When Schelderup Hall loomed into view at ten to three, I was the last of those invited to arrive at the reading. Synnøve Jensen arrived just ahead of me; she had rounded the hill and disappeared in through the gate. The other cars were, as far as I could remember, parked in precisely the same places as last time. And when I came into the dining room, the ten supper guests were all sitting in their usual places. Magdalon Schelderup’s chair stood empty, but his rule was still evident in the house.
The bourgeois etiquette for receiving guests had been followed to the letter. Coffee, cakes and sherry had been put out on the table, but no one made any move to help themselves and no one said a word. It seemed to me that the silence was almost as oppressive as when I came into this room for the first time. I went over and stood by the window. It was almost a relief when I saw Edvard Rønning Junior park his car at four minutes to three, and then walk up towards the front door with his rolling gait, a file tucked under his arm. I had to hold back my laughter when the dogs’ furious barking made him jump a couple of feet into the air. But he managed nonetheless and quite impressively to keep a tight grip on the file. In the tense and somewhat false atmosphere that prevailed in the room, the pedantic young lawyer was absolutely himself and someone I could depend on – which could not be said for many of the others present.
Edvard Rønning Junior surprised me, however, in a positive sense, when he made no attempt to sit down in the empty chair, but instead remained standing at the head of the table. As expected, he started precisely as the cuckoo clock on the wall struck three.
‘On behalf of the late Magdalon Schelderup’s estate, I would first of all like to thank you all for making the effort to come here today as requested, at such short notice.’
He received no applause for this, and so continued after his first forced pause.
‘It is no doubt known to all those present here that at the time of his death Magdalon Schelderup was married and had three living children, and a fortune amounting to more than 100 million kroner. In this situation he was free to divide his wealth as he wished, with the exception that each of the children should inherit a minimum of 200,000 kroner, as required by law.’
The lawyer paused again and leafed through his papers to find the will. Ten pairs of eyes were glued to his every move. I personally was having difficulties in deciding which side of the table to focus on. I eventually decided to watch the person I was most interested in and about whom I had the greatest doubt: in other words, the deceased’s secretary and mistress, Synnøve Jensen. She was sitting on her chair with impressive calm thus far.
