Högni was on the edge of the shore sorting the seal parts into barrels, although he occasionally chucked pieces of fat at a flock of seagulls that had gathered on the rim of the shore. He put down his machete and walked toward them when he saw Kjartan had arrived.
“So what kind of sermon did you get from the priest this morning?” Högni asked eagerly, sitting on a rusty wheelbarrow and stretching out for the coffee flask and tin of cookies.
Kjartan started telling them about his conversation with Reverend Hannes, while Grímur listened in silence, scraping the fur.
“No wonder the priest’s in a state of shock to find out that his guest never made it home,” Högni said. “I bet he’ll be saying his ‘Our Fathers’ tonight, poor guy.”
“I called the Danish Embassy in Reykjavik,” Kjartan continued, “and they immediately knew about Professor Lund’s disappearance. It was reported in the Danish press this winter. They’ve been searching for him all over Norway for months, but no one seems to have suspected that he went to Iceland. The Danish embassy is going to get more information. Then I phoned the district magistrate in Patreksfjördur, and he asked us to try to get more information. The detective force in Reykjavik is following the case and will step in if we run into any problems in the investigation. They’ll also be gathering some information on Lund’s movements in Reykjavik.”
Grímur pondered. “We can contact the crew of the mail boat. They might remember this passenger. There can’t have been that many passengers on these trips.”
Kjartan nodded. “But what about the farmer in Ystakot? You said he was in the habit of keeping a record of everyone who comes and goes on the boats. Do you reckon he can help us?”
“Good point,” said Grímur. “We can go over to Valdi after coffee.”
“…when the Flatey Book was written, the Icelandic language was undergoing considerable changes. However, the book was transcribed from various other manuscripts, both old and newer. It therefore contains a blend of old and new spelling, with many inconsistencies, as is the case in all Icelandic manuscripts, since the scribes neither had any spelling rules nor dictionaries. Each group of scribes followed their own methods, although at the beginning of the thirteenth century, one can see that the first grammatical treatise from the mid-twelfth century was beginning to have an impact. But everyone wrote in the way they were accustomed to, and that was to remain the practice in the centuries that followed…”
CHAPTER 13
The news of the discovery of the remains of the body in Breidafjördur got more attention from the authorities in Reykjavik once it was announced that the deceased was more likely than not a Danish university professor who was highly regarded in his homeland. The case had, in fact, been immediately referred to the detective force when news of the discovery of the body first broke, but they were waiting for the outcome of the postmortem on the remains and for the locals to collect as much information as they could. Once the deceased had been identified, it was felt that someone needed to be assigned to the investigation. They were obliged to get to the bottom of this and write a report.
Dagbjartur Árnason wasn’t exactly the smartest investigator in Reykjavik’s detective force, and he knew it. He therefore didn’t take it too badly when he got saddled with assignments that others found tedious and even insignificant. In fact, there was no shortage of menial cases of this kind. Small-time counterfeit checks, shop-lifting, and other trivial transgressions of that ilk were considered to be his specialty and principal calling. Dagbjartur was regarded as being a bit lazy and slow, although he could also be patient and affable, which occasionally came in handy when there was a need to dig up information that wasn’t always directly accessible. These qualities could also be useful when investigating bigger cases, even though he could sometimes be so inept at seeing the big picture. For this reason he was often assigned the role of assistant on cases of this kind. He was also incompetent when it came to questioning hardened criminals.
The duty officer called Dagbjartur in the afternoon and told him to investigate Gaston Lund’s movements in the capital at the end of August of last year—to find out, for example, if he stayed in one of the city’s hotels. Did anyone in town know him?
Dagbjartur was in a slight daze and tired. Not because he had been overdoing it at work over the past few days or anything like that, but simply because he’d eaten too much lamb meat soup for lunch. He’d also assumed it would be an easy day at work with a restful weekend ahead of him. He was going to give his wife a hand with the gardening, unless of course some work that couldn’t wait cropped up. That meant overtime and a higher wage slip at the end of the month, which was welcomed.
Dagbjartur possessed an awkward build, with narrow shoulders but a body that widened the further down the eye traveled. His bloated belly, broad hips, and chubby ass gave him a slightly conical shape that he clearly had problems finding suits to match. This gave him a slightly odd appearance. His trousers had obviously been widened with little skill and poor material and were held up by a narrow pair of suspenders. His face sported a double chin, but he had a friendly and understanding air.
In addition to Dagbjartur, the district administrative officer in Flatey was working on the case, as well as the magistrate’s representative in the Bardaströnd district. This obviously was not the best the police force could offer, but they were to be given a chance before more people were called into the investigation. Whitsunday was looming, and most people were on vacation. More likely than not there was a logical explanation to this whole case, which would soon come to light. Besides, the islanders on Flatey had already surpassed expectations by putting a name of the deceased, even though it wasn’t obvious from the beginning.
Dagbjartur was also unusually fast in getting results from his preliminary enquiries. He had taken a cab straight to Hotel Borg and asked reception to show him the hotel’s reservations book from August to September of last year. The staid, middle-aged male manager at reception took out a book that was marked 1959, placed it in front of the police officer, and opened it to the right place. Dagbjartur started his search from the beginning of August. Conscientiously reading every single name, he didn’t stop until he reached the last guest on September 10. His search had yielded no results. Gaston Lund had not checked into this hotel. Not that Dagbjartur was too bothered. He still had to visit the other hotels in town and then also the guesthouses. If he was in any way lucky, this assignment could drag on for quite some time.
“Ahem, excuse me, but what name are you looking for?” the manager asked, as Dagbjartur was about to close the book.
“Professor Gaston Lund, a Danish national.”
The reception manager nodded. “Yes. Mr. Lund stayed with us last year,” he said.
“Really? Is his name in the book?”
“No, the man chose to register under a pseudonym.”
“And you remember that after all these months?” Dagbjartur asked, surprised.
The manager gave him a faint smile. “Yes, it was certainly an unusual check-in. I remember things like that.”
He turned the guestbook around and skimmed through it with his skilled fingers.
“There, that’s how the professor checked in,” he said, pointing at a line on August 24.
It started off with what looked like a G and an a, but had then been crossed out with two strokes and followed by “Egill Sturluson” in block letters.
“My name also happens to be Egill, so it drew my attention, especially to see it written that way,” said the manager.
“Yes, I can see how this name would have attracted your attention,” said Dagbjartur, nodding. He took out his notebook and scribbled down this information. “Didn’t you have any remarks to make to him about this?” he then asked.
“No, he was a very respectable-looking man and immediately agreed to settle his bill in advance, as well as the deposit. I saw no reason to raise any objections about it. It was obvious that the man was Danish and also a bit
of an eccentric. If he didn’t want to use his real name, he must have had his reasons for it.”
“How do you know his right name was Gaston Lund?”
“That’s the name he used when he signed his bill in the restaurant. He obviously forgot himself. I was the one who processed the hotel bill, so I remember it. There was also a man who came here to ask if Professor Lund could possibly be staying here.”
“What did you answer?”
“I told him there was no guest here under that name.”
“Why?”
“Because our guest obviously wanted to keep a low profile and the hotel didn’t want to complicate things for him; it was the least we could do. Besides, he’d already checked out of the hotel by the time the question was asked, so I wasn’t lying.”
“When did he move out?”
Egill examined the guestbook. “He stayed here for two nights and left here on August twenty-sixth. He left a case behind, which I kept in storage for him.”
“Did he then claim the case?”
“I expect so, but not on my watch.”
“Where was the case kept?”
“We have a storage room in the basement.”
“Can I see it?”
“Yes. I’ll take you down in a moment.”
Egill vanished behind a door but swiftly returned, followed by a young man who took his place at the reception desk.
“Follow me please,” he said to Dagbjartur.
They walked down some stairs into a dark corridor. There Egill opened the door to a small cell and turned on the light. A number of cases were stored there on racks.
“You keep a lot of cases in here,” said Dagbjartur.
“This is mostly the lost property that has accumulated. Sometimes guests forget a whole case. Some of these belong to guests who’ve run away without settling their bills. I don’t expect they’ll ever be recovered.”
“Can you see the Danish guest’s case here anywhere?”
“I can’t remember what it looks like. It was probably a quality case, though. He was a pretty refined kind of guest.” Egill perused the cases, took several out, and opened them. One of them was considerably heavier than the others and turned out to contain folders of files when it was opened. Also some clothes.
Dagbjartur took one of the folders and browsed through the contents. It was full of pages crammed with text written in Danish, and there were a few Norwegian postcards at the back. Finally he found a tab that was stapled to the very last page: G. Lund was written on it.
“That’s probably it,” said Dagbjartur.
The manager seemed very taken aback. “That surprises me,” he said. “I’d always assumed the guest had picked up his case as he said he would.”
“I’ll take it with me now,” said Dagbjartur. “Who was it who asked you if he was staying here?”
“I don’t know the man’s name, but I’m sure I’ve seen pictures of him in the papers. He’s obviously well known in his field.”
Dagbjartur smiled amiably. “I hope you’re not too busy these days because we obviously need to go through some old newspapers.”
“…The Flatey Book was based on many sources or older manuscripts, no less than forty. The Thingeyar monastery library was probably the main source since there was an ample selection of books there.
“Scholars have noted that the priests who wrote out the Flatey Book were not great poetry lovers. They copied verse word for word from older manuscripts mainly out of a sense of duty but with many mistakes and showing a poor understanding of poetry…”
CHAPTER 14
The road to the Ystakot croft was a narrow, winding dirt track, and they walked in single file, Grímur first, followed by Högni and Kjartan behind. Little Nonni was sitting on a mound and spotted them as they approached. Springing to his feet, he dashed down to the farmhouse and vanished inside. The croft was divided into three little gables with turf rooftops and wooden panels in front. The back of the house was mostly built into the side of the slope. A chimney protruded from the gable, heaving black smoke. There was potato patch to the north of the building and beyond that a small hut, presumably a storeroom. In the yard there were a number of wooden frames, seed potatoes, an overturned wheelbarrow, and a large barrel of water with a lid on top.
Valdi appeared in the low doorway and had to stoop to come out to them.
“Hello there,” Grímur greeted him.
Valdi nodded in silence, stuffed tobacco into his pipe, and stared at Kjartan with one inquisitory eye. Grímur got straight to the point. Could he have by any chance written down who was on the mail boat on Saturday September 4 last year?
Valdi pondered this a moment.
“Why do you want to know?” he asked.
“Reverend Hannes thinks he knows the man you found in Ketilsey but said that he was supposed to be traveling on the mail boat to Stykkishólmur that day.”
Valdi went back into the croft and soon reappeared with a blue copybook in his hands. He skimmed through it, reading it in silence.
“No, Officer. I didn’t write anything about who traveled south that day.”
“Why not, Valdi?” Grímur asked, surprised.
“I can’t remember offhand.”
“Was it maybe because no one traveled on the boat?” Kjartan asked.
Valdi looked at him. “Could be.”
“Could we maybe see that page?” Grímur asked.
Valdi looked at them alternately and then handed them the copybook and showed them the page. It was crammed with words written in pencil, and the entry beside the date September 4 read: “Drizzle, moderate breeze, temperature 4 degrees. Passengers from Stykkishólmur, Hákon, and Filippía. Was in Akranes getting new teeth. Gudrún’s son in Innstibaer on visit.” Then there was a small blank space.
They heard a screech from inside the house. Jón Ferdinand came limping outside clutching his mouth. “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” he wailed. “I burned my mouth.”
“What the hell happened?” Valdi gruffly snapped.
“I was just sipping the broth of the black-backed gull,” said the crestfallen old man.
“Have you gone mad, tasting the broth when it’s still boiling in the pot?” said Valdi, taking the lid off the barrel of water. He stuck a ladle inside and handed it to the old man.
“Here, drink something cold.”
Jón Ferdinand sipped the water, and Valdi looked at the guests.
“I have to watch over this man like a little child,” he said.
Grímur examined old Jón’s lips. “He’ll get some burn blisters,” said Grímur. “Maybe you should take him to the doctor.”
“I’d be doing little else if I had to take that old man to the doctor every time he burned his gob,” Valdi grumbled.
“Mind if I take a little look at your book?” Kjartan asked.
Valdi looked at Kjartan. “Why?”
“The priest said the guest came over from Reykhólar on the second of September. Do you keep a record of the boats that come from over there in your book?”
“No, no. There’s no way you can keep track of everyone who comes and goes from the village. Boats anchor all over the place, and there are so many things to do. I only follow the mail boat when it comes on Saturdays. I grab the ropes for them because it’s such a short distance for me to go out to the pier. Then I write down who was on the boat, just for the information and fun of it. No one’s ever asked to look at this before.”
Grímur heaved a sigh. “Right then, Valdi. We’ll take this no further then. Maybe you could try to remember why you didn’t write about it in your book on that day and just let me know.”
The three men said good-bye.
“…Vellum manuscripts in the Middle Ages were not all preserved with the same care. In the thirteenth century and the first half of the fourteenth century, many manuscripts were probably exported to Norway as merchandise. Their value diminished, however, when the language rapidly changed at the end of the fourteenth cent
ury. People no longer cared about these vellum manuscripts that no one could read. In Iceland, on the other hand, it was probably overuse that damaged the books the most. Books were lent from person to person and read from cover to cover. Then new transcripts were made and the old shreds were lost. The Reformation also cast a bad light on anything written by the monks. It is not known who held the Flatey Book after Jón Hákonarson in Vídidalstunga, but in the latter half of the fifteenth century it was in the hands of Thorleifur Björnsson, a seneschal in Reykhólar. It was then owned by Thorleifur’s grandson, Jón Björnsson, in Flatey, and he gave the book to his grandson, Jón Finnsson, who also lived in Flatey; and it is after their home island that the book is named.
“In the sixteenth century, national awareness was awakening in Europe. An emphasis was placed on the power of the nation and the strength of the kingdom. Interest in the history of nations grew, and in the Nordic countries, learned men knew that sources were to be found in Iceland. The Danish king sent manuscript collectors to Iceland in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and Árni Magnússon was the most prominent of these. But there were other collectors, too. The bishop sagas refer to Jón the farmer in Flatey, saying that he had a big and thick vellum manuscript of monk writings containing the histories of the Norwegian kings and a lot more, and here it was generally referred to as the Flatey Book…”
CHAPTER 15
Kjartan and Grímur headed to the telephone exchange after their visit to Ystakot and made calls all over. They contacted the mail boat over the Gufunes radio, since it was positioned out in the bay of Faxaflói, on its way to Stykkishólmur with a cargo of cement from Akranes. The crew of the boat could offer them no information on the foreign passenger. He could well have been on board, but they had no specific recollection of him. It would mainly have been the cook who interacted with the passengers the most, but he had been on vacation for those weeks last year. A young girl, who had just graduated from the domestic college, had replaced him during his absence. She was now married to someone in the Westman Islands, as far as they knew.
The Flatey Enigma Page 8
