Rites of Spring by Anders Motte (life books to read .txt) 📗

the tale of Elita Svart and her fate.

Did Elita persuade her stepbrother to kill her? Did she really have that kind of power over him? And why would a pretty sixteen-year-old with her whole life in front of her want to die on a cold stone?

The whole thing reminds her of a jigsaw puzzle. She already has a picture of what it will look like in the end; the challenge is to put together the pieces. Although of course this story is something very different from a five-thousand-piece Ravensburger.

‘I thought we’d call on Erik Nyberg,’ the doctor says when they’ve turned onto the main road. ‘He’s diabetic and is having problems with the sight in one eye. He still refuses to slow down, so I drop by occasionally, check his levels and make sure he’s taking his medication properly. Erik is the biggest farmer in the area, but these days it’s his son Per who runs Ängsgården.’

Per Nyberg, the smiling man with the tractor. Thea thinks back to last night’s incident, which she has absolutely no intention of sharing with Dr Andersson.

Out here in the country we help each other. We keep each other’s secrets.

‘Oh yes, I think David’s mentioned him,’ she lies. ‘Something to do with the castle, maybe?’

The question is innocent and so vague that it could be referring to almost anything. Dr Andersson doesn’t need any more encouragement.

‘That’s right, the Nybergs take care of the estate – they mow the grass, cut the hedges, clear the snow when necessary. They’ve done it ever since the foundation took over Bokelund. Per’s a good boy. Well, I say boy – Erik’s seventy-five, so Per must be in his fifties. He’s a bit of a local celebrity.’

‘Oh?’

The little nudge is unnecessary. Dr Andersson is in full flow; all Thea needs to do is sit quietly and listen.

‘Yes indeed! Per plays the guitar and sings in his spare time – he travels all over the area. He’s good – I’ve heard some of his songs on the local radio. Per and the little count are childhood friends too, of course.’

Thea has heard the nickname before, but the doctor misinterprets her silence.

‘The little count – Hubert Gordon. I thought you knew each other. You’re neighbours up at Bokelund, after all.’

‘I have seen him, but only from a distance. He tends to stay in the west wing.’ Thea thinks back to the night of the storm.

‘Yes, Hubert is something of a loner. Most people feel sorry for him – a lodger in his own castle. I assume you know the story?’

Thea doesn’t even need to answer. The doctor turns onto a dirt track between green fields; several large buildings are visible over by the edge of the forest.

‘The old count, Rudolf Gordon, married late; he was almost fifty when Hubert arrived. Unfortunately the boy bore no resemblance to his father, either in his appearance or character. Rudolf sent him to the best boarding schools in England, determined that Hubert should carry on the family traditions, but poor Hubert was a dreamer, and had issues with his nerves, like his mother. Rudolf gradually came to realise that his son wasn’t cut out to run a large estate, with all that entails.’ The doctor shook her head. ‘In the early Nineties, when Rudolf’s health began to fail, he set up the Bokelund Foundation and transferred the castle and most of the grounds. He also gave several hundred acres of land to the Åkerlunda monastery. Rudolf was a Catholic – I believe there’s a small chapel in the castle?’

The doctor raises her eyebrows, making it clear that this is a question.

‘Maybe. In which case it must be in the west wing; I’ve never been in there.’

They arrive at Ängsgården, passing a row of well-kept stables and storage sheds.

‘Anyway,’ Dr Andersson says. ‘When Rudolf died in 1994, Hubert received only a small amount of money plus the right to use a number of rooms in one wing of the castle for the rest of his life. Oh, there’s Erik.’

She nods in the direction of the farmhouse where an elderly man is leaning on a stick at the top of the steps. He is wearing dark glasses, a scruffy moleskin jacket and trousers that don’t match.

‘He was the old count’s administrator for many years – one of the few people Rudolf trusted. He’s been the treasurer of the foundation ever since the start.’

Erik raises a hand in greeting as they get out of the car. ‘Welcome.’ His voice is rough. ‘Erik Nyberg.’ The dark glasses hide his eyes, yet Thea immediately has the feeling that he’s examining her very closely.

*

Erik is small and sinewy, and there is an innate dignity about him. He’s polite, but doesn’t say any more than he has to.

The house smells of cleaning fluid. The wellington boots and clogs by the kitchen door are in a dead straight line. Erik Nyberg seems to be the kind of man who gets things done – and done in the right way.

He sets out coffee and cake while the doctor chats to him. The kitchen is warm. On one wall there is a tapestry of a Bible quotation, while on the others small oil paintings depict English fox-hunting scenes with horses and dogs.

When they are seated at the table a red-and-white spaniel appears and shows a great interest in both Thea and Dr Andersson’s shoes and trouser legs. The dog is well-trained and obeys its master’s slightest gesture. Thea sees an opportunity to get Erik to open up.

‘I’ve got a dog too – a street dog I brought back from Syria.’

‘Oh?’ Erik sounds interested.

‘Her name is Emee. She looks a bit like a cross between a greyhound and a dingo.’ Margaux’s description; not very flattering, but fair. ‘My colleague and I found her in a ditch outside Idlib. She was badly emaciated, so we took turns to feed her with milk substitute whenever we were off duty. We hadn’t intended to keep her, but as soon as