I nodded appreciatively, and felt my pulse racing. Once again, there seemed to be much to implicate Magdalena Schelderup. I asked if there had been any contact since.
‘With Magdalena? No, nothing. Either she killed my husband, or understood that I suspected her of it. She was certainly wise enough to stay away.’
Mona Varden stood alone with her sad memories for a moment or two. Then a cautious smile slipped over her lips.
‘The others were terrific. I got money from the Wendelboes and Schelderup, so that I could stay here for the rest of the war. One day after it ended, Magdalon Schelderup himself came to see how we were, my daughter and I, and to ask how much we would need for the years ahead. He spoke to Wendelboe about it, and since then, they have deposited all the money I need into my account in January each year. I received 6,000 kroner a year from 1946 to 1951, then it was 8,000 until 1958, and from 1959 I have received 10,000 kroner every year. I have always thought that Magdalon suspected his sister but was not certain, and that he therefore showed a generosity that was not seen by many. Whatever the case, it was incredibly kind of him.’
I had to agree. It was incredibly kind of Magdalon Schelderup. And not like him in the slightest. Out of interest, I asked how long the money had continued to come into her account. Mona Varden looked almost ashamed when she replied.
‘I still get it. I wrote to them when my daughter moved away from home a few years ago, and said that I could now start to work again, but the money continued to come. It was around that time that Bjørn’s first grandchild was born. So I simply accepted the money and used the time to look after my daughter’s child.’
I could not think of any other questions, so I asked how life was for her daughter and grandchild.
‘As well as could be hoped. My daughter did not suffer the financial difficulties that many other children without fathers did after the war. But she did grow up without a father and things did not go as well at school as I had hoped, even though I got a private tutor for her for a while. Bjørn was not here and I was here all the time. I suppose she is too much like me and too little like him.’
She looked serious when she said this, but then she brightened up again.
‘She has a son who is three years old now. He is called Bjørn, and is so like his grandfather. Come, have a look!’
The boy in the photograph was very sweet and all smiles. However, other than the colour of his hair, I could see no noticeable similarity between him and the Bjørn Varden in the old photographs. But it was not relevant to my investigation and I trusted that Mona Varden was a better qualified judge of that. So in my friendliest voice I said that there was a remarkable similarity and that he was obviously a very intelligent little boy. She responded with a warm smile.
