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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
An art expert joins a detective to investigate a horrific murder on a Swedish island, leading them to a mystery rooted in Viking rites and Scandinavia´s deepest, darkest winter. The Queen of French Noir returns with a chilling, utterly captivating gothic thriller, based on a true story. FIRST in a new series. `A dark, dark slice of Scandi Noir´ Heat magazine *Book of the Month* `Gustawsson`s writing is so vivid, it`s electrifying´ Peter James `Remember her name. Johana Gustawsson has become a leading figure in French crime fiction [and] Yule Island is impossible to put down´ Le Monde ***Winner of the Cultura Ligue de l`Imaginaire Award 2023*** ________ Art expert Emma Lindahl is anxious when she´s asked to appraise the antiques and artefacts in the infamous manor house of one of Sweden`s wealthiest families, on the island of Storholmen, where a young woman was murdered nine years earlier, her killer never found. Emma must work alone, and the Gussman family apparently avoiding her, she sees virtually no one in the house. Do they have something to hide? As she goes about her painstaking work and one shocking discovery yields clues that lead to another, Emma becomes determined to uncover the secrets of the house and its occupants. When the lifeless body of another young woman is found in the icy waters surrounding the island, Detective Karl Rosén arrives to investigate, and memories his failure to solve the first case come rushing back. Could this young woman`s tragic death somehow hold the key? Battling her own demons, Emma joins forces with Karl to embark upon a chilling investigation, plunging them into horrifying secrets from the past – Viking rites and tainted love – and Scandinavia`s deepest, darkest winter… ________ PRAISE FOR Johana Gustawsson `Wonderfully dark and intricately woven … will have you hooked from the very first page´ B A Paris `Johana Gustawsson has become the queen of the French thriller genre´ Le Point `Intriguingly dark and vivid, and so cleverly told´ Essie Fox `A gripping story of murder and black magic …Gustawsson slowly weaves together three seemingly disparate strands of her narrative with a skill that shows why she is such an admired crime writer in her native France´ The Times `A wonderfully creepy, unsettling read, with a superb twist in its tail´ James Oswald `Bewitching and wonderfully gothic´ Sunday Express `Johana Gustawsson brilliantly illuminates the depths of the human heart´ Le Figaro `A whirlpool that draws you irresistibly into levels of darkness so much deeper than you can possibly be ready for´ Ambrose Parry `Ethereal, romantic and as cold as death, this nerve-shattering and powerful novel immerses us in a cruel and thrilling Nordic tale where love smashes against the rocks of madness´ La Fringale culturelle `A stunning and beautifully written gothic thriller´ Alexandra Benedict `Johana Gustawsson has no equal when it comes to hooking us with stunning twists and unexpected leaps in time´ Les Echos `A bold and intelligent read´ Guardian `Utterly compelling´ Woman`s Own `Brilliant … the last chapters knocked me sideways, and it`s a long time since that`s happened´ Lisa Hall `Cleverly plotted, simply excellent´ Ragnar Jónasson `A must-read´ Daily Express
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PRAISE FOR YULE ISLAND
‘Remember her name. Novel after novel, Johana Gustawsson has become a leading figure in French crime fiction. Yule Island is impossible to put down’ Le Monde
‘Johana Gustawsson brilliantly illuminates the depths of the human heart’ Le Figaro
‘Since the publication of her first novel, Block 46, Johana Gustawsson has become the French queen of the thriller genre’ Le Point
‘Gustawsson has no equal when it comes to hooking us with stunning twists’ Les Echos
‘A thriller that manages to astonish us … with a plot as complicated (and brilliant) as a four-cushion billiard shot’ L’Indépendant
‘Gustawsson enjoys taking her audience for a ride … She always finds a way to surprise her readers’ La Provence
‘Spellbinding. Ethereal, romantic and as cold as death … a cruel and thrilling Nordic tale’ La Fringale culturelle
‘A captivating story that grips you from the very first page and keeps you on the edge of your seat until the very end’ Nous Deux
‘This highly effective novel, set against a backdrop of Norse mythology, takes the reader on a journey inspired by the urban legends of the real island of Storholmen’ Télé 2 semaines
‘A breathless, spellbinding thriller’ L’Écho d’ Ancenis
PRAISE FOR JOHANA GUSTAWSSON
SHORTLISTED for the CWA International Dagger WINNER of the Balai de la Découverte WINNER of the Nouvelle Plume d’Argent Award WINNER of the Cultura Ligue de l’Imaginaire Award
‘A wonderfully dark and intricately woven historical thriller spanning three generations, The Bleeding will have you hooked from the very first page’ B.A. Paris
‘Gustawsson’s writing is so vivid, it’s electrifying. Utterly compelling’ Peter James
‘Cleverly plotted, simply excellent’ Ragnar Jónasson
‘This novel is a whirlpool that draws you irresistibly into levels of darkness so much deeper than you can possibly be ready for’ Ambrose Parry
‘Wonderfully dark and creepy, with a superb twist in its tail!’ James Oswald
‘The Bleeding begins with a truly macabre and ritualistic crime that leads back to mysteries in Belle Époque Paris and 1949 Post-War Quebec. Intriguingly dark and vivid, and so cleverly told through three different time frames’ Essie Fox
‘I was hooked from the first page – a stunning and beautifully written gothic thriller full of atmosphere, intrigue and delight’ Alexandra Benedict
‘A dark world of elegance and grotesque ... mesmeric’ Matt Wesolowski
‘What a brilliant, brilliant book … the last chapters knocked me sideways, and it’s a long time since that’s happened’ Lisa Hall
‘Harrowing, compelling, haunting, vivid, twisty and shocking!’ Noelle Holten
‘A dark tale of magic and murder, of witches and women – and an otherworldly tale you will not forget’ B.S. Casey
‘A real page-turner, I loved it’ Martina Cole
‘Bold and audacious’ R.J. Ellory
‘A gripping story of murder and black magic …Gustawsson slowly weaves together three seemingly disparate strands of her narrative with a skill that shows why she is such an admired crime writer in her native France’ The Times BOOK OF THE MONTH
‘Bewitching and wonderfully gothic’ Sunday Express BOOK OF THE YEAR
‘Assured telling of a complex story’ Sunday Times
‘Dark, oppressive and bloody, but it’s also thought-provoking, compelling and very moving’ Metro
‘A bold and intelligent read’ Guardian
‘Utterly compelling’ Woman’s Own
‘A must-read’ Daily Express
‘A relentless heart-stopping masterpiece, filled with nightmarish situations that will keep you awake long into the dark nights of winter’ New York Journal of Books
YULE ISLAND
JOHANA GUSTAWSSON
Translated from the French by David Warriner
For Lilas,
My writing fairy godmother
And so it begins
with a moonrise
kissing the edges of the eastern sea
harvest sized
Red horizon seeking me
I am right here,
as ever.
Open arms.
Ready for the first rush of night
This is how it always begins
with a moonrise,
by a sea
and my open heart
—‘And So It Begins’ from Seachanger: Wave Weaver
by Sussi Louise Smith
Contents
Author’s Note
Storholmen is a car-free island in the Stockholm Archipelago in Sweden. A manor house was built there at the turn of the twentieth century, and rumour has it, it’s haunted. It’s a five-minute boat ride away from my home, and I’m about to take you there.
Are you ready?
Wrap up warm. It’s cold outside.
1
Karl
29 December 2012
This morning I opened my eyes to the nape of my wife’s neck and a tangle of strands. My nose fumbled its way to the heart of the messy matter. I parted her curls with my breath to find her skin. And with just the tips of my lips, I kissed her. Again and again, until she quivered. I paused to savour the morning lushness of her mouth, that dewy sound it makes. Then I started all over again.
An hour and twenty minutes later, I’m here on the island of Storholmen, on the other side of the bay. A majestic evergreen towers proudly in front of me, sprinkled with frost like something out of a Christmas story.
The nape of the neck I’m looking at now hangs from the branches.
The icy air burns the back of my throat like a shot of snaps.
I free my boots from the grip of the compacted snow with a struggle and move in for a closer look. The rope has lifted her blonde hair up to her cheeks. It looks like there are two clownish tufts sprouting from her ears. She’s dangling from a low branch, practically right up against the trunk of the tree, her feet hovering thirty centimetres off the ground.
I place my thumb and index finger on her shoulder. The latex of my gloves sticks to her frozen skin and, for a few dilated seconds, all I see is the mauve of my fingers, a glaring blemish on an immaculate backdrop. Cautiously, I rotate the body towards me. The rope creaks on the branch.
Her eyes are wide open.
I close mine for a moment. She’s young. Good God, she’s so young. A child. Fourteen, fifteen years old at most. Under the tangle of hair and the rope, there’s a leather cord. Attached to it, like an oversized pendant, is a pair of open scissors; one of the tips has nicked her bare breast – the one on the same side as her heart. A great deal of blood has flowed from the gaping cuts on her inner thighs, right at the femoral arteries. The lines are clean and smooth, sliced with seemingly surgical precision.
I crouch down to look at her feet. What I had mistaken earlier for a twig caught between her toes is in fact a black thread, binding her big toes together in a symbol of infinity that twists and turns as the body sways in the wind.
They have to cut her down now. They have to stop this child from hanging there. They have to lay her down on the ground and cover her up.
A crime-scene technician pokes his head out from the skirt of tree branches. He doesn’t bother to get up, just motions for me to join him. What else – what worse thing – could be lurking there for us to find beneath this tree?
I nod, gulp, and clear the dry air from my throat with a cough, then I get down on my hands and knees and follow him under the tree’s skirt.
It suddenly occurs to me that, since I got here, I’ve heard nothing around me other than the swishing of our coveralls and the crunching of our boots in the snow. A hushed, ominous soundtrack playing in the background. No one says a word. No one dares to. Something about this island unsettles me deeply. I feel like I have to mute the sound of my movements. And my thoughts. It’s like I’m advancing in enemy territory, finger poised on the trigger of my gun.
Storholmen has imposed a silence on the muted crowd that surrounds me. A crowd that stands here listening to that silence, as to the calm before a storm.
2
Emma
22 November 2021
I pull the patchwork shawl I sewed for myself at Christmas over my shoulders and duck through the kitchen window with a steaming mug in my hand. My minuscule balcony – more of an alcove in the building’s roof, really – is just big enough for me to sit out on and enjoy my morning coffee or sip a French 75 with a friend.
I barely slept a wink. The fear, trepidation and doubt all kept me awake. But also, I have to admit, the giddiness about these few weeks I’ll be spending on Storholmen. I don’t know if I’m up to the task I’ve been given. I honestly don’t.
I swaddle my legs in wool and as I take a first scorching sip, I look down at the old city, which didn’t get much sleep either. Stortorget Square buzzes day and night, like it’s echoing with the steps of the conquerors who’ve crossed it over the ages. Down there, five centuries ago, eighty-two heads chopped off by a Danish tyrant sparked the Swedish resistance and ultimately heralded our independence. The imprint of time is everywhere, from the vivid heritage façades that were built to be as narrow as possible to outsmart the taxman, to the cobblestones polished by horses’ hooves and the blood of the defeated. I revel in this living museum – when I get out of bed in the morning and when I get home from work at night.
Suddenly, my phone sparks to life, its light spoiling my ritual.
I glance at the screen and instinctively close my eyes.
I know I shouldn’t pick up. But still, I answer the call.
‘It’s five in the morning, Mum.’
Silence, then a clucking of her pasty tongue against her palate and a smooching as she parts her lips.
‘I have to get going soon, Mum. I —’
A dull thud makes me flinch. She must have had a fall.
Then I hear her mucousy cackle on the other end of the line.
‘Swee … tie,’ she drawls drunkenly.
‘I’ve got a hard day ahead of me, Mum.’
‘Ha … ppy … bir… thday … to … you …’
She’s singing.
I feel sick to my stomach.
‘Ha … ppy … bir… thday … dear … Em … ma …’
I cough to keep my tears at bay.
‘You’ve got the date wrong, Mum,’ I mutter.
I hang up and duck back inside the kitchen window, then I dash to the bathroom and give in to the nausea.
‘Mild out, isn’t it?’ says the water-taxi driver, sweeping away the white strands the wind keeps blowing across her face.
My reply is drowned out by an infant’s cry so shrill it makes me squint, as if my optic nerve were directly connected to my eardrums. On the other side of the cabin, a teenager with headphones in his ears is oblivious to this assault on the senses.
The woman at the helm – Lotta, her badge says – erupts with a hearty laugh that smothers the baby’s laments and sets the dad at ease. Any more and he’d be ready to throw the kid overboard.
‘It is,’ I reply as a matter of course. Making small talk about the weather is our national sport. There’s a hint of blue sky amidst the grey. It’s warm for November, almost a springlike morning. ‘Nine degrees – that’s pretty much a summer’s day!’ my boss at Von Dardel’s would smirk, with a soupçon of a French accent. Charlotte von Dardel’s directness is refreshing. It makes a change from the convoluted Swedish politeness. Every ‘no’ is buried beneath so many layers of ‘maybe’, it takes a lot of digging to get there.
My career owes everything to Charlotte. All the women I’ve worked for before were so hung up on masculine ideals of success, they wore themselves out trying to prove they had the biggest proverbial you-know-what to swing around. But there’s nothing misogynistic at all about the way Charlotte coaxes me up the ladder. There’s rarely any parity or sisterhood in the world of work. Always enemies, never allies, the women I’ve encountered have been the first to pull up the drawbridge to protect whatever little ground they’ve fought tooth and nail to gain. In Charlotte von Dardel’s eyes, sex – the stronger, the weaker or whatever – doesn’t matter. Personality and competence are what really count. She judges people on the strength of their work, or how hard they hit, as she puts it, and their ‘adaptability’.
A few weeks ago Charlotte offered me a ‘fabulous opportunity’, the kind you can’t refuse at my age. And I don’t want to seem ungrateful – it really is fabulous – but this springboard of an assignment is also a test. A personal and a professional one. The Gussman family, whose collection I’ve been asked to appraise, is the fourth wealthiest in Sweden. From what I’ve heard, their heirlooms could fill a museum. The thing is, this ‘fabulous opportunity’ means that I have to go Storholmen. To the manor house. Where the ‘hanging girl’, as people called her, was found.
‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Lotta exclaims, nipping my ruminations in the bud. ‘We’re only doing six knots, so it can’t be my sporty driving making you feel queasy!’
Her gaze falls to my bag and the laptop case. Her mouth forms an ‘O’ of surprise.
‘Ah … You must be the expert who’s coming to appraise the Gussmans’ treasures. I forgot you’d be here this morning. This centennial is quite the event for us, you know. Especially because we’re getting loads of grants to update the wharves and make a big celebration of it all.’
She marks a pause, unscrews the cap from a bottle of Ramlösa and takes a sip of the sparkling water.
‘Although, I wouldn’t be too keen about doing that particular job. Rather you than me,’ she goes on, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘Those Gussmans are a piece of work. If that Niklas could have his family coat of arms tattooed on his balls, he would.’
The dad glares at her. As if that kid of his, who’s not walking yet and can barely babble, could even understand that kind of language. Honestly, parents these days. They get so hung up about all their standards, rules and restrictions, which they’ll only end up dropping when they push out a second kid after giving the whole bloody world grief with the first one.
I laugh to show her whose side I’m on, and Lotta joins in, making me forget for a second about the silhouette of the island that’s emerging ahead of us.
‘You been here before?’ Now we’ve broken the ice, Lotta’s talking to me like we know each other.
I shake my head.
‘You must be the only one. Since the murder of the hanging girl, I reckon all of Sweden’s come here to see the place for themselves. We even had to bring in a booking system and set opening hours for off-islanders. The hordes of tourists were getting unbearable. People move to Storholmen to get some peace and quiet, not to be invaded. That’s why there are no cars on the island. There’s not even a corner shop. All we’ve got is Anneli’s café, Ett Glas, and in the summer she only opens in the morning. It’s a good thing we don’t have a hotel, otherwise it’d be hell on earth. That’s put some people off coming, but not enough, if you ask me. Sometimes, we get a few late in the season, before Halloween, but not this last couple of years, thanks to Covid. Honestly, too many people out there are voyeurs. Either that, or they’re bloody masochists. If you’re that afraid of death, why would you want to be around?’
I swallow to get rid of the lump that’s swelling in my dry throat.
Personally, I have no desire to be at the scene of the … the murder. And even less to be rubbing shoulders, potentially, with a killer who’s still on the loose.
Lotta manoeuvres the water taxi up to the dock and pulls a lever with a hand as wrinkled as it is agile. The gangway reaches out to the landing area like a metal tongue.
‘I wish you the best of luck, sweetheart. Coming here, you’d better not be afraid of ghosts.’
3
Emma
Twenty or so passengers are waiting on the south dock, in that early-morning kind of silence that extends the sleepy remnants of the night. This stream of islanders is ready to flow to work in Stockholm or on Lidingö – the big island next door that’s connected to the capital by a bridge. Some will be picking up their cars in Mor Anna, the small harbour on the north side of Lidingö, where the water taxi docks. What a rigmarole to put yourself through just for a bit of peace and quiet. They must really need it if they’re prepared to do all this travel, day in, day out.
The memory of another ferry boat suddenly sparks in my mind, this time in Marseille, aboard the age-old César: the short hop between City Hall and Place aux Huiles only took a few minutes, but it always brightened my day. They might have had sleep written all over their faces, but the people down there always had a spring in their step. There’s a fire that thrives in the Mediterranean spirit. Up here, we Scandinavians throw a blanket over ours to put it out. That’s if it even sparks in the first place. These dark nights will suck the life out of anything. Today, a little bit of that lively French atmosphere would really help me put one foot in front of the other. Literally, I tell myself, raising a hand in response to the old man waiting for me at the end of the gangway.
I give Lotta another smile and step off the boat behind the exhausted dad, whose kid has finally fallen asleep.
‘Emma Lindahl,’ the old man greets me, as if it’s written on my forehead.
He’s staring at me. Wild, snowy eyebrows perch like mountain summits atop his grey eyes. His mid-length hair is combed back from a broad face furrowed by wrinkles that lend him the presence of a warrior – which is somehow both reassuring and intimidating.
‘Björn Petterson. You ready?’ With a quick hand he smooths his beard, the tip of it tickling the collar of his parka.
‘Yes, I’m ready,’ I assert, thrusting my chin forward, adopting a tone and posture worthy of my title as a representative of the great Von Dardel’s auction house.
‘Off we go, then. Can I carry that for you?’ he offers, pointing to my bag.
‘I’m all right, thanks. It’s not heavy.’
‘As you wish,’ he says, clasping his hands behind his back and striding off up the hill towards the manor so briskly, it’s a stretch for my legs to keep pace. ‘It’s not that hard,’ he adds a moment later without looking up from the rocky path, ‘to get to the manor. From the south dock. Where are you from?’
‘I live in Stockholm.’
‘Ah,’ he replies flatly. ‘Lotta must have told you there’s nothing on the island besides Ett Glas if you want a bite to eat. I’ll let Anneli know you’re here, because Gussman’s not known for his hospitality, and something tells me you’re not the type to cart a Thermos and a lunch box around with you.’
I’m about to protest when my heels and blood-red lipstick draw a smile out of me. If I were him, I’d make the same assumption.
‘Thanks, that’s very kind of you.’
He mumbles something unintelligible in reply and quickens his step. I let him go on ahead, figuring we share the same desire for solitude.
A few minutes later, I’m adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder when I realise there’s not a single sound to be heard on the narrow path that runs alongside these charming, unassuming houses. No engines throbbing, no dogs barking, no children crying, singing, playing or yelling, not even the slightest hint of a hushed conversation. Nothing. Only the clicking of my heels and the clunking of Björn’s boots on the rocky surface. The silence makes me want to raise my voice just to breathe some life into the eerie emptiness.
‘Here we are,’ Björn announces without warning. He points to a little gate to the side of the path.
I stop, and my heart leaps into my mouth. I can feel it pounding.
The lower portion of the grounds, to the rear of the manor house, are home to an English country garden where nature abounds exuberantly, unbridled by human hands. Björn opens the gate and enters the estate. I follow him, reluctant to tear my eyes away from the trees. I’m looking for one in particular. The hanging girl’s tree.
Grandiose, yet completely out of place on this understated island, the building towers like the stronghold of a ruler surrounded by the shantytown of his underlings. A double flight of four stone steps leads up to the main entrance, which sits beneath a semi-circular portico flanked by ivy-clad columns. Two lion-shaped knockers adorn the austere wooden front door.
Björn reaches through the vegetation to press a hidden doorbell, and we wait. After a few minutes, the door opens to reveal a man in his early forties.
This must be Niklas Gussman. The very picture of an heir to the family fortune, only too proud to show off his coat of arms, just like Lotta joked. Fair hair slicked back and greying at the temples, subtle wrinkles, white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows to show off his tan and the timepiece that leaves no doubt about the depth of his inherited pockets.
‘Splendid,’ he purrs, his face devoid of all expression.
Björn gives him a gruff nod and disappears.
‘Follow me,’ the man says, his voice as gravelly as the stuff crunching beneath Björn’s retreating boots, leaving me to shut the door behind myself.
I do as he says. I slip off my shoes, and he leads the way across an entrance hall that’s tiled like a chess board.
I’m dying for this man to look at me and introduce himself. I want to ask him not to treat me like his subject. It’s like he’s in a different century. The inappropriateness of some clients can be shocking. Keeping my mouth shut is what takes the greatest toll on me in my line of work. Managing to bite my tongue and not speak my mind.
Niklas Gussman ushers me into a drawing room that looks out onto a French formal garden punctuated by majestic trees. Two pools, which must be fifty metres long, flanked by tunnels of greenery, draw the eye seaward. My host plucks a cardboard folder from a sleek writing desk and hands it to me without inviting me to sit. I wait politely for him to invite me to open it, but he remains tight-lipped and looks at me inquisitively.
There’s nothing intrusive or provocative about his gaze. Rather, Niklas Gussman seems to be examining me, as if he were the appraiser here, and I were one of the objects being appraised.
‘So you’re the one Christie’s has to thank for the 450-million-dollar sale of their Salvator Mundi in 2017,’ he says abruptly.
‘That is correct, sir,’ I reply, regaining some composure.
‘You were still in your twenties at the time. A stroke of luck, perhaps?’
I smile to keep the sarcasm on the tip of my tongue. ‘Like Thomas Jefferson, I’m a great believer in luck, and I too find that the more I work, the more I have of it.’
‘Why leave Christie’s for Von Dardel’s on the heels of such a triumph?’
‘Von Dardel’s is twice as historic an institution, and by far the most prestigious auction and appraisal house in the Nordic countries. Not to mention that Ms von Dardel doubled my salary and offered me an obscene signing bonus.’
His eyes are still on me. It’s impossible to decipher the message they’re sending. For a second I even wonder if Gussman is going to tell me to leave. His next words make me instantly regret my boldness. My arrogance.
‘This document sets out the schedule for your visits to the manor and the order in which you are to proceed. You will also find a map showing the layout of the premises.’
Niklas Gussman moves to the doorway, clearly to see me out.
‘Your time at work here begins this afternoon at two-thirty. Knock twice to make yourself known before you enter. If you have a question, write it down on a piece of paper and leave it on the dresser in the hall. I shall leave my answer for you the next day.’
The smile I give him is certainly more curt and less amenable than politeness would require, but I’m at my wit’s end.
As soon as I’m alone, out by the front steps, I open the folder and glance at its contents. It gives me a sinking feeling: the time slots are six hours at the most, and some are split in two. Bloody hell. I’ve worked with eccentric clients before, but none as controlling as this. There must be hundreds of heirlooms here for me to appraise. I’m nowhere near even scratching the surface of my assignment. Let alone being able to leave this wretched curse of an island.
4
Emma
Still five more hours to wait.
I’m more astounded than annoyed.
I thought I’d be able to access the manor house at my convenience, but here I am, twiddling my thumbs for half a day. I have no information to work with yet. Nothing with which I can make a start on the job. And there’s no point leaving the island and going home, or even dropping into the office for an hour or so.
So, I’ve taken Björn’s advice and retreated to Ett Glas, the only place for non-islanders to go. The café sits right on Storholmen’s south dock. It boasts a spectacular view across the water to the shores of Djursholm, which is Stockholm’s, and Sweden’s, swankiest and most exclusive suburb. It’s where most of my colleagues are bringing up their children.
I’m sitting in the bay window, the closest spot to the sea – and to the sun, which is always too eager to make itself scarce in the autumn. There’s a work of art on the wall across from me. It’s captivating. It looks like something Séraphine de Senlis might have painted. She was a housekeeper whose immense talent was discovered only by chance. She used to hide away and paint by candlelight, and would often etch her signature on her works with a knife. She ended up alone, like her contemporary Camille Claudel, descending into delusion and eating grass and all kinds of rubbish.
‘What do you think?’
The waitress is beside me. I didn’t hear her coming. She digs her hands into the pockets of her embroidered apron and joins me in contemplating the painting. There’s something both sad and powerful about it. The leaves on the painted tree look like they’re having one last dance in the wind before dying.
‘It’s magnificent.’
‘Really?’ She gives a bashful little laugh that creases the corners of her bright eyes and brings out her dimples.
‘Ah, you painted it,’ I smile, touched by her coyness.
She slowly nods, keeping her eyes trained on the painting. Then she turns to me. ‘Are you ready to order? Or should I give you a few more minutes?’ She gives me a smile that’s more genuine than businesslike and sweeps a lock of red hair behind her ear.
‘I’ll have a latte, please.’
‘Anything to nibble on?’
‘Maybe later, thanks. I’m going to hog this table for a while, if you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all.’
She draws a sharp breath, as if to add something, or voice a thought, perhaps. But she thinks better of it and gives me another smile instead, a briefer one this time, before returning behind the bar. The espresso machine starts hissing. There’s a clinking of porcelain on the counter. And a comforting waft of freshly baked bread that makes me wish I’d ordered more than just coffee.
I can see Lotta, now, at the helm of her water taxi, pulling up to the dock. In that same moment, a portcullis of sunbeams descends onto my table, bringing the grain of the wood alive and revealing the scars of time. I wonder what treasures are hiding in the collection the Gussmans have neglected for the last century.
‘Here you go.’ I’m almost startled to find a frothy latte in front of me, as well as a golden-brown bun sprinkled with pearl sugar.
‘I couldn’t resist bringing you a saffransbulle,’ says the waitress, her eyes sparkling hungrily. ‘They’re fresh from the oven. It’d be a sin not to try one.’
I’m about to thank her when she carries on.
‘You … you’re here to appraise the collection at the manor, if I’m not mistaken? News travels fast. There are fewer than three hundred of us on the island, you see.’
She slaps herself on the forehead, sweeping back a cascade of red locks as she does so, before they fall gently back on her shoulders.
‘Sorry, I’m forgetting all my manners. I haven’t even introduced myself. Anneli Lund. I own the café. Björn told me you were coming. I should have led with that, shouldn’t I?’
We exchange a smile. This woman is as radiant as Niklas Gussman is impenetrable.
‘I should have introduced myself too. Emma Lindahl. And yes, I’m the lucky one who gets to venture into Ali Baba’s cave.’
‘What a fabulous, unique experience that’s going to be for you – all alone, surrounded by the treasures of Niklas’s great-grandfather. The manor’s only been standing for a century – but what a century! Gustav Gussman was an insatiable collector, you know. And he moved in many of the artists’ circles in the Roaring Twenties. People compare him to the Great Gatsby, what with his panache and his penchant for extravagances. I bet you’ll find some incredible heirlooms – priceless ones too, probably.’
Her gaze drifts out to sea.
‘The centenary of the manor is next year. Everyone here’s hoping that it will make people forget about …’ She shakes her head, like she’s looking for the right words ‘… the tragedies that have haunted this place.’
I nod in silence and take another sip of my latte.
‘Did Niklas Gussman mention the story about his great-grandfather?’ she continues, on something of a lighter note.
I want to reply that he’s not the type to make conversation, but I settle for a shake of the head.
‘Apparently, Lenin was desperate for foreign currency to fill the Revolution’s coffers with. So Old Man Gussman seized the opportunity, as the story goes. Something about chartering a ship and moving priceless treasures out of Russia. He even used to tell people how the Bolsheviks came after him when he left Saint Petersburg! So it might be a bit of a headache tracing the provenance of some of those works. I don’t mean to put you off, though.’
It’s a quarter past two when I leave the café and make my way back up to the manor house. The weather has freshened, a sign that the sun will soon be taking its leave. Legs numbed and face reddened by the cold, I walk faster to try and warm myself up.
As I enter the estate, I try to think about the work ahead of me, keen to create a buffer against the drama that played out here.
I give two raps of the knocker, as Niklas Gussman asked me to, and push open the front door.
While I’m removing my shoes, I go over the floorplan again in my mind. Through the hall to the doors that lead to the French formal garden, turn left, down the corridor to the central staircase, up two floors, turn right. And then the room I’ve been given access to for the next three hours is behind the fourth door on the right.
The marble stairs are covered in a red tongue of a carpet that warms my feet after the chill of the chessboard tiles in the hall. Upstairs, I’m surprised: the ceiling can’t be much more than seven feet high. That seems very low to me, compared to the ground floor.
I’m just about to open the fourth door on the right when there’s a bloodcurdling scream, followed by a crash.
5
Viktoria
The scream makes me jump, and a few pieces of the silverware that I’ve arranged meticulously on the tray tumble to the floor with a crash that makes me close my eyes and clench my teeth.
För helvete. For God’s sake.
With my luck, ‘Madam’ as she insists I call her, is going to lecture me for an hour now. And she’ll be right to. These screams come out of nowhere, and I always let them catch me by surprise. They’re never like one of those arguments that’s clearly getting heated, the kind of thing you can hear coming so you make yourself scarce. No, these screams erupt suddenly, like claps of thunder.
I set the tray down at my feet and inspect each piece of cutlery one by one to make sure nothing is damaged. I’m going to have to polish them again. What else can I do? I can’t put them away as if nothing happened, knowing some have fallen on the floor. Not the silverware engraved with the initials of the great Gussman family. I’m sure Madam wouldn’t notice a thing, but I like to do a job well.
I carry the tray to the solid oak table in the kitchen and set about the task once more, in front of the big picture window.
What an amazing view this is. With its formal French garden reaching seawards and its wooded grounds to the rear, the Gussman manor house truly has nothing to envy the Grand Hôtel in Stockholm. It’s just as imposing. Not to mention the treasures this place holds. Obviously, I’m respectful and I try not to go snooping around where I shouldn’t. But the temptation is huge. This house is like a museum. Someone’s supposed to be coming to appraise all these treasures, but I haven’t seen anyone yet.
Last year, when my colleague at the Grand Hôtel told me the owners of the manor were looking for a live-in housekeeper, it piqued my curiosity, so to speak. The pay was enticing, as was the room and board in the servants’ quarters, which came with two bedrooms, a shower and a kitchenette. I was hesitant, though. There was no guarantee that Pontus would let us leave. He’s been very generous to my daughter and me, but he only thinks with what’s between his legs. This job was the perfect opportunity to keep my daughter out of his claws. I finally made up my mind when I got home one night to find Josephine in tears. The hand of God was guiding me. I had to leave without delay.
My references were impeccable. I’d worked for more than fifteen years in the royal palaces in Copenhagen and Stockholm. So Madam couldn’t help but take me on. I’m used to clients and their eccentricities. And I excel at making nothing of their whims. The nice thing here is that there’s only one family’s worth of those to deal with. At the Grand Hôtel, we had to place slippers at the end of the bed, just so, for some, fold hand towels in the shape of a flower for others, be sure to only let a tiny sliver of daylight find its way into some rooms and make sure others were bathed in sunshine. Not to mention the clients who insisted on only the finest Egyptian cotton or refused to drink anything but Evian.
Here, there’s only the ‘Duke’, as I call him, with his air of self-righteousness that comes with being from nobility, I suppose – it certainly makes me feel we’re cut from a different cloth. And then there’s Madam and their son.
The Duke is often away, and when he is here, he shuts himself in his study. He does nothing to care for his kid, or his wife. And so it falls upon Madam to raise the heir to his fortune. Some of the time she’s a mother hen; the rest of it, it’s like she’s just not there. I’m talking about their son as if he’s a five-year-old, but he’s a skinny teenager with a rebellious glint in his eye who wanders all over the place as soon as his mother turns her back. He sometimes reacts to things a little … unexpectedly, dare I say, as if he’s in a world of his own. But he doesn’t have a bad bone in his body.
Oh, how we all complain about the sleepless nights when our kids are little. But when the monsters under the bed turn out to be real, we’re the ones who have nightmares.
I inspect the silverware one last time. Satisfied, I place every piece back in the box. I run a finger over the leather I polished earlier. It’s as shiny as the day it was first opened, or so I like to imagine. I’d love to have been here that very first day, between the two world wars, although it must have been hellishly cold in the servants’ quarters back then.
Now I’m going to give the oil lamps in the salon the once-over. It’s quite the collection that’s been left to moulder. Later, I’ll move on to the tarnished silver brushes I noticed upstairs. Being surrounded by beautiful things and taking care of them gives me great pleasure. It gives me the illusion of riches and grandeur, and that’s enough for me. Personally, I’d struggle to let anyone else touch my things. No, the idleness that goes hand in hand with opulence, that’s not for me. I find it so hard to just sit and do nothing. And Pontus would never allow it anyway. He’d always be pestering me to come and pander to his needs.
Not having to cater to my husband’s ‘needs’ in the evening is one of my little pleasures here. Before I go to bed, I open the window in my room and enjoy my cup of tea with the fragrance of the night my sole companion. That was how I caught Madam in the act the first time, when I opened the window for a breath of air. I saw her walk across the garden in the inky night and vanish into the trees.
6
Emma
Waiting for the water taxi in Ropsten this morning I’m chilled to the bone. I did a couple of two-hour sessions at the manor house yesterday, plus one three-hour stint, and I came home exhausted. Still, it was dawn by the time I fell asleep, only to get up three hours later.
I’ve been going over to Storholmen to photograph, label and study the Gussman family’s treasures nearly every day for six weeks now. Six weeks of research and investigation, and amazement too, as I’ve feasted my eyes on huge slices of history. As well as a series of objects in pristine condition, I’ve laid my hands on a Botticelli that would fetch more than five hundred million kronor and a Ming Dynasty porcelain bowl that wouldn’t go for less than seven million. And I’ve only been through three rooms so far. Today I’m going upstairs. I wonder what riches I’ll come across there.
