The Flatey Enigma (22 page)

Thórólfur eyed her with suspicion. “I hope you haven’t done anything to him.”

She suddenly stood up. “Is this how this is going to continue? Do you think I tied him to a pole, maybe, and ripped out his intestines or something like that?”

She marched to the door.

Thórólfur signaled Lúkas to follow her and then looked at Grímur. “What did she mean?”

Grímur shrugged. “She might be referring to the killing of Ásbjörn Prúdi.”

“The killing of who?”

“It’s in the
Flatey Book
.”

“That bloody book again? How is this murder described?”

Grímur thought about it. “I don’t know the whole book off by heart like my friend Sigurbjörn does, but let me see. I browsed through it not so long ago. Ásbjörn, Virfill’s good son, ended up in the hands of Brúsi the giant. Brúsi opened Ásbjörn’s belly, grabbed his intestines, and tied them to an iron pole. Then he led Ásbjörn in circles around the pole until all his guts were wrapped around it. While this was going on, Ásbjörn recited many long poems. Finally he died with great honor and valiance. Later Ormur Stórólfsson killed Brúsi the giant and carved a blood eagle on his back, but you know all about that now.”

Grímur ended his speech and shrugged again. Thórólfur shook his head. “I just hope the magistrate’s envoy still has all his intestines inside him.”

Question thirty-four: The most mutilated but healed. Second letter. Following the death of holy King Ólaf, there were many stories of miracles that were attributed to him being invoked, and the priests who wrote the
Flatey Book
conscientiously collected them. The most mutilated man was Richard the priest. Einar and his servant broke his legs and dragged him into the woods. Then they wrapped some rope around his head and tightly tied his head and torso to a board. Einar then took a wedge and placed it on the priest’s eye, and the servant who stood beside him struck upon it with an axe, causing the eye to fly out of its socket and land on the board. He then placed a pin on the other eye and struck it so that the wedge sprang off the eyeballs and tore the eyelid loose. They then opened his mouth, grabbed his tongue, and sliced it off, and then untied his hands and head. As soon as the priest regained consciousness, he slipped the eyeballs back into their place under the eyelids and pressed them with both hands as hard as he could. The men then asked the priest if he could talk. The priest made a noise and attempted to speak. Then Einar said to his brother, “If he recovers and the stump of his tongue starts to grow, I’m afraid he will get his speech back again.” Thereupon they seized the stump with a pair of tongs, drew it out, cut it twice, and the third time to the very roots, and left him lying there half dead. It had taken a lot of power to heal those wounds, but thanks to the intercession of the good King Ólaf, the priest was restored to full health, even though he had been so badly mutilated. The answer is “Richard the priest,” and the second letter is
i.

A
t four o’clock that afternoon, Gudjón and Högni finished making a casket for Björn Snorri Thorvald. It lay on two trestles in the small workshop behind the Radagerdi farm, ready to be transported to the doctor’s house. The two carpenters scrutinized their work as they brushed the sawdust and shavings off their clothing. Högni snorted some snuff, and Gudjón lit a cigarette. It was a fairly rudimentary casket made of smoothened unpainted pine planks with a brass cross on the lid, precisely as the deceased had prescribed. Björn Snorri had talked it over with Gudjón several months earlier and, in fact, had asked him to get working on it straightaway, but Gudjón wouldn’t hear of it. He could make a decent casket for his neighbor if it was needed, but it would be out of the question to start making it before the person in question was definitely dead. Anything else would have been inappropriate and disrespectful to the Lord.

It was still raining, but it was warm when Thormódur Krákur arrived in his Sunday attire, towing his handcart. The three men carried the casket out of the workshop and placed it on the cart. Then they walked across the island pulling the cart behind them.

Inspector Lúkas and a crew member from the ship stood outside the doctor’s house.

“Jóhanna is obviously under house arrest,” Högni whispered heavyheartedly.

They carried the casket into the house and all the way into the living room where Björn Snorri’s corpse had been laid out on the bed, newly washed and dressed in a white tunic. A white linen ribbon had been wrapped around his head to lock his jaw into place and keep his mouth closed. Three white candles flickered on a bedside table. Jóhanna Thorvald and Reverend Hannes were in the room as they arrived, and received them.

The casket was placed on the floor by the side of the body, and Jóhanna placed a white quilt inside it and a pillow at the head. The three men then helped to lift the twisted body and place it in the casket.

Reverend Hannes stepped forward and said a farewell prayer to the house, after which the gathering recited an “Our Father” and sang a short psalm. Finally, they all drew a cross over the body, the quilt was drawn over the deceased’s face, and the lid was placed on the casket. Gudjón took a hammer and firmly sealed the lid with some nails.

Högni and Gudjón carried the casket between them out of the house and placed it on the cart. Thormódur Krákur lifted the handles of the cart and started to pull it away. Jóhanna and Reverend Hannes walked behind him, followed by Högni and Gudjón and finally, at a considerable distance, Lúkas, the police inspector, and his assistant from the coast guard ship.

As they walked, Högni pondered the deceased. He and his daughter had lived in the house for about two years. Last year Björn Snorri had been mobile enough to take walks around the island and speak to people. Everyone knew he had come to Flatey to die, and that made some of the islanders slightly awkward with him. But everyone could see that he was a very intelligent and educated man with an insatiable eagerness for knowledge. He asked people exhaustive questions about their professions and deeds and kept notes in a little diary. Eventually, though, he came out less and less, until finally he just stayed indoors, confined to his medical bed. From then on it was the islanders who visited him at the doctor’s house and told him stories. Mostly they were tales about accidents and losses at sea from the past decades and centuries, which had been preserved in people’s memories, and Björn Snorri lapped it all up with a smile on his lips and a grateful glow in his eyes. And now Högni started to wonder if these stories could be found in writing somewhere. Some of these incidents were probably recorded in the annals, but who knew if any written record had been kept of the actual stories that lay behind them and had been orally passed down from generation to generation. Perhaps this invaluable knowledge was dying with every individual who passed away on the islands, including Björn Snorri himself. He had undoubtedly written countless pieces about his area of research, but didn’t the main bulk of knowledge always go unrecorded? Or was it just that the dead hadn’t disappeared, but simply moved on, slightly ahead of us? Would he himself one day get a chance to learn something from Björn Snorri in some other place?

They arrived at the church, and Högni and Gudjón lifted the casket as Thormódur Krákur opened the door. They carried the coffin inside and placed it on trestles in the middle of the floor. Then they walked outside again.

Jóhanna said good-bye and immediately headed back to her house, accompanied by Inspector Lúkas and his assistant, while the others lingered in front of the church, enjoying the mild weather and the view.

“Is that what I think it is? Do I see a man waving from the islet of Kerlingarhólmur?” said Thormódur Krákur, peering south across the strait where it was now high tide. Högni looked in the direction the deacon was pointing and saw a man standing on the edge of the shore waving with both hands.

“That wouldn’t be the magistrate’s envoy roaming on the skerry?” Högni asked. “They were looking for him earlier today.”

Gudjón grinned. “He’s worse than the sheep. What’s he doing roaming over there?”

“I’ll go get him,” said Högni. “Sigurbjörn’s old boat is down there on the shore. You can give me a hand pushing her into the sea.”

Question thirty-five: The price of the king’s axe. Sixth letter. The king held an axe that was inlaid in gold and had a shaft that was enveloped in silver with a large silver band embedded with a precious stone. Halli kept staring at the axe. The king noticed this immediately and asked Halli if he liked it. He answered that he did.

“Have you ever seen a finer axe?”

“I don’t think so,” said Halli.

“Would you submit yourself to sodomy for this axe?” asked the king.

“No,” said Halli, “but I can understand why you want to sell it for the same price that you paid for it.”

“So it shall be, Halli,” said the king. “Take it and make the best use of it; it was given to me as a gift and therefore I shall give it you.” Halli thanked the king.

The answer is “sodomy,” and the sixth letter is
y.

H
ögni, Gudjón, and Thormódur Krákur found the little boat lying overturned on a patch of grass above the shore to the south of the church. Carefully turning it over, they discovered two oars underneath it. Grabbing the boat, the men then gently eased it into the sea and pushed it. Högni climbed on board with the oars and ensured that the boat was not leaking. Then he rowed vigorously across the strait, while his companions remained on the shore.

A shamefaced young man stood on a rock at sea level as Högni approached. Kjartan stepped onto the boat when Högni reached him, and they immediately turned back.

“Thank you for fetching me. I’m so lucky you spotted me out here,” said Kjartan.

“You probably would have survived,” Högni answered, unable to suppress a smile. “The tide will be going down again pretty soon, so you could have walked back the same way you came.”

“You’re probably right. I was a bit taken aback when I realized how high the tide had grown in the strait. The strip was almost dry when I walked out there. I just wanted to take a look at the birdlife. Then, when I was going to turn back, I saw the tide was coming in and I didn’t have the guts to waddle across. I didn’t know how deep it was.”

“You did the right thing to wait,” Högni answered. “There’s quicksand around here and some steep drops on the way.”

“I just hope no one was starting to worry about me.”

“The police were asking for you. They’ll certainly be relieved to see you again.”

Question thirty-six: Killed by a serpent. First letter. King Ólaf Tryggvason went with his men to Raud the Strong’s farm and broke in. Raud was seized and tied up, and his men were killed or arrested. The king offered to have Raud baptized, but Raud answered that he would never believe in Christ and uttered many blasphemies. Raud was then tied to an iron bar and a round pin of wood was shoved between his teeth to force his mouth open. The king then ordered a snake to be placed in Raud’s mouth, but the snake refused to enter it. A red-hot iron was then used to force the serpent in. The snake slid into Raud’s mouth and down his throat to his heart and then gnawed its way out his left side. Raud then died. The answer is “Raud,” and the first letter is
r.

D
istrict Officer Grímur and Inspector Thórólfur were alone in the school when Kjartan arrived, breathless after rushing there. Högni came in right behind him.

“I’m sorry,” said Kjartan. “I seem to have gotten lost.”

Grímur appeared to be relieved to see him again in one piece, but Thórólfur had a sullen air.

“Högni’s promised to call off the search,” Kjartan continued.

“Where’ve you been all day?” Thórólfur asked.

“When I left here,” Kjartan answered, “I got my bag and walked across the island to visit Jóhanna, the doctor. She invited me to take a bath in her house. After that I lay down for a bit and I must have fallen fast asleep, because when I woke up she was gone. I found it a bit uncomfortable lying there in a deserted house with the corpse of an old man, so I went out for a walk on the southern shore just to look at the birds and think. I walked quite far out from the island and didn’t think of the rising tide.”

Thórólfur shook his head with a skeptical air. “What was it that you needed so badly to think about?” he asked.

“I needed to catch my bearings a bit.”

“Have you gone astray?”

“No, but a lot has happened over the past days, and I’m not used to dealing with this kind of stress. I normally try to avoid situations I can’t mentally handle. It takes very little to knock me out of kilter, and then I get depressed.”

Thórólfur waited a moment before asking, “Is there anything special you’d like to tell me before I put my first questions to you?”

“Anything special?”

“Yeah. Something that you feel could clarify this case?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Very well. We’ve been informed that you knew the late Bryngeir and, moreover, that you served a prison sentence for manslaughter.”

Kjartan looked apologetically at Grímur before answering. “Yes. Both of those assertions are correct. I knew Bryngeir, and I did time in prison. But I still maintain that the killing was an accident.”

“Bryngeir was connected to this manslaughter case,” said Thórólfur.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about that.”

“Do you want to hear the whole story from the beginning?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve heard many long stories today, so one more won’t make a difference.”

Kjartan loosened his collar. “Very well then. The story starts when I was in my final year at high school and I joined a club called the Jomsviking Society.”

“Jomsviking Society? Who are they?” Thórólfur asked.

“The Jomsvikings were a pack of young swashbucklers from the ancient town of Jómsborg at the end of the tenth century. Their story ended when they were defeated in a battle against Earl Hákon in Norway.”

“Tell me about this club.”

“There were about thirty boys in it, who were either finishing high school or in their first or second year at university. A bunch of lively, intelligent young men, most of them from well-off families. I was an exception, since I had very little money and was withdrawn.”

“What was the purpose of this club?”

“Officially, it was meant to be a reading or cultural club, but at the same time it was a semi-secret society. It had been running for several decades. New members were selected from pupils in their final years, and normally people left the club when they were well into their university studies. There was, therefore, a constant turnover of fresh blood in the club. When I joined they held meetings once a month, often in little halls or on the premises of a company that the father of one of the members managed. For the fun of it, we’d have readings of racy limericks that members had dug up or composed themselves. Sometimes up-and-coming authors were asked to read something or deliver a lecture. We held debates, and on some occasions music or even plays were performed. There was a touch of cultural snobbery about it all. There was a fair bit of drinking involved, too, and sometimes the gatherings degenerated into semi riots as the evening progressed.”

“What drew you to this club?”

“Vanity.”

“Oh?”

“I was pretty well read in various foreign authors. My uncle, who was a sailor, used to bring me back quite a few books from abroad, which I loosely translated for the meetings. I was therefore able to supply some pretty good reading material. I thought it would give me some kudos when I was invited to join, and I enjoyed having a drink or two.”

“What happened then?”

“When new members were taken in, they had to kneel under the sword, as they called it. The club owned an old Viking-style sword. It was a good replica they had gotten some skilled blacksmith to make for them many decades earlier. And the sword was both heavy and sharp. One of the members held the sword up in the air over the block, and the new member was supposed to kneel under it. Part of the Jomsviking saga was read out during the ceremony, and at some point in the text, the sword would be swung down. The patter went something like this in the end: ‘A hirdman took hold of the hair and twisted it round his hands and held Sveinn’s head on the block with both hands, as Thorkell prepared to slam down his sword.’ That was the cue, when the words ‘slam down his sword’ were spoken, the sword was supposed to be swung. The new member could always see the executioner’s shadow and get his head out of the way in time. The longer you could hold your head on the block for before the sword dropped, the braver you were considered to be. In the story the hirdman’s hands are cut off when Sveinn pulls his head off the block, so everyone at the meeting would shout out in unison, ‘Whose hands are in my hair?’ and that was it, the new member had been initiated.”

“Why were you holding the sword on this occasion?”

“There was a certain prestige to it. When you’d been a member of the society for a while and created a niche for yourself, then you got to draw the sword once and that elevated you to a higher status. Bryngeir suggested I be given the role that night.”

“But there was an accident?”

“Yes, there was an accident—or it looked like an accident. I swung the sword down on cue and could see that Einar had pulled his head away from the block under me. But then it was like he’d hit a wall because he bounced right back just as the sword was coming down. It struck him in the back of the head and he died instantly.”

“It must have been a shock for you?”

“Yes, of course, horrific. When the sword hit the obstacle, it seemed hard at first, the way you’d expect the block to be, but then it was strangely soft. When I realized what had happened it was as if I’d been hit by a train, and I collapsed with my head hitting the edge of a table.”

Kjartan lifted his hand and stroked the scar on his forehead.

“So it was an accident, then, or what?”

“Yes, of course, a horrendous accident. But then someone said I’d swung the sword too soon. And instead of backing me in the police investigation, my companions testified that I had swung the sword faster and harder than normal. They said that this was normally a harmless prank that put no one in danger.”

“Was that true?”

“No, it was part of the ritual to ensure that the sword remained firmly planted in the block after the strike.”

“According to my information, you blamed Bryngeir for the accident.”

“Yes. When I was over the initial shock a few days later, I was able to recall the scene. I’m sure that Bryngeir was standing behind Einar and kicked him back onto the block.”

“Weren’t you believed?”

“No, and someone even testified that Bryngeir wasn’t in the room. It was used against me to give me a heavier sentence when the verdict was reached. They said I was making false accusations. I spent five years in jail, as you undoubtedly know.”

Thórólfur nodded. “So you just came here and took the law into your own hands!”

Kjartan shook his head. “I never asked to come here. I expected to be doing other things when I accepted this summer job.”

“How did you react when you met Bryngeir here?”

“I didn’t know who the reporter was until I saw Bryngeir dead in the churchyard. It was a terrible shock for me.”

“Where were you on Sunday evening?”

“I went for a walk across the island and popped into the library on the way back. Doctor Jóhanna was there.”

“Did you know that she’d been the late Einar’s girlfriend?”

“I didn’t know that then, but I do now.”

“How did you first find out?”

“She told me late that night after a long conversation.”

“Did she tell you that Bryngeir had confessed to her that he had caused Einar’s death?”

“Yes.”

“How did you respond to that?”

“I was greatly relieved to hear it.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Even though I believed the accident hadn’t been my fault, it was good to hear it confirmed. Not that it could take away all those years of hell I had to go through.”

“You perhaps wanted to reap vengeance on Bryngeir?”

“I’ve been struggling to find peace with myself and start a new life. Bryngeir wasn’t supposed to come into the picture.”

“But he did come into the picture?”

“Yes. He was like a resuscitated ghost there in the churchyard. I thought I’d had a nervous breakdown when I saw him there yesterday morning.”

“Do you feel better today?”

“Yes. I went to Jóhanna yesterday afternoon to ask her for something to help me. She gave me some tranquilizers, and I managed to recover.”

“It was pretty handy finding a shrink on the island you could go to.” That last comment came from Lúkas, who had just entered the room and joined in the interview. “But I find these coincidences a bit odd,” he continued. “A notorious boozehound of a hack arrives here from Reykjavik. Within twenty-four hours he’s pranced all over the island, creating a racket and offending people left, right, and center, and yet you two innocent lambs hadn’t the faintest idea that he was here! Isn’t that just a little bit too incredible?”

“I knew about the reporter, but I didn’t know who he was. I later came to the conclusion that he’d tried to avoid me and Jóhanna. I guess that’s hardly surprising.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s what he did, but then he decided to pop in to see Jóhanna on Sunday night,” said Lúkas.

A crew member from the coast guard ship stuck his head through the door and handed Thórólfur an envelope.

“We were both in the library that night,” Kjartan continued. “So he must have found the door locked when he arrived.”

“But what if he bumped into the two of you together?” said Lúkas. “With no other witnesses around, and you with a newly purchased penknife in your hands. Wouldn’t it have been tempting to even the score with that monster?”

Kjartan gave a start and groped his trouser pockets.

“You did buy a penknife in the store, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but I think I’ve lost it. There’s a hole in my pocket.”

“Right. But I think the story went like this: Bryngeir went to see Jóhanna. He entered the doctor’s house, which was unlocked, and poked around when no one answered. Jóhanna was, yes, in the library chatting to you. Being the scoundrel that he was, Bryngeir, of course, took the opportunity to look around the doctor’s house, even though there was a dead body lying in there. And what do you know? He found Professor Gaston Lund’s papers, which Jóhanna had put aside last fall, after she’d taken the sleeping old man to Ketilsey. Something must have put Bryngeir on the right track in the Lund case, according to what witnesses say. Anyway. Then Bryngeir staggers outside and decides to walk across the churchyard when who should he meet in the middle of it but you and Jóhanna. And you hadn’t lost your penknife then yet, had you? So after saying good evening to him, you both pin the punk to the ground with his face pressed into the ground to smother his cries and start carving up his back and pulling his lungs out through the cuts. Or was it maybe the doctor who did that bit? Anyway, when you were done you draped him over a tombstone and went home to celebrate a job well done. You just didn’t have the good sense to look through his pockets, where you would have found the papers he’d stolen a few moments earlier.”

Kjartan answered none of this, but stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out a bottle of pills.

“What’s that?” Thórólfur asked.

“This is the medication I got from Jóhanna. I think I need one. These are outrageous accusations.”

Thórólfur snatched the bottle of pills from him, read the label, and stuck it into his pocket.

“Not just yet. My colleague’s hypothesis is not improbable, but it needs to be completed somehow. I’ve just received the preliminary postmortem report, according to which Bryngeir drowned and had been dead for a long time before he was carved up.”

This time it was Lúkas’s turn to be baffled. “Drowned at sea?” he asked.

“No, in freshwater,” Thórólfur answered.

“In freshwater? But are there any ponds or streams on this island?” Lúkas was addressing his question to District Officer Grímur.

“No, just the swamp, but that’s almost completely dry after the long spell of warm weather we’ve had,” Grímur answered.

Thórólfur read the sheet again and then looked at Kjartan. “Our colleague in Reykjavik seems to think it’s possible that Bryngeir drowned in a bathtub, and there’s one of those in the doctor’s house, I believe. Maybe the man was dragged into the bath before he was carved up. So you must have found him in the doctor’s house and taken care of him there. Isn’t that possible?”

Kjartan seemed to have stopped listening, but his shoulders were trembling. Thórólfur pulled the bottle of pills out of his pocket and slammed it on the table in front of him.

“Here, take your pills and tell us the truth!”

Kjartan looked at Grímur. “Could I have a glass of water?”

Grímur rushed into the corridor and swiftly returned with a cup full of water.

Kjartan slipped two pills into his mouth and took a sip. Finally he said, “There is just no other truth to tell you.”

Thórólfur shook his head. “We’ve checked everyone’s movements here on Sunday night and the early hours of Monday morning. There was nothing unusual. You and Jóhanna, on the other hand, were up and about into the early hours and had every motive to want to see the reporter dead. You’re going to have to tell me a hell of a lot more if you want me to start believing you.”