no memory of at all. If she did see the murders, she could have forgotten by the time she was brought home.”
“Right,” said Berthina slowly. “So, why do you think she would remember it now – if what you say is true?”
“It’s difficult to explain,” said the doctor, “but probably the newspaper article triggered it. She saw the pictures of the little children, and she was crying, saying she saw the man do it.”
“So, if she’s speaking the truth, she’s a material witness then?”
“No. Not at all. Her mental condition would preclude her being called upon to give evidence in court. What she said would be viewed as completely unreliable.”
“Oh, I see. Poor Liv. I’d better go and see her right away.”
“She’s all right for the moment, I gave her a mild sedative. When she wakes up, she may well have forgotten all about it again. See how she goes. Now, I’d better be going, I’ve got quite a few patients to see – this current flu epidemic is keeping me busy, I can tell you.”
After he’d gone, Berthina sat for a while in the kitchen mulling over what the doctor had told her. Was it remotely possible that her sister had witnessed the murder of these children? She didn’t really believe it but couldn’t quite dismiss it from her mind. But one thing she was resolved to do, and that was lock the front door at night from now on. She couldn’t have her sister keep wandering about on her own at night. If she had seen the murders, and the murderer had seen her – well! She went quite cold thinking about it.
London, January 1949
It was just after ten o’clock in the evening when Gilbert Hardcastle turned up at the vicarage. Robbie had left a message with Marjorie, asking him to come over as soon as he could, as he had another translation job for him. Both Robbie and Bernard were on tenterhooks as Gilbert read Robbie’s valiant attempt at Norwegian writing. What, both men wondered, did the children have to say now?
“Well, Gilbert?” asked Robbie eagerly. “What do they say?”
“Er, it’s a bit unclear, but I think I can get the main gist, anyway.”
“Go on, man,” urged Robbie. “Just tell us.”
“All right, I’m going to.” Gilbert gave him a scowl as he adjusted his spectacles. “This time the children say that, although they’re now safely buried, they still can’t rest because their killer hasn’t been caught. They say they don’t mind for themselves, but they want to avenge their mother’s death.”
“I see,” said Robbie, “I thought it might be something like that. Is that all?”
“More or less.”
“So, what happens now?” asked Bernard. “How on earth can we help find the murderer? We only know his first name.”
“I could ask the children for a description of him, if you like,” ventured Gilbert.
“But how?” asked Robbie. “I’m the only one who can see and hear them. You’re not psychic, are you?”
Bernard interrupted again. “Don’t be silly, he doesn’t have to be. You just write down what Robbie needs to ask them, Gilbert.”
Robbie rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. But I’ll need a lesson in how to pronounce it.”
“It’s quite easy,” said Gilbert. “Now, give me your diary again and I’ll write down what you want to ask them.”
“Ask if they know the man’s full name and for a full description,” instructed Robbie. “That should get us somewhere, at least.”
The next day, Robbie was in possession of little Halle’s description of the murderer, courtesy of Gilbert’s translation skills. “So, now we know he’s tall with big shoulders, dark hair, a bloated face and slobbery lips,” he said triumphantly. “That narrows it down, Bernie, don’t you think?”
Bernard was thoughtful. “Yes, it does, but the clincher is the snake tattoo on his arm.”
“Of course, I was forgetting!”
“Although we don’t know which arm, of course…”
“Don’t quibble, old boy. This will be enough to hang the blighter, for sure.”
“Well, the police will have to find him first. It’s a pity the boy didn’t know the man’s last name.” Bernard’s note of caution was getting on Robbie’s nerves.
“I know, Bernie, it’s a shame. But, you’ll see,” he said, “Once Gilbert’s phones his mother with the description, the police will have to pull their finger out and find him.”
Bernard was about to say something else, but Robbie stopped him. “Humour me, old boy. The man will still be in Bergen, I bet, thinking he’s safe. After all, he doesn’t know that the ghosts of his victims are communicating with a psychic doctor in London, now, does he?”
The vicar of St Stephen’s had to admit that Robbie had a point and smiled.
Bergen, January 1949
Gunda had finished cleaning Mrs Hardcastle’s apartment at mid-day as usual. She was eager to get going, as she and Baldur were going to the cinema that afternoon. A rare treat.
Berthina’s sister was having one of her more lucid days and was sitting in the living room by the fire, wrapped in an eiderdown. Gunda had a lot of time for Liv; she was a gentle soul, with a world of misery reflected in the large pool of her pale blue eyes. She could understand why Berthina didn’t want to put her in a home. It would break both their hearts.
She was in the kitchen, putting away the breakfast dishes, as Berthina entered. “Have you finished, dear?” she asked her.
“Yes, Mrs Hardcastle. I’ve given the hall floor a thorough polishing like you asked. It’s as shiny as a new pin now. But be careful you or your sister don’t slip on it.”
“Yes, thank you, Gunda. I’ll make sure. Here’s your wages for the month and a little extra as a post-Christmas bonus.”
She handed her sixteen krone, which Gunda pocketed gratefully. They would be able to afford the best seats today, she thought, as well as some sweets and maybe an ice cream. They were going to see a Sonja Henie film, and she was really looking forward to it. She loved the blonde ice skating star and wasn’t surprised that she had been snapped up by Hollywood.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “I’ve asked Baldur to pick me up from here as the cinema’s just around the corner.”
“Of course I don’t mind,” said Berthina, “I’d like to meet him anyway. And, as Liv’s up today, maybe she could meet him too?”
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“Yes, why not?” smiled Gunda. She was proud to be seen with Baldur who, these days, had developed a better dress sense and was shaving more often than he used to. She could take him anywhere now. He was a big, imposing man, and she was glad when women turned to look at him. He wasn’t very handsome, it was true, but he had a full head of black hair and looked quite dashing when he made the effort.
The doorbell rang and Gunda ran to answer it. Baldur stood there, looking slightly uncomfortable in his best suit. She could see the stiff shirt collar was chafing his neck, but he looked very well. She wasn’t ashamed to introduce him to anybody.
“Come in, darling,” she said. “Mrs Hardcastle wants to meet you.”
Baldur wasn’t enthusiastic. “We’ll be late for the big picture,” he protested. “Besides, my boots are covered in snow. You don’t want me to spoil this nice, polished floor, do you?”
Just then, Berthina came to the door. “Just take them off, Mr – er?”
“Hanssen,” he told her.
“Very nice to meet you, Mr Hanssen,” she said, shaking his hand. She noticed it was a big, workman’s hand, layers of dirt thick inside the nails. “Come and meet my sister,” she said, leading him to the living room.
“If you don’t mind, we really ought to be going,” said Baldur, looking anxiously at Gunda for support. “We’ll miss the start of the film otherwise.”
“Nonsense,” said Berthina. “It will only take a minute. Liv doesn’t get out much these days and doesn’t meet many people.”
Baldur smiled uneasily. “Sure,” he replied gruffly, obviously resigned to be shown off.
Berthina opened the living room door and Liv looked up from the novel she was reading. Her eyes travelled over to Baldur, looming in the doorway. She pulled the eiderdown close around her and screamed.
London, February 1949
The cold January turned into an even colder February, as Bernard and Robbie went about their daily routines, waiting impatiently for news from Bergen. The Christmas tree had been planted in the churchyard by Gilbert, at Robbie’s request. Mrs Harper had been more pleased than anyone that the tree had been removed from the hall, as she was able now to gather up all the pine needles, once and for all.
But it wasn’t only news from Bergen that Bernard and Robbie eagerly awaited. They were still expecting a letter from much nearer home. Dorothy had promised to write, but so far, she hadn’t put pen to paper or, if she had, it hadn’t found its way from Exeter to the London Borough of Wandsworth. Mrs Harper had been as good as her word and interrogated Charlie the postman thoroughly, even insisting he empty his sack in front of her, but no letter was hidden in its depths.
So, life dragged on for Bernard and Robbie until the third week of February, when Gilbert arrived at the vicarage with a smile on his face. They were both in the study, as it was nine o’clock in the evening, and Robbie’s visits were more or less nightly now. It was Robbie who jumped up and pounced on him first as he came through the door. “Well, Gilbert? What’s the news, old boy?”
The plumber continued to smile. “Well, it’s quite interesting actually,” he told them. “Can I sit down? My feet are killing me.”
“Of course,” said Bernard. “Fetch Gilbert a drink, Robbie.”
Gilbert sat down next to the fire and removed his snow-sodden gloves. “It’s bitter out,” he observed.
“Come on,” urged Robbie impatiently, as he handed him a glass of whisky. “What’s the news?”
“Well, here’s my mum’s letter,” said Gilbert, taking it out of his pocket. “It’s in Norwegian, so I’ll read it to you, shall I?”
Robbie tutted impatiently. “Of course, man. Get on with it.”
Gilbert cleared his throat as he slowly unfolded the pages and began to read. “My dear Gilbert,” he began, then stopped. “I won’t read it all, just the bits that will interest you.”
“Yes, yes. Carry on.” Robbie was having difficulty containing his impatience.
Gilbert cleared his throat again. “She thanks me for the description of Baldur, and then says: ‘I think my cleaner, Gunda, may be living with him, as we speak. His name is Baldur Hanssen, and your description fits him to a tee. I don’t know about the snake tattoo though – I’m going to ask Gunda if he has one when I get the chance. I should have asked her already, but I don’t know how to without giving her cause for suspicion. I don’t want to alarm her, either. If she thinks she’s living with a killer, she may give the game away and he’ll just run off before he can be caught. Alternatively, he might try to harm her if he thinks she’ll tell the police. It’s a terribly difficult situation’.”
Gilbert paused and looked at the two other men. Bernard and Robbie were practically falling over themselves in excitement.
“Yes, it’s good news, isn’t it?” smiled Gilbert. “But wait, there’s more. She goes on to say: ‘It is possible that Aunt Liv may have witnessed the murder of the children. You may remember I’ve mentioned before how she sometimes goes out in the middle of the night and walks for miles until a kind policeman brings her home. So it is possible she could have seen those poor children being killed, although I doubt it. However, the funny thing is, when Baldur called for Gunda last week, I introduced him to Liv and she screamed. She said he was the murderer – not in front of Gunda – but after they had left. I made an excuse to them, that she wasn’t well – they knew she was suffering from dementia anyway, so I don’t think they thought too much about it. But I had a terrible time with her when they had gone. She kept crying and screaming, so I had to call the doctor. He sedated her, so that was all right. The next day she didn’t remember anything about it, so I couldn’t go to the police. Not that her evidence would be admissible, of course, even if she did remember. I’ll write again as soon as I have any more news’.”
Robbie was the first to speak as Gilbert folded up his mother’s letter and put it in his pocket. “Did I hear you correctly? Did your mother say that your aunt actually witnessed the murder?”
“That’s what she says, yes,” replied Gilbert. “You can get an independent translation if you like,” he added, offering the letter to the doctor.
“Nay, man, no need for that. But this becomes more and more bizarre. So many coincidences!”
“Coincidence or not,” put in Bernard, “it would seem that we have a positive identification of the actual killer at last: Gilbert’s mother’s cleaner’s husband.”
Robbie stared at Bernard. “By Jove, you’re right! We just need to find out whether he’s got a snake tattoo on his arm, then we’ve got him.”
Gilbert smiled, proud to be the bearer of such positive news. He hadn’t smiled so much in years.
After Gilbert had left, still smiling, Robbie sat on with Bernard for a while, discussing the possibilities open to them. It seemed that this Baldur Hanssen was the villain of the piece, according to Gilbert’s mother, at least. The only trouble was, there seemed to be no way of proving it, as the only witnesses were two ghosts and a woman with dementia.
Bergen, March 1949
Gunda arrived at Berthina Hardcastle’s apartment on Monday morning at nine o’clock as usual and proceeded to make a pot of tea before starting work. Berthina was sitting at the kitchen table making out a shopping list, as her cleaner bustled about with kettle and cups.
When the tea was poured, and the usual pleasantries out of the way, the older woman coughed nervously and stirred more sugar into her cup than was good for her.
“I thought you only took two spoonfuls,” observed Gunda, smiling. “You’ve put at least four in there.”
“Oops!” said Berthina. “I wasn’t thinking.” She tried to dredge some of the sweetness out, making a sugary mess in her saucer.
“Shall I start with the living room, or is your sister in there today?”
“No, she’s still in bed. So, yes, please start in the living room.” There was a brief silence before Berthina spoke again. “How’s your – er – husband these days? Has
he plenty of work?”
“He’s – fine,” came the hesitant reply.
Berthina noticed a wary look come into her cleaner’s eyes. “But he’s been laid off since last week and getting a bit bored. He hopes to get back to work next month, though, all being well.”
“Er, I suppose that makes him annoyed – having nothing to do.” Berthina said this as a statement, rather than a question.
Gunda shrugged. “Sometimes, I suppose.”
“Gunda, please tell me to mind my own business, if you like,” she said, “but has he – has he ever laid a finger on you?”
She bridled at once. “How dare you! What gives you the right to suggest such a thing? You keep making these insinuations, and I don’t know why. I thought you were happy for me that I’d got a boyfriend.”
Some boyfriend, thought Berthina. “Of course I’m happy for you, dear. It’s just that, well, having met him, he seems the type that could get violent, that’s all. He’s a big man and if he ever hit you, he’d hurt you badly, I should think.”
Suddenly Gunda burst into tears. “But why should you think that he’d hit me? I just don’t know how you knew, that’s all,” she spluttered, fishing for her hanky in her apron pocket.
Berthina rushed around the table to put her arm around her. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I never meant to upset you. So – he has hit you, then?”
Gunda mopped at her eyes and tried to pull herself together. “Once or twice – yes,” she confessed. “But only because he gets frustrated with having no work.”
“That’s no excuse to take it out on you.”
“No, I know it isn’t.” Gunda blew her nose. “Sometimes he seems to get angry over nothing. Like he wants to pick a fight.”
Berthina could see her cleaner was ready to open up to her at last. But it was a long way from suggesting that Baldur was the murderer of the Dahl family. A very long way. How was she going to find out about that tattoo? Then Gunda broached the subject herself.
