Rogue's Gallery by Robert Barnard Page A

his lemon-sorbet sort of voice. We all began trooping out into the hall, but Frau Fjørtoft said off-handedly ‘I think I’ll give this a miss,’ and started up the stairs. Her husband did not react, and unlocked a door in a far corner of the hallway. We went into a small but light room, whose walls were full of engravings, lithographs, ink drawings and smallish colour pictures. All were versions of a weird-looking woman in a night landscape, her mouth open in a howl.
    â€˜As you will see,’ he said in his passionless voice, ‘there arewatercolour versions, lithographs, and so on, all variations either of the central woman of the picture, or of other elements in it. And we are always on the look-out for others,’ he went on, still curiously uninterested in his manner of talking. ‘There are still many such images in private hands.’
    â€˜Isn’t it exciting?’ said Ingrid, in her breathless, schoolgirl way. ‘Daddy says it’s one of the dominating images of the twentieth century.’
    â€˜And one day it will be yours,’ he said without emotion.
    So much for it being in trust for the Norwegian people. Since he could hardly be much more than in his early forties, that left him with thirty or forty years in control of the collection, with a like number for Ingrid later. Svein nodded, not commenting. And then he said:
    â€˜Are there any of these of especial value?’
    â€˜No. All are quite valuable, but their real worth is as a collection. Of course we let Munch scholars see them, if suitable arrangements can be made and watertight references are given.’
    â€˜I see. Now I think I should meet your staff, and see also the reason you have become uneasy.’
    Fjørtoft nodded, and led the way back to the hall. Here, though, he held back and let Ingrid take the lead, ushering us into a large kitchen, relic of the early twentieth-century lavishness favoured by Norwegian ship-owners who did well out of the Great War that their homeland did not participate in. The staff were seated round the table, eating their meal after preparing and serving the family meal. There were seven of them.
    â€˜I suppose you met Mats,’ said Ingrid, girlish still, but trying to be grown up. ‘He’s our butler, or major-domo, or general head man. And this is Chris Farraday, my governess and companion.’ She had indicated a young woman in her twenties – dark-haired, self-contained and intelligent. ‘She eats here because she’s trying to learn Norwegian.’ When Svein looked surprised, she added: ‘We don’t talk much at dinner … We’re not good talkers at all … And this is Vidar, our gardener, who has help from the village.’ Of course Vidar was in his forties, silent, capable-looking, and he nodded acknowledgement. ‘This is Wenche, our cook.’ The same age, stout, quiet, but with an incipiently satirical expression. ‘And there are Siri, Bente and Gry, who are sort of maids – they’d normally be gone by this time, but Daddy asked them to stay since you were coming.’
    Svein nodded. ‘He was right. Because I need to make clear to you that what seems to be going on here is the work of a gang of art thieves – local, national, international.’ He was becoming expansive, but to my ears his tone was gaining that unconvincing edge that told me he was telling porkies, or something a lot less than the whole truth. He had been told something by Hans-Egil when he was first called in that suggested to him an inside job. ‘So you’re not under suspicion or observation, but what I need from you is that you go about your everyday tasks, your comings and goings, in the way you’ve always gone about them. What you do may influence when the thieves decide to strike.’ He turned to the maids. ‘So today is an exception. In future you come and go in the regular way,