Dreamless (26 page)

“Where is Mikkel?” asked Bayer drily. “We need the key.”

“I thought it best to take charge of the key myself until you arrived.”

The parish pastor took out a big iron key from a pocket in his robes. “Kindly follow me,” he said, now sounding calmer and with more of a Laplander’s accent to his words.

Bayer walked behind the pastor, wondering if the man truly believed his own strange theories. Somewhere he’d heard that the Lapps believed people could leave their bodies to set off on a spiritual journey. Maybe this was what the pastor feared that the lunatics had done: moving in spirit form down to the cellar to make off with the corpse. That might be why the pastor came up with the implausible story about Falling Down Mikkel, in order to cover up his own beliefs. Bayer was glad he wasn’t plagued by the delusions of religion. He had no patience for either the heathens or the Christians. For Bayer, the world was what he could see, and nothing more.

Inside the hospital, the pastor lit a lantern and handed it to Bayer along with the key. Then he pointed at the door, keeping a good distance away as the police chief stepped forward.

“How many are there?” Bayer asked before putting the key in the lock.

“Seven. There are seven lunatics,” said the parish pastor, intoning his words so that they sounded almost biblical.

Bayer turned the key. The lock opened with a gurgle that sounded almost the same as when a man took the first swig from a bottle of imported aquavit. Falling Down Mikkel was apparently very meticulous about keeping his locks well oiled.

Then Bayer opened the door and peered into the darkness. He raised the lantern, holding it up in front of him, and saw the light reflected in the eyes of the insane. They were lying on bunks along the walls. One was sitting in the corner muttering to himself. He abruptly lifted his head to look at the lantern Bayer held, as if it might offer him salvation. Disappointed, he again lowered his gaze to the filthy plank floor, having seen Bayer’s stout form, which bore no resemblance to that of an angel.

Here they sit, thought Bayer. Their only crime is believing in a world other than the one they’re living in. He counted them. There were seven lunatics. They were all there. The room stank of sweat, rotting food, urine, and excrement, but nothing that smelled like a corpse. Bayer shut the door and once again locked away their lunacy.

*   *   *

“And you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, Reverend, around the time the body disappeared?”

They were now outside again, standing between the main hospital building and the church. Both men faced the church, a beautiful octagonal building that the Dutchman Johan Christoffer Hempel had designed more than half a century earlier. Bayer had finally convinced the pastor to consider other possible suspects than the lunatics.

“Have any strangers visited lately?”

“No. At least no one who might have done something like this.” The parish pastor gave him a determined look.

“Does that mean you have had strangers here?”

“You might say that. But I can assure you that this wasn’t a plunderer of corpses by any means. There was a most distinguished gentleman here this morning. He said that he’d heard our hospital extolled highly. He praised our hospital and said he wished to make a generous donation. When he asked to be shown around, I saw no reason to refuse him. Truth be told, there was something I needed to tend to in the sacristy, so I allowed him to move about freely. He left very abruptly, but I assume he will return soon, and his donation will be much appreciated.”

“And this visit was before the sexton went to the cellar to seal the lid of the coffin?”

“Yes, it must have been, because it was the sexton’s shouts that interrupted me at my work inside the church. The poor man was greatly distressed when he found the body missing, and he ran shouting and screaming through the church.”

“I can understand that. But tell me one thing: This distinguished gentleman, this generous supporter of the physician’s art, did he happen to speak Swedish?”

“Now that you mention it, he did speak Swedish.”

Nils Bayer bowed and thanked the pastor for his time. Then he hurried as fast as his stout body would carry him back to the police station. There he got out a pistol that he’d acquired when he was working in Copenhagen, although he’d never fired it. He loaded it and stuck it in a valise, along with a number of other essentials.

Then he went over to the stable, where he saddled his horse and tied the valise to the saddle. Before he left town, he rode over to the tavern where he’d tried to run into this Swedish gentleman. He was in luck and caught the innkeepers before they went to bed after a long summer night with many guests. There his suspicions were confirmed. The Swede had stopped by the tavern at dawn and in great haste had packed up his belongings. Then he bade the innkeepers farewell and rode off. The woman of the house noted that his horse was uncommonly handsome. Of more interest to Bayer was that he was planning to ride back to his homeland by way of the old road, the one used by pilgrims during Catholic times. He’d mentioned something to the innkeepers about a meeting at the border in two days’ time, and that was why he had to depart so suddenly.

Nils Bayer cursed as he rode out of town. The Swede had a whole day’s head start. His only consolation was that the other man was heavily laden, which would prevent him from maintaining any great speed. Besides, he’d have to stop occasionally and take detours so other travelers wouldn’t see the cadaver on his horse. Still, Bayer would be forced to ride all night to have any chance of catching up with the man.

*   *   *

Of course, the story of a meeting at the border might be nothing but a lie, and the Swede could have taken any number of different routes back to his homeland. But it somehow fit with the picture that had begun to take shape in Bayer’s mind. Besides, he had no other choice but to gamble everything on the toss of this particular coin.

Early the next morning he arrived at the river in Stjørdalen. From there he followed the trail on the north side of the valley, heading toward Sweden. He was more exhausted and achy than the horse he was riding, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone for so long with only water to drink. But he was determined not to give up or to allow his steed to rest until he had searched the whole of Stjørdalen, all the way up to the copper mines at Meråker.

He almost made it through the entire day without resting, and he was close to fainting when he reached a good-sized farm just before Meråker. He decided to stop and ask for a small glass of beer.

He was feeling both resigned and thirsty. He was near the border, and he feared that the Swede had slipped away with the corpse. Perhaps he should ask for more than just a small glass. Bayer wished he could drown his sorrows, but he knew they were much too good swimmers for that.

*   *   *

“Beer is in short supply up here in the valley at this time of year,” said the farmer. “You should come back in the fall, and we’ll show you that our beer is just as good as any you can get in town. But if you’re thirsty, we have something else to offer a traveler.”

“And what might that be?” asked Bayer, hope in his voice.

The farmer went into the house and soon returned with two hefty glasses.

“Genuine Swedish herb aquavit,” he said with a smile and handed one glass to Bayer. “We went to the market this past spring, and we’ve been saving this for our most distinguished visitors.”

Bayer knew that up here in the valley his elegant Dano-Norwegian speech was enough to make him an honored guest in anyone’s home. Especially when they heard that he had nothing to do with the mining operations. No one here knew about his meager circumstances back in town, and they paid no attention to the stains or mended patches on his vest. Here he was an educated man, a man of stature.

He thanked the farmer politely for the aquavit. He had an urge to down it in one gulp, but he restrained himself. The farmer expected Bayer to show a certain refinement in return for the hospitality, and he intended to comply, at least with the first glass.

They drank a toast and then took a polite swig of the liquor. It warmed Bayer’s whole stomach, seeming to spread all the way out to his skin.

“Those Swedes indeed know how to grow herbs,” he commented.

The farmer laughed heartily.

“You haven’t by chance had any other visitors during the past day, have you?” asked Bayer feigning indifference.

“No. Weeks can go by in between visits from townsfolk,” said the farmer. “And travelers to and from the mines never stop here.”

“I understand,” said Bayer. Then he offered another toast, and when he took another swig, which was bigger and less controlled than the first, he gave up all hope.

*   *   *

Four glasses later the farmer’s hospitality had reached its limit, and Bayer had no more jovial anecdotes to tell. Besides, the bottle of strong Swedish aquavit was now empty, and the police chief had no intention of staying the night on the farm. So he offered his thanks and led Bucephalus out to the courtyard and into the woods on the other side.

After walking alongside his horse for a short distance, he attempted, with much huffing and puffing, to climb into the saddle. It was then that he noticed how strong the Swedes brewed their liquor. It took him several attempts to mount the horse. Only on the fourth try did he manage to fling his leg over the saddle, but no sooner was he seated than he suffered a violent fit of dizziness, which could just as well have been the result of a lack of solid food as a surfeit of drink. Suddenly, he slid off the saddle on the side of the path where the land sloped down to the river. He fell to the ground and began tumbling swiftly down through the forest until he struck a tree trunk and lay still, unconscious.

How long he lay there in that passed-out state, he didn’t know. But when he came to, the twilight of the summer night had crept in. He could tell that he’d pissed his trousers and his face was covered with his own vomit. He was in miserable condition, and his only wish was that the night would swallow him whole. If it had been winter, he might have frozen to death there. He wondered whether that might have been an agreeable way to die and he cursed the summer. Doctor Fredrici had once told him that people who had nearly frozen to death said that, toward the end, the most pleasant sensation of warmth filled their body as the frost seemed to lose its grip. Yes, Bayer thought. That’s how I’d like to die.

That was when he noticed the campfire. At first he thought it was hovering in the air. Then he realized that he was lying on his back with his head pointing down the slope, and that what he saw was down by the riverbank. He got to his feet as quickly as he could, given that he was starving, hungover, and exhausted. Then he once again studied the landscape. Someone was sitting down there next to the fire.

Filled with excitement, he made his way back up to the path where Bucephalus, to his great relief, was calmly grazing. He tied the reins to a tree, took his gun from the valise, and set off down the slope again.

He approached the camp as slowly and soundlessly as he could. The last part of the way he crouched down to creep through the vegetation.

Then he stopped.

A man was sitting near the fire, his back turned to Bayer. It looked like he was cleaning some fish he’d caught, preparing them for his meal. A short distance away stood the man’s horse. And a little bit farther away was something lying on the stones. It was a big bundle wrapped in sailcloth. That had to be the body. Bayer had found his troubadour. With his right hand he pulled his gun from the pocket of his vest, taking a firm grip on it.

Then he slowly crept closer. As he was about to take his first step onto the riverbank, the sole of his shoe landed on a fallen branch, which made a crack loud enough to be heard over the rushing water. The man with the fish whirled around. But by now the police chief was near enough, and since he had a gun, he had the advantage.

“Kindly toss your knife into the river, my good man,” he said with a wry smile.

The man had been using a knife to clean the fish. He had no other weapon within reach. The man studied the gun Bayer was holding. Perhaps he was evaluating its quality and the likelihood that it might fail to fire if the gunpowder were damp, or the possibility that the gun might backfire and send the lead right into the pudgy face of its owner. Perhaps he also took note of Bayer’s disheveled state and how his body was far from athletic. Most likely he was assessing whether Bayer’s reflexes might be so sluggish that he could leap forward and knock the gun from his hand before Bayer even managed to pull the trigger. But after staring at him for several moments, the man apparently decided that in spite of everything the odds were in Bayer’s favor, so he flung the fishing knife in a high arc into the rushing current.

“What can I help you with, sir,” he asked drily. And Bayer knew at once that this was an adversary after his own heart.

Bayer looked at the Swede. His jacket was made from the finest velvet, and the collar of his silk shirt was cut according to the latest fashion. Even though his clothing had acquired a few stains after days of traveling, his appearance was still impressive.

“You serve a wealthy gentleman, as I understand it.”

“Forgive me,” said the Swede, clearly insulted. “But what do you know about me?”

“I know that a Swede who travels all the way to Trondheim to fetch a dead body would not do so just for his own amusement,” replied Bayer. “It must be profitable for you in some way. For honor or money. Presumably both. And that also means that someone has sent you and is willing to pay for your services.”

“So who are you?” asked the Swede, and now it was evident that he’d gained a certain respect for Bayer.

“Forgive me for not introducing myself. How tactless of me. My name is Nils Bayer, and I am Trondheim’s police chief.”

“Police chief. That means your duties include keeping order in town and checking the cargo that ships have on board upon arrival. Important work in the service of your king. But if I might inquire, what are you doing out here in the wilderness?”