The Flatey Enigma (10 page)

I
nspector Dagbjartur found Fridrik Einarsson, a university lecturer in Icelandic philology, at home in his quaint bungalow in Aragata. It had been two hours since Dagbjartur had left Egill, his collaborator at the National Library. He had been allowed to use the library phone and had immediately been able to reach the man Egill had recognized from the newspaper photograph. They set an appointment, and Dagbjartur had a bite to eat at a diner while he was waiting. He then took a stroll by the pond in the mild weather and eventually waved down a cab that took him past the university to Aragata.

Dagbjartur was led into a living room and invited to sit in a deep armchair. The walls were lined with crammed bookshelves, and large, hand-carved chess pieces stood on a chessboard on a beautiful table. The inspector gazed at them, sensing there was something odd about them.

“That’s Viking chess,” said Fridrik, a tall thin man in his sixties. “In addition to the traditional chessmen, there are two Vikings on each team. The chessboard is therefore ten squares wide on each side, instead of the traditional eight.”

Fridrik adjusted the chess parts on the board and patiently waited for Dagbjartur to come to the point.

The policeman gave himself plenty of time to study the chess set and finally said, “You went to Hotel Borg at the end of August last year and asked for Professor Gaston Lund of Copenhagen. Is that correct?”

Fridrik seemed startled. He thought a moment and then said, “Yes. That’s absolutely right. How on earth do you know that?”

“It doesn’t really matter, but why were you looking for him?”

“Is this investigation linked to Professor Lund’s death on that island in the west? I heard about that.”

“Yes, we’re investigating his death,” Dagbjartur answered. “Why were you trying to find the man?”

Fridrik needed to reflect on this a moment. “I was driving my car down Pósthússtræti,” he finally said, “and I just happened to glance through the hotel’s restaurant window as I was passing. I thought I’d spotted the professor sitting at a table. I knew him very well from the days when I worked in Copenhagen and thought it was incredible that he would come to Reykjavik without contacting me or even giving me a call. It was bugging me all day, so next morning I went to the hotel and asked them if he was staying there. It turned out to be a mirage.”

Dagbjartur gave Fridrik an inquisitive look. “But now you know that he was here during that period, don’t you?”

“Yes, like I said, I heard about that dreadful thing in the west. I must have had some kind of premonition. It’s happened to me before. I think I recognize someone and it turns out to be a mistake. Then maybe a short while later I meet the same person in some other place. It’s an inexplicable gift.”

Dagbjartur shook his head. “This time you were probably seeing right. You just got the wrong information at the hotel.”

“Really, did I? It had to be. I saw Lund so clearly.”

“You said you would have expected him to visit you?”

“Yes, of course. We worked together for many years in Copenhagen and often chatted about what we were going to do when he came to Iceland. He came here twice in the twenties and thirties but traveled far too little. But he knew the historical spots so well that he could describe them in the minutest detail. He must have intended to surprise me with his visit when that terrible thing happened to him.”

Fridrik stared down at the table.

Dagbjartur paused a moment and then said, “It looks as if no one knew about the professor’s trip.”

“Oh really? Not that there’s anything strange about that.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. The professor didn’t have any family, and when I knew him best, he was used to taking summer vacations alone. He never let anyone know about them and just wandered around Europe, following his personal whims. He’d always have lots of fun stories to tell when he came back to Copenhagen, though. He felt he could establish better contact with the locals if he traveled alone.”

Fridrik stood up and walked to the bookshelves.

“The priest in Flatey claims he avoided his acquaintances in Iceland because of some controversy over a manuscript. Do you reckon that’s true?” Dagbjartur asked.

Fridrik smiled numbly. “Oh yeah? Is that what it was? He was certainly adamantly opposed to most of his Icelandic colleagues on the issue, but I can’t think of anyone who would have tried to make him pay for it in any way, although I’m sure he would have been the toughest opponent to dissuade. He cared more about those manuscripts than any human being. And he knew all the arguments and legal loopholes to prevent them from being handed over.”

As Fridrik spoke, he took a folder off the shelf, opened it, found a typed sheet, and said, “I’ve been collecting material on this manuscript issue. Here’s a thesis by Gaston Lund that I translated. Listen to this extract: ‘The international research that is being conducted on the basis of these manuscripts would be hindered if the collection were to be dispersed. The results of the studies that are being made in Copenhagen are published in all the major European languages, whereas in Reykjavik the results would only be published in modern Icelandic. The humanities departments of the University of Copenhagen would unanimously oppose any handing over of the manuscripts.’”

Fridrik slipped the sheet back into the folder and put it back in its place. Then he took out a photo album and placed in on the table beside the chess board.

“So didn’t Gaston Lund have any enemies in this country then?” Dagbjartur asked.

“Some of our fellow countrymen might have let a few insults fly when he vented his opinions at meetings. Lund could also be rash and excitable, but it was never serious enough not to able to be solved with a good glass of schnapps. But I think I know the reason why he wanted to travel incognito.”

“Oh yeah?”

“The first time Gaston Lund came here was in 1926 or 1927. He was a member of what was considered to be a very gifted group of young Danish scholars. The story goes that Lund became intimately acquainted with a pretty local girl somewhere down south and got her pregnant. The fact that he refused to have anything to do with the child says a lot about his lower nature. He didn’t come back until he accompanied King Christian the tenth of Denmark on his official visit in 1936. The mother of the child planned to introduce him to his son, but Lund reacted badly to this reunion and washed his hands of them. The Icelanders in Copenhagen heard the story and weren’t impressed. But personally I think his behavior was just something that was beyond his control. The whole concept of taking on a father’s role was so overwhelming to him that he couldn’t cope. He always treated women with great suspicion after that. I think he didn’t dare go to Iceland because he was scared of bumping into the mother of his child. And now when he finally came back again, he tried to keep a low profile in this clumsy manner.”

“Did he ever receive any threats from this woman?”

“No, definitely not. But he was so deeply intimidated by her that he didn’t dare to come here for decades.”

“Do you know her name?”

“No. I heard this story as a piece of gossip and never asked for any further details.”

“And could you write me out a list of all the Icelanders that you know he knew personally?”

“I can do that, yes,” said Fridrik, skimming through the album. “Here’s a picture I took of Gaston Lund. On a short trip to Sweden.”

Dagbjartur saw the proud figure of a man standing in front of a group of people.

Fridrik said, “If you’re interested in the professor’s other faults, I could tell you that he was incredibly domineering. He often took over on those trips, uninvited, and that could be tiring. To people who didn’t know him, it came across as brashness and arrogance. He could also be quite vain and full of himself and his position. In most of his traits, he was unlike any of the Danes I’ve ever known. They’re normally gentler and more easygoing than Professor Lund was.”

“Could I borrow that picture?” Dagbjartur asked.

Fridrik carefully removed it from the photo album and handed it to Dagbjartur, who stuck it into his notebook.

“They say in Flatey that Gaston Lund traveled there to try his hand at some riddle connected to the
Flatey Book
. Are you familiar with that story?” Dagbjartur asked.

Fridrik smiled. “Aenigma Flateyensis. It would have given Professor Lund a great deal of prestige to be able to solve that enigma. He would have been quite happy to have that feather in his cap.”

“What kind of an enigma is it?” Dagbjartur asked.

“It’s just a few questions about the sagas contained in the
Flatey Book
, but I’m not the best man to tell you that story. Árni Sakarías, the poet and historian, is the man you need to talk to about that.”

Question five: King Magnús’s men. Second letter. King Sverrir Sigurdsson reigned in Norway from 1177 to 1202, and his men were the valiant Birkibeins. It had previously been considered shameful to be called a Birkibein, but following the fall of Earl Erling it was deemed an honor. There were then constant conflicts between King Magnús and his men. It happened that an old beggar woman died and left behind her a cowled garment, or a
hekla,
as it was called. A large quantity of silver was found stitched up inside it. When King Magnús’s men heard about this, they took and burned the garment, sharing the silver between them. This became known to the Birkibeins, who from that point onwards called them the Heklaufs, and the second letter is
e.

T
he Flatey library stands at the top of the island, just a few yards beyond the church. Kjartan contemplated the building when he reached the gate of the low fence. It was a tiny little building, even smaller than it looked from down below in the village. Once he had let himself in with the key, he discovered a single narrow room lined with bookshelves. Grímur had told Kjartan that the lion’s share of the library’s collection—old parchment manuscripts, diaries, and files—had long ago been transferred south to Reykjavik where they were preserved in the national library. What remained was old popular literature that was borrowed and read by the parishioners. Kjartan glanced at the spines of various books and dipped into some of them. Titles included
The Treasure
by Selma Lagerlöf,
The Ship Sails
by Nordal Grieg, and
Anna of Heidarkot
by Elínborg Lárusdóttir. Not exactly the most contemporary of selections.

There was no mystery as to where the Munksgaard edition of the
Flatey Book
was kept. Wedged between two windows against the northern wall, there was a low table covered with a pane of glass, and in a drawer underneath it there was a large open book. Kjartan looked at the pages through the glass. These were black-and-white photographs of the original pages of the manuscript in the same scale. The lettering was clear and distinguishable, but Kjartan was unable to read it. He opened the drawer and turned the pages. At the front he found some old handwritten sheets that he could read. On the top of the first page the words
Aenigma Flateyensis
had been written, and below that there was a poem:

A black darkness looms over the land,

but the sailing carries on the distant trail

to death’s cold shores.

The most valiant asks: Why?

A potent spell dictates our journey,

And we are rowing for our lives,

Futile to seek any answers,

In battle we must place our trust.

Heavy gray clouds of eerie pelting hail,

Demanding the magic words,

The world under a skull

storing thoughts for the winter.

The bottom two lines were in a different handwriting than the other lines of the poem and were followed by these words:
This may be how the poet wanted it to end
.

Below it there was a bizarre drawing that had been executed with a rough pencil. Probably the magic rune that Hallbjörg had referred to, Kjartan thought to himself.

On the next sheet there were some kind of questions, forty in total, written in beautiful and perfectly legible handwriting:

1. It will come near when it is God’s wish. 1
^st
letter.

2. Most impudent. 1
^st
letter.

3. The bad choice he made for me. 2
^nd
letter.

Kjartan dug into his pocket and fished out the answers Professor Lund had given to the priest and compared the questions.

1. Dangerous shot—D

2. Sarcastic Halli—S

3. Mother—O

Kjartan felt no closer. The questions seemed odd, and the answers said nothing to him. The fortieth and last question read as follows:
Who spoke the wisest?
Following that there were three rows of letters.

Kjartan took out the note that Jóhanna had found in Gaston Lund’s pocket and which the priest had recognized. He examined the rows of letters written on its back and compared them with the three rows of letters written on the question sheet.

Professor Gaston Lund had clearly entered this library after he had said good-bye to the priest, and jotted down the key. And that was something he was forbidden to do and that would bring a curse on him, according to local belief. And he surely had been greatly cursed. The thought of it gave Kjartan a slight shudder. He refused to believe in curses of this kind, but there was no denying that it was very sinister nonetheless.

A note below the three rows explained that the thirty-nine correct answers should follow the same order as the thirty-nine letters in the answer to the fortieth question, and that this was how the poem should end.

Kjartan shoved the sheets back into the book. He stared at length at the note that had been found on the body, and then he decided that it was best to store that inside the manuscript as well. It was probably best to go along with the belief that the clues should be kept in the library and nowhere else. He wouldn’t feel comfortable walking around with it in his pocket, now that he realized what it was. He left the book as he had found it. Then, after locking the drawer, he pensively stepped out into the sunshine.

What was it that had compelled Gaston Lund to come to the library and write down that key before going to the ship? Had he been so desperate to solve the riddle that he deliberately broke the strict ancient rules of the game? How had he gotten into the locked building?

Question six: Who could not hold back their tears? First letter. They dragged up the body, and King Sverrir said it was the body of King Magnús. They slid a shield under the body and lifted it onto the ship and rowed to land. The body was still recognizable because its complexion had not changed; it still had rosy cheeks and rigor mortis had not set in. Before the body was veiled with a shroud, the king allowed Magnús’s men to file past it to identify it and bear witness. They filed past the body, and almost no one could hold back their tears. The answer is “Magnús’s men,” and the first letter is
m.