Read Online Open Grave: A Mystery by Kjell Eriksson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kjell Eriksson
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usually pleasant feeling of being indoors and able to observe the storm from a warm, sheltered position would not appear. On the contrary, she had an impulse to leave the house, expose herself to the foul weather, and let the rain and wind take hold of her.
Her father was in his study; according to Agnes he was spending several hours there every day, and did not want to be disturbed. God knows what he was occupied with. She had asked but didn’t get an actual answer, other than that he was tidying up old papers and notes.
At times she feared that he would not manage the onslaught of callers and journalists and then the ceremony itself in Stockholm on the tenth of December. She could see him wobbling up to receive the prize from the hands of the king, but stumble and fall headlong. Or, in the usual conversation on TV with the other prize winners, lose the thread and start rambling on about inconsequential things, something he was doing more and more often.
Birgitta had carefully hinted something about her apprehensions to Agnes, but she seemed completely oblivious, or perhaps she was pretending not to understand. She had just looked disinclined, with her slightly protruding eyes surrounded by a blackness that suggested a poor night’s sleep.
The fatigue that afflicted Bertram von Ohler seemed increasingly to spill over onto the housekeeper. But she’s no longer a youth, thought Birgitta. Last Christmas, when the whole family had gathered for once, she had discussed the issue with her brothers. Perhaps she should see about hiring a younger person? Agnes could obviously continue living there. Throwing her out after half a century would be heartless, on that they all agreed.
No decision was made, perhaps partly because it felt unreasonable to hire someone outside the circle of Anderssons from Gr ä s ö , who had served the family for almost seventy years. But there were no more sisters and no younger generation.
She decided to bring up the question again, now when Abraham and Carl would be coming to Uppsala. Agnes would surely protest indignantly but perhaps think it would be nice anyway to only work a couple of hours a day and let someone take over the main responsibilities. She had recently expressed a kind of cynical indifference about the condition of things, an attitude that would have been unthinkable before. Birgitta had looked for signs of whether this new attitude had left its marks in the house, but could not discover any. Everything was sparkling clean as before, the food preparation seemed to work irreproachably, and her father had not expressed even a word of dissatisfaction.
If Agnes had changed, then this also applied to her father to a large degree. The initial euphoria, the almost boyish delight about the prize, had been replaced by irritability. He was holding something inside, she was convinced of that, something that worried him. She had tried in vain to narrow down what it might be but had also been rejected by him, grumpily to start with but later, when she brought up the issue again, angrily and with an emphasis that made her mute with astonishment.
Her father was not in the habit of raising his voice, even if he sometimes sputtered a little. Often he was content to evade her questions. Then when he unexpectedly used that old harsh voice she relived for a moment her childhood and youth and remembered the occasions when her parents clashed.
Afterward he had seemed regretful, said something to the effect that he was stressed, but nothing else, no hint about what worried him. She knew him well and realized that he was withholding something.
Now he was rooting through his old papers, whatever use that could be, and barely answered when spoken to. He had even canceled playing bridge, an almost inconceivable measure. But he could not avoid dinner. In a weak moment, he had told Agnes that he regretted it immediately, he had invited Professor Ahl and a few other colleagues for a “simple
Her father was in his study; according to Agnes he was spending several hours there every day, and did not want to be disturbed. God knows what he was occupied with. She had asked but didn’t get an actual answer, other than that he was tidying up old papers and notes.
At times she feared that he would not manage the onslaught of callers and journalists and then the ceremony itself in Stockholm on the tenth of December. She could see him wobbling up to receive the prize from the hands of the king, but stumble and fall headlong. Or, in the usual conversation on TV with the other prize winners, lose the thread and start rambling on about inconsequential things, something he was doing more and more often.
Birgitta had carefully hinted something about her apprehensions to Agnes, but she seemed completely oblivious, or perhaps she was pretending not to understand. She had just looked disinclined, with her slightly protruding eyes surrounded by a blackness that suggested a poor night’s sleep.
The fatigue that afflicted Bertram von Ohler seemed increasingly to spill over onto the housekeeper. But she’s no longer a youth, thought Birgitta. Last Christmas, when the whole family had gathered for once, she had discussed the issue with her brothers. Perhaps she should see about hiring a younger person? Agnes could obviously continue living there. Throwing her out after half a century would be heartless, on that they all agreed.
No decision was made, perhaps partly because it felt unreasonable to hire someone outside the circle of Anderssons from Gr ä s ö , who had served the family for almost seventy years. But there were no more sisters and no younger generation.
She decided to bring up the question again, now when Abraham and Carl would be coming to Uppsala. Agnes would surely protest indignantly but perhaps think it would be nice anyway to only work a couple of hours a day and let someone take over the main responsibilities. She had recently expressed a kind of cynical indifference about the condition of things, an attitude that would have been unthinkable before. Birgitta had looked for signs of whether this new attitude had left its marks in the house, but could not discover any. Everything was sparkling clean as before, the food preparation seemed to work irreproachably, and her father had not expressed even a word of dissatisfaction.
If Agnes had changed, then this also applied to her father to a large degree. The initial euphoria, the almost boyish delight about the prize, had been replaced by irritability. He was holding something inside, she was convinced of that, something that worried him. She had tried in vain to narrow down what it might be but had also been rejected by him, grumpily to start with but later, when she brought up the issue again, angrily and with an emphasis that made her mute with astonishment.
Her father was not in the habit of raising his voice, even if he sometimes sputtered a little. Often he was content to evade her questions. Then when he unexpectedly used that old harsh voice she relived for a moment her childhood and youth and remembered the occasions when her parents clashed.
Afterward he had seemed regretful, said something to the effect that he was stressed, but nothing else, no hint about what worried him. She knew him well and realized that he was withholding something.
Now he was rooting through his old papers, whatever use that could be, and barely answered when spoken to. He had even canceled playing bridge, an almost inconceivable measure. But he could not avoid dinner. In a weak moment, he had told Agnes that he regretted it immediately, he had invited Professor Ahl and a few other colleagues for a “simple
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