A large dark mahogany table set for eleven dominated the centre of the room. The roast lamb and vegetables had been served on porcelain plates and the undoubtedly excellent wine had been poured into the wine glasses. But none of the guests had shown any inclination to eat or drink. They also had champagne, which no one had touched.
What had obviously been Magdalon Schelderup’s throne at the head of the table was now empty. The ten guests, silent in their Sunday best, had taken their seats around the table again. They were all looking at me, but no one said a word. A swift headcount informed me that there were six women and four men. I noted a degree of uncertainty and surprise in some of the faces, but saw no evidence of grief in any. Not a single tear on any of the twelve ladies’ cheeks around the table.
Eight of the guests I reckoned to be fairly evenly distributed across the age group thirty to seventy. They all looked very serious and impressively controlled. There were two who stood out, each in their own way, and therefore immediately grabbed my attention, and they were the youngest in the party.
In the middle of the right-hand side of the table sat a slim, fair-haired young man in his late twenties, who was by far the most nervous person in the room. An hour had passed since the death, and yet he was still squirming on his chair, his face hidden in his shaking hands. There were no tears here either, only beads of sweat on his temples and brow. It struck me that there was something familiar about the young man. But it was only when he realized that I was looking at him and he took his hands from his face that I suddenly recognized him as the famous athlete, Leonard Schelderup.
I had no doubt read somewhere on the sports pages at some point that Leonard Schelderup was Magdalon Schelderup’s son, then promptly forgotten. A year ago, I had myself stood on the stands at Bislett Stadium to watch the Norwegian Championships and seen Leonard Schelderup fly past on his way to winning gold in the middle-distance race, his shoulder-length hair fluttering in the wind. And I had been very impressed. Partly by the manner in which he allowed his competitors to pass, only then to speed up dramatically when the bell rang to mark the final lap. And partly by the almost stoic calm he displayed during the thunderous applause when he passed the finishing line. I commented to the person standing next to me at the time that it seemed that nothing, but nothing, could make Leonard Schelderup lose his composure – which was why it now made such an impression on me to see the same man sitting there, looking up at me with pleading eyes. He was only a matter of feet away and apparently on the verge of a nervous breakdown.
