At one o’clock, an important part of the puzzle was solved when I received a verbal report regarding Magdalon Schelderup’s metal box and the letters inside. It was in part good news for Synnøve Jensen. Her fingerprints had naturally been found on the outside of the box, but they were old and unclear. The only fingerprints on the letters contained therein were those of Magdalon Schelderup. These technical findings did not prove Synnøve Jensen’s statement to be true, but neither did they prove it to be false, and that was what was most important here and now. The arrest warrant I had optimistically put on the desk stayed where it was, incomplete.
The greatest surprise at the police station, however, came at a quarter past one. A breathless constable knocked on the door when a letter arrived with the day’s post.
The address was in itself striking, the constable said. And I immediately understood what he meant.
The letter was addressed to ‘The head of the investigation into the murder of Magdalon Schelderup’. Of course, this was not so sensational in itself today, but became more so when it was established that the postmark on the letter was from Oslo on the day before Magdalon Schelderup was murdered.
The content was no less sensational. A simple folded sheet, with the following typewritten text:
Here, Saturday 10 May 1969
So the old dictator at the head of the table is dead.
Even the little miss to his right scarcely shed a tear when his life was snuffed out.
How soon, I wonder, will you manage to work out who put the powdered nuts on the roast?
If you do not soon raise that toast, there may be more deaths and fewer witnesses to boast…
I looked up at the constable, who looked even paler than normal. He rolled his eyes and said that I should just say if I needed any help. Then he beat a hasty retreat.
The letter was obviously written by someone who was familiar with the seating arrangements and menu at Schelderup Hall. As far as I could see, the letter had been posted the day before the murder – by a confident murderer who had laid a plan and felt sure of the outcome. I had every reason to take very seriously indeed the threat that more of the guests from Magdalon Schelderup’s last meal might be murdered. I sat and thought for a few minutes, in part about who the murderer might have in mind and in part about why the murderer had gone to the bother of sending the police a written warning.
