The Glass Devil: A Detective Inspector Huss Investigation, Vol. 3

by Helen Tursten

  During her first visit, she had told Glen that she wasn’t interested in old buildings, but there actually was one in a tourist brochure that had appealed to her. Her idea was that she could wander around in a large, quiet building and use the opportunity to collect her thoughts. At the same time, she would be able to learn about some interesting cultural history.

  She felt she was being brave when she decided to take the subway, the London Underground. The only subway she had ever taken before was in Stockholm. She found it surprisingly easy to orient herself using the electronic signs, and after several minutes the train she was waiting for came. She got off at the St. Paul’s stop without any problem and walked up into the daylight to visit the cathedral.

  St. Paul’s Cathedral had been described in her brochure from the hotel as “impressive.” She had to agree. She soon realized, though, that she could forget about devoting herself to tranquil contemplation. People swarmed everywhere. The magnificent domes, arching shockingly high over her head, made her feel like an insignificant miniature.

  She dared to sneak into a group that had an English-speaking guide. He recounted the cathedral’s history. The first building had been constructed as early as 604 a.d. by King Ethelbert, the first English king to allow himself to be baptized. A cathedral was added, but in 961 the Vikings burned it down. Irene had guilt feelings on her forefathers’ behalf. The buildings were affected by several later fires through the centuries; and during the Great Fire of 1666, St. Paul’s was consumed by the flames. That gave Christopher Wren the chance to perform his life’s work: the new St. Paul’s Cathedral.

  Irene walked around for several hours admiring wall and ceiling paintings, statues, and carvings. She admitted that she was both overwhelmed and fascinated. She bought a stack of cards from a souvenir seller whose booth sign stated that profits from sales went to the upkeep of the church.

  It was time to head back to the hotel. She wanted to freshen up before she met Glen and Donna. This time she wouldn’t fall asleep in the bathtub.

  DONNA WELCOMED Irene as warmly as the first time. She was magnificent in a bright turquoise tunic with a low neckline, worn over an ankle-length black skirt. A beautiful necklace of turquoise and silver glimmered against her dark skin. Her steel-gray hair was swept up in a fluffy pouffe on her head. And dangling earrings matching the necklace hung in her ears. Donna was a very feminine woman.

  “And what have you done about my tall, stylish policeman?” she asked and winked at Irene.

  “The only one I know who’s going to retire soon is my boss. He isn’t particularly tall or stylish,” Irene apologized.

  “But is he somewhat healthy?” Donna said, and her voice sounded sincerely interested.

  “Not really. . . .”

  “Send him here anyway. At my age, you can’t be too picky,” Donna laughed.

  A distinguished man at the bar turned around and looked at Donna. The look told Irene that Donna could still afford to be somewhat choosy.

  Glen arrived a few minutes later. They ordered before beginning to talk, vodka martinis as a starter drink, and then both chose crayfish soup and grilled lamb kebabs with salsa and potato wedges. Irene asked for a half carafe of red wine, Glen, a large beer.

  “Naturally, my boss went crazy when I told him that Andrew St. Clair had popped up in the investigation. Bosses get cold feet as soon as big fish are involved. But he understood that it has to be followed up, so he called St. Clair. Or rather his secretary. St. Clair is busy with foreign businessmen all morning tomorrow, but he could meet with us after lunch. My boss gave his secretary my cell number, but neither she nor St. Clair has gotten in touch with me yet. You and I are booked on the morning plane to Edinburgh. We’ll have to head back to Heathrow at five in the afternoon. Then you’ll make the evening flight back to Göteborg.”

  Something clicked when she thought about what he had just said.

  “Have you checked if St. Clair flew from Edinburgh to London?”

  “Yes. He wasn’t booked on any flights. He may have traveled by car.”

  Chapter 18

  THEY LANDED AT EDINBURGH International Airport, west of the city. Because they had a few hours left before they were going to meet St. Clair, they stopped to grab a bite to eat there. Warm croissants and coffee tasted heavenly after the Spartan airplane breakfast.

  They had barely been seated when Glen’s telephone started ringing. The conversation was short but very polite. When he had hung up, he said, “That was St. Clair’s secretary. We’re very welcome for lunch at one o’clock.”

  “Where?”

  “At his home, Rosslyn Castle.”

  “He lives in a castle?”

  “Of course.”

  He smiled. With a pompous air, he took a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and cleared his throat as if he were about to make a speech.

  “Kate has helped me do some research. We have several books at home about Scotland’s history and the Scottish clans. She wrote down the relevant information, but I’ve only had time to glance at the paper. I didn’t want to read it on the plane in case we might be spied on. We’re to use the greatest possible discretion, the boss said several times yesterday.”

  He took a big bite out of his croissant and washed it down with coffee, squinting at the paper as he read it. After a while, he said, “The St. Clair family can trace its ancestors back to the fourteen hundreds. They are descended from the great Earl of Orkney and Sir William St. Clair. The earl built the castle and Sir William built a famous church. The family still owns large areas of land in the Pentland Hills. Andrew’s father, George, had a head for business and invested in the Scottish oil industry from its incipience. Earlier, they made their fortunes from the wool and tweed trades.”

  “Have they been weaving their own plaids since the fourteen hundreds?” Irene asked.

  “This tradition, that each clan has a special tartan, is said to be genuine. But actually it was a weaver from Lancashire who popularized the idea in the eighteen hundreds. Distinguished ladies sat in their drawing rooms and chose a pattern, which they named after their family. Probably they had to place a large order to obtain exclusivity. The whole world has gone along with it!”

  Irene smiled but felt disappointed. Like most, she had thought the Scots had fought for freedom wearing their clan plaids like in the movie Braveheart. But one of the soldiers in that film had actually been wearing Nike running shoes when he was fighting in one of the countless bloody battle scenes, and she thought she had seen a glimpse of a pair of white Jockey underpants under one of the kilts. Hollywood films weren’t always historically correct.

  “Was your father from Edinburgh?” she asked.

  “No. He was from Ayr, on the west coast. But we rarely came up here to visit. His relatives didn’t like the fact that he had married a black woman. Even less that they had children.”

  Irene understood that it was a sensitive topic.

  “Andrew St. Clair’s half-sister is married to a Spanish nobleman and is incredibly wealthy. Of course, she also inherited money after her father died. Otherwise, Andrew is the only heir and runs the whole empire. He’s probably getting married this summer in order to secure the lineage.”

  “Probably.”

  They wandered over to the Avis counter. Glen had reserved a Rover. They were assigned a red one, a change from his usual black.

  “Do you want to take a spin around Edinburgh?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  EDINBURGH TURNED out to be a fantastically beautiful city. Well-kept buildings, nice streets, and open squares climbed up the high hills. Many of the streets were wide, and there were a lot of unexpected descents and stairs. They drove up toward Edinburgh Castle, which towered over the city on a high cliff. They parked outside the castle.

  Glen said, “This is the Esplanade. A long time ago, people were executed here but these days it’s used for the popular Military Tattoo. In August every year, they have a festival here which inv
olves parades with bagpipe players in kilts and the whole deal. The tourists love it.”

  They walked around for a while, enjoying a magnificent view of the city. They were lucky with the weather, as it was sunny and clear, but the wind howled in their ears and was bitterly cold. Irene was thankful that she had her lined jacket with her, but she could have used a thicker shirt. After a turn in the biting wind, she was thankful to sit in the car again.

  “How far is it to Rosslyn Castle?” she asked.

  Glen unfolded the map they had been given at Avis.

  “Between twelve and eighteen miles,” he said. He pointed at a spot south of Edinburgh. “We drive down toward Penicuik. Maybe we should start now and take a look at the castle’s surroundings,” he suggested.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Irene didn’t have a clue what Penicuik was, but she didn’t care as long as she didn’t have to walk in the wind for a while.

  ROSSLYN CASTLE was also located on a hill, though it was not as high as the one on which Edinburgh Castle stood. Extensive fields and meadows spread out beneath the hill. They were already bright green, and flocks of sheep grazed in the meadows. Behind the castle, the Pentland Hills stood as a backdrop.

  Before reaching the avenue that led to the castle, they passed a beautiful old church with a sign that identified it as Rosslyn Chapel.

  Glen pointed out the chapel’s thick stone walls and richly adorned facade. “That’s Sir William’s Church. Ten St. Clair barons lie buried in their armor in the church.”

  If he ever grew tired of the police force, he could become an excellent guide, thought Irene. But she was glad to have come across a colleague who wanted to tell her about the sights, because she never would have learned so much about London and Edinburgh in her short stays if she hadn’t had Glen with her.

  A tall coniferous hedge rose up to mark the avenue’s start. It ws pierced by ornate iron gates, through which they glimpsed a large stone house. Glen braked and backed up. “Come,” he said and got out.

  Puzzled, Irene followed his orders.

  He stood before the gates, pointing at a brass mailbox. “Lefévre” was engraved on it in elegant letters.

  “This must be Christian’s childhood home,” Glen said.

  He grasped the handle of the right-hand gate and pushed it. The gate swung open on creaking hinges.

  “Well, we won’t arrive unannounced,” he remarked dryly.

  The grounds inside the hedge were unexpectedly large. They passed a forgotten rake leaning against a fruit tree, and someone had placed a large basket of woven osier a bit farther along. The driveway leading to the front door was covered with coarse gravel, which crunched under their feet.

  The gray stone exterior and black slate roof made the mansion appear gloomy. Small windows added to that impression. Thick ivy climbed the walls and enlivened the dark façade.

  When they were almost at the door, it was opened. A figure could be glimpsed in the opening, and a female voice asked, “Who are you?”

  “Detective Inspectors Huss and Thompson,” Glen said. He smiled his most charming smile and, at the same time, waved his police ID in front of him.

  “We’re actually here to meet Andrew St. Clair but since we’re a bit early, we thought we would look around first. Are you Mrs. Lefévre?”

  The opening of the door grew wider and a woman stepped out onto the stone landing. Irene was surprised at how young she seemed. She must have been over fifty, but her figure was slender and she was short. Her attitude was apprehensive. Though she stood very straight, she barely reached Irene’s shoulder. Her hair was short, a dark reddish brown color, and the woman’s almond-shaped eyes were dark brown. Her coloring and the expensively tailored dress she wore did not meet Irene’s expectations of a Scotswoman. She recalled that it was the woman’s ex-husband who had been a Frenchman; she was English. But she looked out of place here in front of this gloomy house, in the bitter Scottish wind.

  The woman crossed her arms over her chest, either for protection against the wind or against them.

  “Yes. I’m Mary Lefévre. What do you want with me?”

  Glen smiled again. “Actually, nothing in particular. This is my colleague Irene Huss from Sweden. She’s investigating the murder of Rebecka Schytellius’s parents and her brother.”

  The dark brown eyes wandered from them. Glen asked, “May we ask you a few questions?”

  “I have a flight to catch . . . I was just here to get my bag,” Mary Lefévre said. She didn’t make any attempt to hide her reluctance to answer their questions.

  “We’re going to meet with your nephew at one o’clock, so there will only be time for a few questions,” Glen said firmly, but still with a smile.

  With a resigned shrug, she opened the door and let them in.

  They found themselves in a large, dark wood-paneled hall, whose white ceiling two floors above them was covered by dark beams. A wide stone stairway near the door led up to the second floor. Its railing continued, forming a balustrade which stretched around the whole hall. From the gallery, a person could observe everyone who entered or left through the front door. Irene peered up at the second floor. Closed doors could be glimpsed behind the balustrade.

  At the end of the hall was a vast granite fireplace. It was so large, a person could have stood upright inside it. It was obvious that both Irene and Glen were impressed with the fireplace or maybe Mary Lefevre was anticipating this reaction, because she said, “It really is magnificent, but I never use it. It just eats up wood and doesn’t provide any heat. The space heaters are much more effective. There’s one in every room. Plus, I have central heating. Otherwise I would freeze to death in the winter.”

  Irene could easily imagine how cold the house must be in the wintertime when the storms whined around the eaves. The windows were so small to allow them to keep the house warm.

  Mary showed them into a surprisingly bright and pleasant living room. Light entered through the tall french doors to the terrace and the large picture windows, which must have been installed in recent years. The furniture was pastel-hued and modern.

  “Please, sit down,” Mary said, but she remained standing with her back to the picture windows. She had her arms crossed over her chest again. Irene and Glen were forced to sit on the rigid white sofa, which faced the window.

  Glen made a vague gesture encompassing thee surroundings. “This really is a beautiful old house.”

  “Yes. Building was begun in the seventeen hundreds,” Mary replied.

  “It’s a fantastic environment for children to grow up in. Does Christian visit often?” Glen continued in a casual tone.

  “Sometimes.”

  “When was he here last?”

  Mary thought for a moment before she replied. “In March.”

  “Have you ever met Rebecka Schyttelius?”

  They couldn’t observe the expression on her face, which was shadowed, but Irene could see her slender figure stiffen. “Once. This past Christmas.”

  “So she and Christian are a couple?”

  “No,” she said sharply.

  Glen lifted his eyebrows meaningfully, which had the intended effect. Mary Lefévre felt that she needed to explain.

  “She had been sick during the fall and didn’t have the strength to travel home to Sweden over Christmas. Christian didn’t want to leave her alone in London, so he brought her here.”

  “I understand. What impression did you form of her?”

  This time the silence lasted quite a while.

  “She was so quiet . . . it was difficult to reach her.”

  “That’s exactly the impression we also received. She really is quite sick. The murder of her family has naturally worsened her condition,” Glen said seriously.

  Then he smiled and showed his charming dimple. He does it deliberately as part of his strategy, thought Irene.

  “By the way, what’s the name of Christian’s girlfriend?”

  The silhouette against the
window froze. Her voice was tense when she answered. “I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

  “We will.”

  He was still smiling, but his tone was more serious. “It’s about time for us to head to the castle. Thank you for letting us intrude. Here’s my card if any questions should arise or if there’s anything you would like to tell us.”

  Glen rose, still with a friendly smile. Irene followed his lead. Like a sleepwalker, Mary Lefevre began moving toward the front door. She didn’t look at Irene or Glen. Her movements were stiff as she opened it. She seemed afraid, almost shocked. Why? Glen’s questions had taken them into sensitive territory, but her reaction seemed exaggerated.

  When they were about to leave the house, Glen held his hand out to say good-bye, but either Mary Lefevre pretended not to see it or she really didn’t notice. Irene couldn’t decide which it was.

  “WHY DID you want to speak with Christian’s mother?” Irene wondered.

  They were in the car driving down the avenue that led to the hill that was topped by the magnificent castle.

  “Because she’s Christian’s mother,” was the laconic answer.

  There was a certain logic in that, Irene realized. It had been a brief but thought-provoking interview, which they would need to analyze on their way home.

  They drove through the open gate in the stone wall, ended up in a courtyard, and parked the red rental car next to a shiny new silver-colored Porsche. The cobblestones in the courtyard had been worn smooth by hundreds of years of trampling feet; they felt slippery. The castle towered on three sides of the courtyard. The main building lay straight ahead; the side buildings were like wings. The whole structure was made of gray stone, the roof of slate. There were walled, round towers in the outer corners, topped by turrets, reminiscent of Sleeping Beauty’s castle. The sturdy ivy on the walls added to the effect. A few splendid trees and large rosebeds gave a little life and a touch of greenery to the otherwise barren stone surroundings.

  The main building, straight ahead of them, was a bit taller than the wings. A substantial door of massive wood didn’t look very welcoming.