Satellite People (2 page)

The host himself was now laid out on a sofa by the wall, just inside the door. He was dressed in a simple black suit, and as far as I could see had no obvious injuries of any kind. His eyes were
closed and his lips had a bluish tinge. I could quickly confirm that there was no sign of life when I felt for a pulse in his neck and inner wrist.

A large dark mahogany table set for eleven dominated the centre of the room. The roast lamb and vegetables had been served on porcelain plates and the undoubtedly excellent wine had been poured
into the wine glasses. But none of the guests had shown any inclination to eat or drink. They also had champagne, which no one had touched.

What had obviously been Magdalon Schelderup’s throne at the head of the table was now empty. The ten guests, silent in their Sunday best, had taken their seats around the table again. They
were all looking at me, but no one said a word. A swift headcount informed me that there were six women and four men. I noted a degree of uncertainty and surprise in some of the faces, but saw no
evidence of grief in any. Not a single tear on any of the twelve ladies’ cheeks around the table.

Eight of the guests I reckoned to be fairly evenly distributed across the age group thirty to seventy. They all looked very serious and impressively controlled. There were two who stood out,
each in their own way, and therefore immediately grabbed my attention, and they were the youngest in the party.

In the middle of the right-hand side of the table sat a slim, fair-haired young man in his late twenties, who was by far the most nervous person in the room. An hour had passed since the death,
and yet he was still squirming on his chair, his face hidden in his shaking hands. There were no tears here either, only beads of sweat on his temples and brow. It struck me that there was
something familiar about the young man. But it was only when he realized that I was looking at him and he took his hands from his face that I suddenly recognized him as the famous athlete, Leonard
Schelderup.

I had no doubt read somewhere on the sports pages at some point that Leonard Schelderup was Magdalon Schelderup’s son, then promptly forgotten. A year ago, I had myself stood on the stands
at Bislett Stadium to watch the Norwegian Championships and seen Leonard Schelderup fly past on his way to winning gold in the middle-distance race, his shoulder-length hair fluttering in the wind.
And I had been very impressed. Partly by the manner in which he allowed his competitors to pass, only then to speed up dramatically when the bell rang to mark the final lap. And partly by the
almost stoic calm he displayed during the thunderous applause when he passed the finishing line. I commented to the person standing next to me at the time that it seemed that nothing, but nothing,
could make Leonard Schelderup lose his composure – which was why it now made such an impression on me to see the same man sitting there, looking up at me with pleading eyes. He was only a
matter of feet away and apparently on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

The situation was no less bewildering when Leonard Schelderup then broke the silence, throwing up his hands and saying: ‘I don’t understand why he chose me to taste his food. It
wasn’t me who started the tape. I didn’t taste the nuts. I have no idea who killed him!’

Leonard Schelderup’s outburst seemed to ease the tension ever so slightly. No one said anything else, but there were sounds of shuffling and sighs around the table.

And fortuitously, I caught the first smile in the room. It was fleeting and a touch overbearing, just as Leonard Schelderup fell silent. A few seconds later the smile was gone, and I never found
out whether she saw that I had noticed. But I did. My gaze had swung almost instinctively a couple of places to the left to catch the reaction of the youngest person in the room.

At first glance, I thought it was my advisor, Patricia, who had somehow or other managed to sneak both herself and her wheelchair into Magdalon Schelderup’s home and had joined them at the
dining table. Then I started to wonder if it was in fact all an absurd nightmare. Only, I didn’t wake up. The ten guests who remained seated at the table were very much alive. Magdalon
Schelderup stayed where he was, lying stone dead on the sofa by the door. The young woman who sat to the right of his empty throne at the head of the table was of course not Patricia, though the
girl who was sitting there also had dark hair and the same deliberate movements and held herself in the same self-assured manner.

Only, as far as I could see, this young woman was fully able, and about half a head taller than Patricia, as I remembered her from the previous spring; and also somewhat younger. I had never
seen this woman before entering Magdalon Schelderup’s house. But somewhere, I had heard that his youngest child was an extraordinarily beautiful daughter, who left those she met
awestruck.

Her gaze was no less bold when her eyes met mine. Another fleeting smile slipped over her lips.

It was in those few seconds that I stood there looking into the eyes of the eighteen-year-old Maria Irene Schelderup that I realized there was only one thing to be done. And that was first of
all to gather as much information as possible about the death and the deceased from her and the other guests. Then I would have to hurry home and phone the number without a name at the back of my
telephone book. The number to a telephone that sat on the desk of Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann, the professor’s daughter, at 104–8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. I had, with a
hint of irony, written it down next to the emergency numbers for the fire brigade and the ambulance service.

III

I established the actual circumstances of Magdalon Schelderup’s death within minutes of my arrival. The ten statements were as good as unanimous.

Magdalon Schelderup had informed all those present, in writing, that he wanted to gather those closest to him for an early supper on the second Sunday of every month this spring. According to
his manager, who was present, this had been done in a formal letter dated 2 January 1969. The food and drink would be served punctually at 4.30 p.m., and it would be considered ‘extremely
unfortunate’ if not everyone was there, whatever the excuse. Those invited were Magdalon Schelderup’s wife, Sandra, and his young daughter Maria Irene, who both lived with him at
Schelderup Hall. Others who were in the family and shared his surname were his sister Magdalena, his former wife Ingrid, and his grown-up sons Fredrik and Leonard. Magdalon Schelderup’s
secretary, Synnøve Jensen, was also invited, as was Hans Herlofsen, his manager of many years. The last two people on the invitation list were an elderly couple, Else and Petter Johannes
Wendelboe, whom Magdalon Schelderup had known since the war.

All those invited had taken the hint and arrived on time to every Sunday supper so far. The first four had passed without any drama. Today’s, however, had started rather differently. All
the guests were sitting in their usual places when Mrs Sandra Schelderup put the food on the table at half past four. Once they had helped themselves, but before anyone had started to eat, they
were interrupted by the fire alarm, so they had all left the table and the room for a few minutes and gathered by the front door on the ground floor.

It was quickly established, however, that it was in fact not the fire alarm that had gone off, but rather a recording of a fire alarm playing on the stereo system.

Magdalon Schelderup had cast an evil eye around the table, but all the guests had categorically denied any knowledge of this humorous little prank. Their host had been unusually agitated and
annoyed by what had happened, and sat for a minute at least, deep in thought, without wishing everyone
bon appétit
. Then he had barked an unexpected command at one of his guests,
his youngest son Leonard, to test the food on his plate.

‘I have a suspicion that the food on my plate has been poisoned. I am sure that no one would disagree it would be of less consequence if you were to lose your life than if I were!’
had been how he put it. No one had protested.

Leonard had been visibly nervous and had tried to say that surely there was no reason to suspect that the food was poisoned. His father had curtly replied that in that case, there was no reason
to be scared of tasting it. After a couple more minutes of increasingly oppressive silence, the clearly terrified Leonard had eaten a slice of meat, half a potato and a piece of carrot from his
father’s plate. When the young Leonard looked just as healthy five minutes later and said that he didn’t feel any symptoms of any sort, his father had declared dinner served at six
minutes to five.

None of the other guests had reacted to the food. Magdalon Schelderup, on the other hand, had had an acute reaction, whereby his throat and mouth swelled up dramatically. Unable to talk, he had
waved his hands around and pointed down the table – seemingly at his two sons. His pulse had been dangerously high and racing, according to his wife, who had helped him over to the sofa after
the attack. He then experienced violent cramps and died only minutes later. Magdalon Schelderup had clutched his heart in the final minutes of his life. The guests all agreed that heart failure was
the most likely cause of death, though acute breathing problems were also a possibility.

The link became clear when the deceased’s wife detected evidence of powdered nuts in the meat still left on his plate. Young Leonard had covered his face in horror. He was so upset that he
was unable to say for certain whether he had noticed a faint taste of nuts or not, or if there had been no trace in the piece of meat that he had eaten. The fact that Magdalon Schelderup suffered
from a life-threatening nut allergy was well known to those in his closest circle. And for that very reason, nuts of all kinds were strictly forbidden on the property. Magdalon Schelderup had
always been a strict enforcer of this rule.

It was swiftly established that all the guests had known about his nut allergy and that nuts were forbidden. They would all have had the opportunity to sprinkle some powdered nuts on his plate
in the confusion that ensued after the fire alarm. They were the only ones who could have done it. Magdalon Schelderup had given his staff time off during these Sunday soirées. The host and
his ten guests were alone in the house.

The food had been prepared by the host’s current wife, together with his former wife, who was also one of the guests. They sent each other scathing looks, but were in absolute agreement
that there had been no nuts, in any shape or form, anywhere near the kitchen when they were making the food. And there was indeed no trace of nut powder on any of the plates other than that of
Magdalon Schelderup. It therefore seemed most likely that the deadly powder had been added to the food after it had been put on the table. Which meant that it had been added by one of the guests,
who had come not only with powdered nuts, but also a strong desire to kill the host.

I spent the next three hours taking down personal statements from all the ten witnesses in a guest room on the ground floor that became an improvised interview room. At nine o’clock, the
deceased was collected by a police doctor, and I did not think there was much hope of getting any more from the ten survivors.

While it was quite clear to me that Magdalon Schelderup’s murderer had been sitting at the table, I still had no idea of where he or she had been sitting. And fortunately, neither did I
know that it would take me seven long and demanding days to solve the crime, even with Patricia’s help. Nor could I have predicted that evening that any of the ten guests from Magdalon
Schelderup’s final supper would follow him into death in the week that followed.

IV

I decided to start by questioning the person at the table who was closest in age to the deceased Magdalon Schelderup, namely his sixty-seven-year-old sister.

Magdalena Schelderup asked for permission to smoke during the interview. Given the dramatic situation, she seemed otherwise to be remarkably calm. Her body was thin and bony, and the firmness of
her handshake was a surprise. I noticed that she was wearing a thin pewter ring, which seemed oddly out of character for an older woman who by all accounts was very well off. However, I deemed what
I could not see on her hand to be more significant – a wedding ring, in other words.

In explanation as to why she still had the same surname, Magdalena Schelderup told me without hesitation that she had never been married. To which she added quickly that she had never had any
children either. The family had always been small, but now she was the only surviving member of her childhood home. She had grown up with an older and a younger brother. The younger brother,
however, had been weak both physically and mentally, and had died as the result of an illness in spring 1946. Magdalon had dominated his siblings ever since they were little. In his first two
years, he had enchanted his parents so much that they decided to give their daughter a name that was as close to their son’s name as possible.

Their father had also been a successful businessman, and the children had grown up in very privileged material circumstances. Following the death of the younger brother after the war, Magdalon
had taken over the running of the family business and quickly expanded. Magdalena had passed her university entrance exam and taken a two-year course at the business school. However, when her
parents died, she was left such a tidy sum of money that she could dedicate herself to her interests without having to worry about making a living. She still received an annual share of the profit
from her parents’ companies, which far exceeded her outgoings.

Magdalena Schelderup took a pensive draw on her cigarette when I asked if she had had a close relationship with her brother. Then she shook her head, slowly. They were in contact often enough
and shared a circle of mutual friends, but they had not discussed anything of a more serious nature together for the past twenty-five years. She had the impression that her brother seldom sought
the advice of others regarding important matters, and to a great extent followed his own beliefs and whims. He had certainly never asked his sister for advice in connection with business or more
personal matters. But she did claim to know him better than anyone else, all the same, having watched him her entire life.