Running With the Pack (29 page)

“In the twelfth century, they say, one of Lindhorst’s most evil ancestors lived here in an old castle, which was destroyed. His name was Björn, which means the bear. Björn, well, he was
berserkr
. You know, a man of unnatural strength and diabolical fury? And so you have in English “going berserk?” Well, it is said, he was often changing form. Sometimes appearing as an awful bear, or a wolverine, sometimes as a running dog, or a wolf, or a bloody snarling fox, sometimes as a cruel bird with terrible beak, or a bat, or even, they say, a spider or bloodsucker insect—for always he is sucking the blood—and that the form you see him in, well, it is the form you most fear in the creatures.

“Of course, what we are remembering, actually, is a very bloody landlord who killed and tortured his people. And so, they translate this into superstition and tales of horror. For, these
berserkrs
, they clothed themselves in the hides of bears, and so you have your horrid legends! But, perhaps, in olden days they really believed? As you see, the windows of this house, they have glass that you cannot see through, only the light. Well, that was to keep out the wild beasts, the monsters, who they hoped are not existing if they do not see them!”

Solvejg was now leading them upstairs to a long corridor lit by stained glass windows, where family portraits were displayed. Portraits were not an art form Fraser appreciated; they seemed to speak more of the vanity and egotism of the subjects than the talent of the artists. The assembled sombre visages of the von Merkens, sternly looking down from the huge gilt frames in dour Lutheran self-righteousness, did not break the mould; though, if Solvejg was to be believed, some were masterpieces by esteemed Norwegian artists whose grandeur, alas, had thus far been overlooked by the outside world. They were disconcertingly numerous and the meticulous guide was determined to say something about each in turn, working her way along from the founder, Ludwig. She paused before the picture of an effete, overweight youth in a feathered cap.

“And so, here we have a ghost story! Like in all your country houses!” She put on a hushed voice. “Well, the ghost of Augustus von Merkens, who you see here, who died of a consumption, it is said he walks at midnight . . . but he never passes the turning to the stairs . . . and, you know why? . . . Well, look!”

Heads turned in unison towards a portrait at the top of the stairs: it depicted a grim, humourless, middle-aged woman.

“Well, you know who we have here? . . . It is, of course, Birgitta Lindhorst, his wife’s mother . . . And so, he is too frightened to go past the mother-in-law, and so, he goes back to bed!” The party laughed uproariously.

“I thought these Nordic folk were supposed to be liberated!” whispered Fraser.

“A concession, I would think, to the plebeian sense of humour! . . . They’re a lot more liberated actually!”

“So I’ve heard!” he said, grinning.

“I’ve told you! She’s too young for you!”

Relentlessly enthusiastic, Solvejg reached, finally, a portrait of a red-haired woman of uncertain age. An oddity about her face, with its high cheek bones and prognathous jaw, crimson lips half-smiling, was that it just stopped short of being ugly, yet resulting in a striking, if somewhat sinister, beauty. Her prominent grey eyes appeared to scrutinise the viewer with rapacious curiosity. Her cheeks and brow were pale, as if the paint were fading, her throat long and white. Furs draped her broad shoulders. Her garments were voluminous, the shade of ruby wine. The painting seemed to occupy more space than necessary, as if positioned where once two had hung.

“And here,” declared the guide, “we have the last of the line, Sophia von Merkens, who died in 1945. A very beautiful woman, who tempted men to their fates. It was said of her that even when she was coming as an angel, she was walking as a demon!”

“Aha!” laughed Fraser, “Very liberated! A
femme fatale
!”

“It’s a form of empowerment!” hissed Eloise.

The guide was elaborating on Sophia’s dubious charms. “She was a Swede,” she concluded, as if that explained many things.

“What about
Anders
von Merkens?” interrupted Eloise, somewhat haughtily. “He was here in the War? . . . That makes
him
last of the line, surely? . . . I’m talking about her husband.”

“Ah, yes!” The guide put on her professional smile. “She was married to Anders, her cousin, the Baron. His portrait, it is being restored in Oslo.”

“Leave it!” whispered Fraser, nudging her. “Don’t start accusing the Norwegians of war crimes! That’ll go down really well!”

Their companions, mostly elderly Americans, were regarding her impatiently, anxious to terminate the interminable tour. Eloise made to speak, then stopped. Solvejg’s smile remained impregnable.

“So, our tour, it is over. The upstairs rooms are private offices for the university. Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Now we are going down to the restaurant for a cup of coffee. And, perhaps, a delicious cake of Norway?’

“Funny, that,” said Fraser, as they sat down with their espressos. “The name, I mean. Lindhorst?”

Eloise eyed him quizzically. “What?”

“Well, here’s an ancient rogue, banished in the seventeenth century by the family, and then the name comes back through intermarriage?”

“Yes,” replied Eloise, looking somewhat nonplussed. “But you know how it is with names! How many MacDonalds are there in Scotland?”

“Too many!”

They both laughed.

Eloise looked serious for a moment, as if to say something, then drained her cup. “I must find the curator, or whoever’s in charge. See if they can direct me to our friend. Finish your coffee.”

The minutes lengthened.

Fraser eventually located his daughter in the courtyard with a matronly woman, whose smart two-piece suit loudly proclaimed her custodian of the Barony. She appeared to be remonstrating, shaking her head, keen to terminate the conversation, his arrival prompting her departure.

“Meet our friendly curator,” said Eloise. “She didn’t seem keen on me meeting Nielsen. He lives in a cottage just on the other side of the park. I got the impression they’d like to see the back of him. He’s an alcoholic, by the way. It’s a problem here, you know? That’s why there’s so much tax on booze. Blame the long dark winter nights! And all the rain!”

“The more like Scotland, the more I hear!” groaned Fraser.

“Anyway,” Eloise continued, “I’m going to see if I can find him. We’ll meet up later.”

“No problem,” said Fraser, his spirits rising at the prospect of unalloyed solitude. “Let’s say back at the boat about five-thirty. We’re not sailing until nine.”

Fraser studied the map Solvejg had provided. The grounds were vast, rising to a narrowing valley, with high peaks beyond; much of it was pasture, with belts of woodland. The map was colour-coded, denoting public and private areas. Though the park and gardens, shown in green, were freely open, intriguing pathways tailed into the encircling forests—into the red zone. Fraser noticed a small church on the edge of the estate, separated from the house by a swath of red; it could not be far from where he now stood. Solvejg had mentioned the medieval stave church, St. Olaf’s, the oldest in Norway. The first priority, however, was botanical exploration.

The way to the lake led through a glade of rare trees, all neatly labelled in Latin. A bewildering profusion of flowering shrubs fringed its shores. There were sculptures and pergolas, a classical temple on an island. Fraser wandered randomly, defiantly treading the lawns, ignoring notices—
Tråkk ikke på gresset
—he could always say he didn’t know the language. No one was about, not even members of the tour party; the rose garden would be their limit.

Eventually he found himself on the threshold of a pine woods; a wooden gate marked the public boundary. He clambered over, into the red zone. The conifers thinned into a dreary glade, interspersed with scrub hazel and birch, like a recently felled area reclaimed by nature, rampant with nettles. The pines loomed, dark, dense, forbidding, their intoxicating resin scent suffocating in the airless wood. Sunshine flickered harshly through the dismal soughing trees, circled by restless fluttering rooks, their harsh caws unsettling. The place exuded a disquieting ambience, difficult to define, but dreadful . . .

Fraser was besieged by an unutterable desolation, an anxiety bordering on terror; a feeling, almost, of physical malaise. He glanced into the brooding gloom of the encroaching forest, imagining voracious eyes . . . What a terrible place to die! . . .

Rapidly, he retreated—out of the glade, over the gate, back to the sanctuary of the gardens. He found himself on an elevated path, lined by a laurel hedge. The path was veering right, away from the direction of the lake, back into the woods; the direction did not feel right. The red-circled notice confronting him was unambiguous:
Adgang Forbudt!

The map confirmed matters: here the path entered the red zone; he should have been lower down. It looked quicker, though, to proceed now straight ahead, through the wood, and pick up an alternative track that would bring him to the front of the house, to its courtyard.

In less than a quarter of a mile the trees thinned. The way back to the house, however, was less obvious than the map suggested. To his right was an ascending path; ahead, on a natural elevation, partly obscured by bushes, was an intriguing structure. He hesitated, then curiosity triumphed over caution. Curving steps led up through straggling shrubbery to a high stone wall, inset by an ornate metal gate. Another sign confronted him:
Gravelund. Privat! Adgang Forbudt!

Fraser stepped up towards the gate.

Two luxuriant shrubs, of an exquisitely ghastly beauty, overhung it, forcing him to stoop. They were of a species he could not identify. Twisting copper boles with striated bark rose up into olive-shaded evergreen foliage. The blossom was remarkable, as if illumined from within. The thickly-bunched outsize scarlet flowers had splayed-back petals and prominent stamens. The blooms were exotic, outré, almost horrible; they exuded a pungent aroma, swiftly transforming from the delightful to the disagreeable. Most disgusting were the strange appendages that hung from the lower branches, two on one shrub, one on the other, like cocoons of thickly-matted straw.

The graveyard, evidently a family burial ground, resembled nothing so much as a walled garden run to seed. Wisteria and ivy clambered riotously up the walls, choking bedraggled fruit trees. Most of the graves were flat slabs, tangled with briars, weathered, neglected. There was no funerary ornamentation, not even so much as a simple cross; doubtless, the Norwegians took all this business more soberly. Fraser perambulated idly, casting his eye over the inscriptions.

The graves were arranged in strict order of decease. The name Lindhorst, he noticed, featured on quite a few. Here at the very end of the line was the resting place of Sophia von Merkens: it, too, bore above her married title the name Lindhorst. Though his knowledge of the language was limited, he guessed the lengthy dedication on her stone outlined her lineage. Inscribed also was, presumably, her place of birth—somewhere in “Sverige;” the slab was badly chipped, the exact location obscure, except for the initial letter “R.”

It was a cheerless place, even in the bright sunshine. Fraser, moreover, could not shake off a sensation of being observed, which he could only put down to his act of trespass. On the rising slopes above, dark spruces loomed. The way back to the house, he recalled uneasily, had yet to be discovered. Time was already short. Hurriedly, he departed.

Brushing past the outlandish shrubs, he was distracted by a surreptitious movement in the densely tangled branches; something glittered in the shadows. The wings of whatever it was he had aroused whirred disagreeably towards him, and, in the seconds that it took him to think the bird extraordinarily large, he felt its beak slashing at his face. He fell back, protecting his eyes. The bird soared up above the graveyard wall with an eldritch cry, vast as an eagle. As he left, he saw to his distaste that in the fracas one of the cocoons had burst; perhaps the creature had been feeding. Whatever was teeming in the yawning crannies, he didn’t wait to look.

It took a disconcertingly long time to find his way back to the house, and he could not shake of an irrational fear that the bird might reappear. It had drawn blood, but only slightly so, beneath the left ear. By the time he reached the courtyard, the last of the party had gone. There was no minibus. It was almost an hour before he got back to the boat. There was no sign of Eloise.

Guests were already at the tables before his daughter arrived. She looked pale and perplexed.

“Sorry about this, I . . . ” Eloise gave a mirthless laugh. “Well . . . I got lost!”

“Lost?” replied Fraser, incredulous. “Anyway, any luck?”

“Well, yes and no,” she said uncertainly. “Look, let’s have dinner, and we’ll talk about it later.” She was trembling.

“Are you all right?” he asked, concerned.

She gave another hollow laugh. “I had a bit of a fright, that’s all. I wasn’t going to tell you.”

“You mean because of Nielsen?”

“No, no!” she said. “It was after I left Nielsen . . . ”

She hesitated, as if still weighing up whether to say more, then proceeded, very deliberately, as if retracing the memory in her own mind.

“By the time I got away it was getting late. I took a shortcut across the park, instead of going all the way back round. I was glancing up towards the house, thinking how lovely it looked in the evening sun. Then I saw something . . . An animal . . . Running down from the direction of those woods. I thought for a minute it was a fox—from the colour—but it was too big. As it got closer I decided it was some kind of a dog—but an unusually large one. There were sheep grazing—maybe it was rounding them up, or worrying them, or something. But it ran right past! . . . It must’ve been only a few hundred yards away before it dawned on me that it was
coming for me
! . . . Its eyes! They seemed to be blazing in the sunlight! . . . I don’t think I’ve ever been so terrified in my life! . . . It was a bit like one of those huge German shepherds—you know the type, all shoulders and no neck, shaggy fur—but that’s
not
what it was!”