At ten fifteen a group of eight people had assembled—seven of them gray-haired, wearing eyeglasses and practical footwear—and she began her tour. By way of introduction, she told them about Thorvaldsen’s humble beginnings in late eighteenth-century Copenhagen, where he’d gained a reputation as a child prodigy and began studying at the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts when he was only eleven, winning countless silver and gold medals. Then she moved on to his prominent friends, including the poet Adam Oehlenschläger and author Hans Christian Andersen, his journey south by ship via Malta, and the forty years he spent in Rome. Jenny pointed to paintings and sculptures as she led the group around, and then guided them out into the courtyard. Here she told them about the burial chamber deep underground, allegedly sky blue and decorated with roses and lilies, featuring a cross on the floor and two crossed palm fronds on the cover plate over the coffin itself. That’s how it was depicted in the architect’s blueprints. Here she paused for dramatic effect before continuing:

“But there’s no way to prove it, because the grave has never been opened.”

Throwing in a bit of Dan Brown–style symbolism here and there always put the tour groups in a good mood. People loved mysteries.

Jenny led the group onward to the marble statue of Ganymede with Jupiter’s eagle, which was tucked away in one of the museum’s richly colored little exhibit rooms. She had mixed emotions about the beautiful sculpture of the young man kneeling in front of the eagle, his hands outstretched. His skin was so smooth and flawless, his eyes trusting and unaware that the eagle was actually the god Jupiter, who was about to kidnap him to Mount Olympus, rape him, and make him cupbearer to the gods.

THE DOOR TO Nordhjem’s office on Stockholmsgade was painted in a color Jeppe remembered as Copenhagen green, gleaming as if it had been buffed within the last couple of hours. He was buzzed into an elegant hallway lined with high-quality wood paneling and climbed a flight of stairs to the first floor, where Malin Dreyer-Hoff greeted him.

“Thank you for being able to meet me so quickly,” she said, even before he had made his way to the top of the stairs. “I had to get out of the house for a bit.”

“That’s understandable.” Jeppe accepted her outstretched hand and stepped onto the herringbone parquet floor. He couldn’t help tilting his head back and admiring the artfully painted ceiling with gold detailing and a Venetian glass chandelier. Two pink sofas that matched the one the Dreyer-Hoffs had in their home and big canvases of modern art accentuated the regal style. It didn’t look like the kind of office Jeppe was used to.

“Malin, Oscar’s backpack has turned up in the harbor just below your apartment.”

“His backpack… What does that mean?” She stiffened.