Later, in bed, Fraser studied the glossy brochure. Rdal was on the final day. Intervening visits were less alluring, though this was perhaps unfair: had his interests not been so obsessively botanical, there was much of promise, including a visit to Edvard Grieg's house, complete with special piano recital; and a trip to the "magnificent island home" of another nineteenth century composer he had never heard of, le Bull, described as Hardangerfjord's "best kept secret."

He must have dozed, for he was awoken from a fearful dream which had seemed to be happening outside the window, as if something were scrabbling at the pane. It felt sufficiently disquieting and real for him to get up and check. Drawing back the curtains from the half-open window, he was startled by a fluttering commotion: a large bird, a raven maybe, flapped up into his face, its beady eyes glinting in the moonlight. He recoiled in loathing. It was some time before he could catch sleep again.

Next day began with a tour of Bergen, the most interesting feature being the Mariakirken, with a fine medieval triptych and a set of exquisitely carved wooden statues of Christ and his disciples. There was John, the only beardless one, denoting youth and not, as crackpot theorists claimed, Mary Magdalene. A model of a wooden sailing ship hung suspended above the nave, a routine feature of Norwegian churches, indicative of the country's intimate connection with the sea; as were sarcophagi shaped like upturned boats. In the Museum of Modern Art they joined the gaping crowds before The Scream, Edvard Munch's dreadful paean to human angst.

The highlight of the day, however, was Grieg's villa, a few miles out of town. The great composer had chosen his domain well: the elegant wood-framed house was set in s.p.a.cious grounds, with stunning views to the hills and across Lake Nords. Everywhere there were trees. Inge was gathering them outside, like a fussing mother hen.

"Shortly, we are going into Grieg's fine house, to hear his piano played. He lived here for twenty-two years with his wife, Nina. It was Nina who named the house Troldhaugen, the Troll Hill, for it is up here in the mountains that the trolls lived, where the ashes of Grieg and his wife now lie in the cliff above the fjord. You have heard Peer Gynt, which, of course, is about Norway's legends? Peer, you know, is taken by troll maiden to the Hall of the Mountain King, where there is an orgy and, then, these troll girls, they want to kill him, for he is a Christian, but he is being too clever, and so escapes the terrible trolls."

"There's no end to them!" whispered Eloise.

"I think we've got one conducting the tour," he remarked, too loudly.

The guide paused, thinking Fraser was asking a question, then proceeded, "Grieg's grandfather, he came from Aberdeen in Scotland. And so, there are many saying his music is very Scottish, but it is the Norwegian inspiration really, all the hills and the forests. Many Scots they are descended of the Vikings, from when Norway was powerful. Nowadays, we are a peace loving people."

The cruise around Hardangerfjord proved more rewarding than expected. At Bakke there were Bronze Age carvings, depicting fertility rites, the rocks hollowed out to catch the blood of sacrifice. At Eidfjord was Norway's largest Viking graveyard, and a fourteenth century church built by one Ragna Asulfdatter to atone, so legend told, for the slitting of her husband's throat. At Espevaer they visited the Baadehuset, a stately residence of 1810, said to be haunted by the ghost of its creator, a conscience-stricken naval captain. Best was le Bull's eccentric retreat on the wooded islet of Lysen. The flamboyant, blue and white wooden villa, with its ornate fretwork and onion dome, was according to their ever-cheery guide the scene, on Bull's death, of the most magnificent funeral ever witnessed in Norway. It was, nevertheless, with the satisfaction of reaching a long-awaited goal that they arrived, finally, at Rdal.

As they waited in the fine morning rain to be taken to the Barony, Eloise was like a racehorse stamping at the starting tape, keen to find her wartime witness.

"What are you going to say?" Fraser asked. "People are funny about the War, you know, here on the continent. It's not like in Britain-all those jolly memories of the Blitz! . . . What did you say this bloke's name was?"

"I didn't. But it's Jonas Nielsen . . . Must be well into his eighties.'"

"The family's still here then?"

"The von Merkens?" Eloise gave him a thoughtful look. "No, no, not anymore. Anders disappeared after the War. No-one ever found out what happened to him. The Barony pa.s.sed to a distant member of the family in Denmark-an absentee landlord, a playboy. A hideout for his mistresses, basically! After that, it's the usual story. It fell into disuse, conservationists got going about national heritage, the government stepped in, and now it's run jointly with the University of Oslo. Everyone who lived and worked on the estate had the option to stay including, presumably, Nielsen."

The party was chauffeured up to the Barony through rolling park-land by minibus. The house stood in brilliant formal gardens; built of stone, painted white, with grey-tiled roof and mullioned windows; plain, una.s.suming, functional, yet with an elegant solemnity. It spoke of tradition, stability, of all that was fine and ordered, of continental gravitas; and, whilst calling to mind a baronial house of Scotland, was quintessentially Scandinavian. A park and lake stretched beyond, enclosed by woods. A stark mountain skyline completed the view. Fraser could hardly wait to explore.

First, however, there would be the conducted tour of the house. This he would have been happy to miss; they only had a few hours, and the last thing he felt like was listening to any more babble from the guide.

"It'll probably only take half an hour," Eloise protested. "Then you can wander round, and I'll see if I can find Nielsen."

The tour lengthened beyond the half hour, beyond three-quarters, beyond an hour. Thankfully, it was not conducted by Inge, who grinned and nodded throughout like a toyshop doll, but by an attractive young woman in her twenties, with brown, intelligent eyes and long blond hair, Solvejg, a heritage student from Oslo University.

"Keep your eyes off, she's too young for you!" Eloise cautioned, as Fraser smilingly signalled approval of their new chaperone.

Solvejg spoke with an American tw.a.n.g, blending curiously with the Norwegian vowels. Though her command of English was occasionally eccentric, she gave a professional account of herself, and was remarkably knowledgeable, even when asked questions.

Except in one respect: her detailed history of Rdal's owners, delivered outside in the courtyard, skated hazily over the War, leaving unmentioned its last and most controversial master; though the family's earlier tenure was lengthily described, and much made of the rakish playboy and the conservation story. All attempts by the inquisitive Eloise to coax her were politely sidestepped behind a bland public relations smile; and by this process of attrition, as the party became increasingly impatient, not helped by Eloise's insistent donnish manner, the matter dropped.

"Well, what do you expect?" he whispered. "Going on like an intellectual. People hate that! And I told you, continentals don't like the War!"

Rdal dated from 1665 and was granted the status of barony, the only one in Norway, by King Christian V in 1675. The house itself was extensively rebuilt in 1745 following a terrible fire, attributed by local lore to an ill-advised marriage. The gardens and park were laid out in the 1840s, amidst inhospitable wilderness. The first owner, Ludwig von Merkens, scion of a Danish aristocratic family, had been awarded Rdal for ridding the area of brigands, a.s.sociated with an ill-reputed n.o.bleman of Swedish ancestry, ousted amidst great bloodshed in 1664. The name of this renegade was Cornelius Lindhorst, descendant of a family going back centuries, linked with all sorts of primitive superst.i.tion and atrocious violence. Here their young chaperone had lapsed into a dramatic manner worthy of the garden gnome.

"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 Bjorn, which means the bear. Bjorn, 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y landlord who killed and tortured his people. And so, they translate this into superst.i.tion 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sembled 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 pa.s.ses 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 s.p.a.ce 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 sh.o.r.es. There were sculptures and pergolas, a cla.s.sical temple on an island. Fraser wandered randomly, defiantly treading the lawns, ignoring notices-Trkk ikke p 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, outre, 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 coc.o.o.ns 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 t.i.tle 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 trespa.s.s. 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 surrept.i.tious 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 coc.o.o.ns 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, s.h.a.ggy fur-but that's not what it was!"

She shuddered.

"To be honest, I've no idea what it was! . . . I just went into a panic and ran, no idea where I was going. I ended up on a driveway coming down from that old wooden church . . . Luckily, there was a car pa.s.sing-the minister actually-and he offered me a lift."

"Did he see it?" exclaimed Fraser. "Didn't you tell him what you saw?"

"I began to, but, I don't know, I suddenly didn't want to, it sounded silly. Anyway, it had disappeared . . . I know this sounds ridiculous, but the last time I looked back I could have sworn it was running on hind legs!"

"Nonsense! It was probably just a farm dog loose, that's all," he said, dismissively. "Some kind of Scandinavian breed."

"Dog loose or not," she snapped, still trembling. "You know I can't stand the d.a.m.ned things! . . . This was no b.l.o.o.d.y farm dog!"

Over dinner their conversation avoided matters unpleasant. Fraser enthused about the afternoon's botanical treasures, saying nothing about his own encounter with the bird. The business of the dog was dropped. His daughter, he noticed, ate with little relish and drank considerably more wine than was her wont.

Fortified by coffee and cognac, as the Edvard Grieg bore them down the silent fjord, they relaxed at last in the bar. Eloise returned to her tale.

"Nielsen was a servant in the von Merkens household during the War. A lot of what he said I couldn't quite get-he spoke in a curious dialect, and it was all very rambling. I'd like to think what he said was the ravings of senility, or alcohol. But there were too many plausible details. Anders von Merkens, as I've long suspected, was a collaborator. Quisling and other leading n.a.z.is were frequent house guests at Rdal, where Sophia was famous for hosting lavish parties. One night there was a terrible ma.s.sacre, exactly as Aker said."

"What, here at Rdal?"

"Somewhere in those woods. Nearby, there's a track into the mountains that leads eventually to a remote stretch of the Swedish frontier. The Milorg-the Resistance-were helping a party of Bergen Jews, mainly women and children, to escape to Sweden. But they were found out about it. They were rounded up and, well, they put them to death."

Eloise hesitated, as if hesitating to go on.

"It was worse than a ma.s.sacre," she continued. "It was some kind of blood sacrifice . . . The victims were strung from the trees, their throats cut and bled dry . . . Sophia von Merkens, if Nielsen is to be believed, drank of the blood . . . It was June 1942, second anniversary of the German invasion-there was a great banquet in full sway. There was a Swede, a businessman, a brother of Sophia's. An important man, Nielsen thought, from the way he was treated, the one behind it all . . . and there was more . . . "

She regarded her Remy-Martin. "I've suddenly gone off this." White-faced, she left the bar. Thoughtfully, Fraser pushed his own gla.s.s away. Other guests looked askance.

By the time they reached Oslo Eloise had recovered her insouciance; and her ardour for research had certainly not abated. Fraser was not at all sure that digging over war crimes was good for anyone, and he told her so.

"You said the authorities weren't keen on your inquiries. I'd keep out of it. You never know what might happen! I've told you, it's a sensitive topic."

"I can't leave it now. There's a file in the Archives I must get back to."

"What file? What about it?"

"Oh, it's a bit complicated. Remember I told you I'd discovered a misplaced file? I didn't have time to go through it properly before the university froze me out. You see, there's a correspondence file in the Ministry of Finance, its economic intelligence section, and it's to do with Quisling and the n.a.z.is, but it's marked as a top secret file from the Ministry of Internal Security-all their records were destroyed at the end of the War, so it's priceless . . . "

"So?"