They sauntered back and turned right along the road to follow a narrow track toward the churchyard. Everything seemed normal. The fences that lined the graves and tombstones were surrounded by dense clusters of tall yellow grass from last fall, and the wet ironwork glistened in the drizzle. There was some commotion among the arctic terns that nested in the southern part of the cemetery. They were screeching noisily over one of the graves, and Grímur thought he spotted something new by the tombstone.
Rósa saw it, too, and stopped. She tugged at Grímur’s jacket and whispered, “I think I’ll just take a look at the angel later. I’ve just remembered I was suppose to go straight home.”
“Right then, you just go on home,” said Grímur, but she hadn’t waited for an answer and was already running back the same way they came and swiftly vanished down the slope without looking back.
There was no opening in the fencing on this side of the churchyard, but Grímur had no problems climbing over the low wire netting, even though he was a bit stiff in his hips. Once he had entered, he felt it appropriate to bless himself but then continued walking. The quarrelsome arctic terns then turned on Grímur and dived toward his head, one after another, as he trod the narrow trail between the graves. He waved his arms at them and pushed his cap to the back of his head. His visor was pointing in the air now, so that the most daring terns would knock their beaks against it, while his bald head remained mostly protected. He had dealt with terns like this countless times before and wasn’t too bothered by their uproar. His eyes were firmly focused on what lay ahead.
Inching forward, step by step, Grímur approached a mass that initially looked like a red angel, as Svenni had said. But as he drew even closer, he saw that it was a half-naked human body covered in blood and kneeling on the grave. Its arms and head dangled over the white tombstone. On its bare back there was something that in the distance had looked like fiery red wings. Blood had trickled down the body in the rain and dyed it red. The body’s coat, jacket, and white shirt had been yanked down over the man’s waist.
Grímur froze and swallowed in an attempt to moisten his parched throat. Then he drew closer to see who had met this terrible fate in the night.
Question twenty: Who ate his father’s killer? First letter. Sarcastic Halli said, “I don’t know of anyone who avenged his father as gruesomely as Thjodolf because he ate his father’s killer.”
The king said, “Tell us how this is true.”
Halli said, “Thorljot, Thjodolf’s father, led the calf home on a lead, and when he got to his hayfield wall, he hoisted the calf up the wall. Then he went over the wall, and the calf tumbled off the wall on the other side. But the noose at the end of the lead tightened around Thorljot’s neck, and he was unable to touch the ground with his feet. So each hung on his own side of the wall, and they were both dead by the time people arrived. The children dragged the calf home and prepared it for food, and I think that Thjodolf ate his full share of it.” The answer is “Thjodolf,” and the first letter is t.
CHAPTER 37
Dr. Jóhanna was wearing a green raincoat and held a black umbrella, but Kjartan was in his trench coat and bareheaded. They stood a few feet away from the grave and stared at the man on the tombstone that Grímur had alerted them to. The rain had intensified during the course of the morning.
“That’s got to be the reporter from Reykjavik who arrived on the mail boat on Saturday,” Grímur uttered in a low voice. “I’m told his name is Bryngeir.”
Jóhanna walked up close and then circled the grave. She stooped over the man’s back and examined him. “The ribs were chopped on both sides of the spine from the back with two or three big blows and then stretched out,” she said. “Both lungs were then pulled out from the chest.” She walked another circle around the man and then added, “Those are the only injuries I can see.”
Grímur looked at them and asked, “Should we pick him up and carry him into the church?”
“No, no,” Kjartan said in a tremulous voice, “absolutely not. We won’t move anything here. We’ll do nothing. We’ll close the churchyard and immediately call the Criminal Investigation Department in Reykjavik.”
He clasped his coat around his throat, but the rain streamed down his hair over his ashen face.
“Whoever carved this man up like this had to be strong and knows how to handle a knife,” Jóhanna said. “It takes a lot of strength and skill to be able to cut through the bone like that. And the knife was big and sharp.”
“Will you call the police in Reykjavik?” Grímur asked Kjartan.
“I would prefer you to do it,” Kjartan answered. “This is all so way over my head. I think I’ll just take the first trip back to Patreksfjördur. I hope you can deal with communicating with the police.”
Grímur scratched the beard under his chin. “But I’ve got to hang around here and make sure no kids come near this,” he said awkwardly.
“I’ll phone Reykjavik,” Jóhanna said, “and ask them to send an investigator straightaway. I can describe the incident.”
Grímur was relieved. “Yeah and find Högni for me and tell him to come up in his sailing overalls. He can take it in shifts with me.”
“I’ll do that,” Kjartan answered, swiftly turning and rushing out of the cemetery.
Question twenty-one: The ugliest foot. First letter. Thórarinn Nefjúlfsson was in Tunsberg staying with King Ólaf. Early one morning the king lay awake while the others were asleep, and the sun was shining so there was a lot of light inside. One of Thórarinn’s feet stuck out of his bedclothes. The king stared at the foot for a while and then said, “I’ve witnessed an invaluable sight; this man’s foot has got to be the ugliest in the whole town.”
Thórarinn answered, “I’m willing to bet you that I can find an uglier foot.”
The king answered, “Whoever wins the bet shall demand a favor of the other.”
“So be it,” said Thórarinn. He then produced his other foot from under the bedclothes, which was no more beautiful and had a toe missing, too. “And now I have won the bet,” said Thórarinn.
The king answered, “The other foot is uglier because it has five ugly toes on it, but this one has only four, so I can ask a favor of you.”
The answer is “Thórarinn,” and the first letter is t.
CHAPTER 38
The announcement of another death in Flatey did not go down well with Dagbjartur. Now he knew that the peace was over. He’d be required to give an account of his investigation over the past few days and submit a report. The worst part was that he hadn’t written anything down yet. This would become a priority case now, some higher-ranking officer would be put in charge, and the department’s best men would be dispatched to Flatey. The only positive thing to come out of that morning was the fact he would no longer be required to travel to the island.
Using three fingers, Dagbjartur hammered out the conclusions of his interviews with Fridrik Einarsson and Árni Sakarías on his typewriter. He didn’t need to write much to cover the essentials, but it still took him a long time. His chubby fingers were stiff on the keyboard and didn’t always hit the right letters.
It didn’t take the head of the division long to race over his subordinate’s text.
“The Flatey enigma?” he erupted in a rage. “What childish nonsense is that?”
“The magistrate’s assistant in the west seemed to feel it was important,” Dagbjartur answered defensively.
“Oh yeah? And what’s this? A child out of wedlock. That might be worth looking into. Who’s this woman?”
“We don’t know.”
“Don’t know! What have you been up to over these past few days?”
“This.” Dagbjartur pointed stubbornly at his papers. “But no one knows who this woman is.”
“Aren’t there any birth records from those years that we can go through?”
“Everywhere’s closed on the Whitsunday weekend.”
“Right, well, keep going and keep me poste
d.”
For the remainder of the day Dagbjartur tracked down the friends, relatives, and colleagues of the reporter, Bryngeir, to dig up some information about his life and habits. His colleagues at the paper seemed to be mostly relieved to be free of him, although no one had the effrontery to say so straight out.
The list of relatives was a short one. His maternal grandfather was in an old folk’s home in Stokkseyri, and he had an uncle on his mother’s side who was a farmer in the east in Öræfi. Dagbjartur tried phoning the grandfather but was informed that the old man was deaf and unable to talk on the phone. When he finally reached the uncle in Öræfi, it took the man some time to remember he had a nephew by the name of Bryngeir. He hadn’t heard of his death, but betrayed little emotion. He did, however, ask if the man had left any assets behind.
Most of Bryngeir’s friends considered themselves to be more acquaintances than close friends and showed no sign of grief. He wouldn’t be dearly missed, it seemed.
Collecting a few snippets of information from here and there, Dagbjartur managed to build a reasonable personal profile of Bryngeir and submitted it to his boss that same evening.
Question twenty-two: Who were the soldiers of King John of England? Seventh letter. Earlier that summer, the English king had sent King Sverrir two hundred warriors when he was in Bergen; they were called the Ribbalds. They were as swift on their feet as beasts and were great archers, audacious, and had no qualms about committing bad deeds. The answer is “Ribbalds,” and the seventh letter is d.
CHAPTER 39
The women in Innstibaer had not ventured outside because of the weather that morning and hadn’t seen anyone. They attended to their chores, but they were surprised that no one had come to pay them a visit. The goodwife from Svalbardi usually popped over to them after the lunchtime radio news and gave them a rundown of the main events in the outside world. They couldn’t afford the luxury of a wireless in Innstibaer, so the two ladies relied on other channels for news. Newspapers didn’t reach them until they had been through several other readers. District Officer Grímur bought the Icelandic Times, and Ásmundur in the island store bought Morgunbladid. The Times was passed on from Grímur to Gudjón in Rádagerdi, whereas the Svalbardi family bought Morgunbladid from Ásmundur the storekeeper at half price when he’d finished reading it. Högni, the teacher, on the other hand, bought the social democratic paper, which he preserved meticulously in folders. The farmers then donated their papers to the library after they had read them, which was when the women could take a look at them with the other islanders. By that time the papers were normally several weeks old and the news had grown stale, but the serialized novels they contained were classics and very popular in Innstibaer. When the papers had been on the paper racks of the library for several months, they were placed in a bin by the gable of the building, after which they were destined to end their days shredded in the privies of some of the poorer families on the island. The little that was not recycled in this manner was given to the Ystakot clan to be used in the fire.
No news came that day, and Högni, who also used to pass by in the afternoon for a cup of coffee, didn’t show. They had coffee ready in the flask and had saved a bit of the cookies, which Ingibjörg of Bakki had sent over to them on Whitsunday. They hadn’t spotted the district officer going out to sea that day, so the teacher was probably at home. He was bound to pop over to them.
Hallbjörg sat by the kitchen window and peered through the rain falling against the glass. She wanted to be able to see guests when they appeared in front of the house and to be ready to open the door. Contrary to their habits, they had locked the front door. Over the past two days, they had heard many stories about that terrible man from Reykjavik, who had been loitering around like the village drunk and causing trouble everywhere. The two women had, therefore, not dared to leave the house unlocked. But they were somehow restless. Even though they wouldn’t admit it to each other, they were quite eager to hear the latest gossip about this troublemaker.
Hallbjörg finished knitting the woolen sock and cast on the new one, but she glanced out the window at regular intervals. Gudrún had put down her knitting and picked up an old copy of Morgunbladid. She read out the serialized novel, A Life by Guy de Maupassant, part 15. This was their routine. One of them would read out loud while the other continued with her work. It enabled them to use their time more efficiently. But more often than not it was Gudrún who did the reading, because she had better eyesight for it and Hallbjörg got hoarse if she spoke at length.
Finally Hallbjörg became aware of some movement outside the house and saw through the window that the goodwife from Svalbardi was on her way up the steps to them and seemed to be in a hurry. Hallbjörg stiffly hoisted herself to her feet to unlock the door.
Question twenty-three: No horse could carry him. Fourth letter. Rögnvald married Ragnhild, the daughter of Hrolf Nose. Their son was Hrolf, who conquered Normandy. He was so enormous that no horse could carry him. He was dubbed Hrolf Walker, or Ganger Hrolf. It is from him that the Norman earls and English kings descended. The answer is “Hrolf Walker,” and the fourth letter is l.
Kjartan said, “The guest’s answer to this was ‘Ganger Hrolf,’ and the letter is g.”
CHAPTER 40
Ásmundur, the storekeeper, was on tenterhooks. As soon as he had opened the store in the morning, he had heard news of a terrible mishap in the cemetery. He then contacted Thormódur Krákur, who told him that the reporter from Reykjavik had been found dead there, lying on a grave. Details of the story became clearer as the day progressed. And it was good for business. Islanders popped into the store several times in the day under the pretense of running errands, but above all to hear more news. And naturally they felt compelled to buy something to conceal their blatant curiosity. But no one dared to linger in the store for too long. Instead, they would come back again later and something else would be bought. Customers from the neighboring islands traveled over for the same reasons.
The story that was circulating went as follows: Bryngeir, the reporter from Reykjavik, had been found horrendously mutilated in the churchyard early in the morning. There were mixed opinions as to what had happened to him, and the district officer had banned all access to the cemetery and guarded the gate. Police from Reykjavik were expected to arrive to investigate the case any moment. The magistrate’s assistant had been spotted coming out of the churchyard and walking down to the school to Högni. He had then gone home to Bakki and had not come out again. The doctor had been the first person to phone the crime squad in Reykjavik. Then the district officer had phoned several times. The priest offered to hold a prayer meeting in the school at four, since the church was now in the off-limits zone that was being guarded by the district officer.
Ásmundur retold this story countless times as he served the customers, who bought all kinds of unnecessary goods during the course of the day.
Question twenty-four: The wooden man. Third letter. Earl Hákon invoked his guardian spirits, Thorgerd Altar-bride and her sister Irpa, to perform whatever sorcery was required in Iceland to kill Thorleifur. Hákon ordered the figure of a man to be made out of driftwood. Then a man was killed, and his heart was cut out to be placed inside the wooden figure. He was then dressed and given the name of Thorgard. They endowed it with such devilish powers that it could walk and talk with men. He was dispatched on a ship to Iceland and arrived when people were assembling at the Althing. One day Thorleifur stepped out of his booth and saw a man crossing the Öxara river from the west. Thorleifur asked the man for his name. He answered that his name was Thorgard, and at the same moment he thrust the halberd at him and through his middle. As Thorleifur was hit, he struck back at Thorgard, who vanished into the earth so that only the soles of his feet could be seen. Thorleifur wrapped his tunic around himself and walked back to his booth. He told people what had happened, and when he threw off his tunic, his guts spilled out. He died there with a good reputation. The answer is “Thorgard,
” and the third letter is o.
CHAPTER 41
It was still raining at eleven when two detectives arrived in Flatey. They had left Reykjavik by car, shortly after Jóhanna had phoned the criminal investigation department in the capital and requested assistance on Grímur’s behalf. A coast guard ship that happened to be a short distance away in the West Fjords sailed to Stykkishólmur to meet them and then take them to Flatey. The ship was now moored to the new pier and looked gray, wet, and bleak in the evening twilight.
Grímur received the investigators on the pier, and the only other people there apart from him were Thormódur Krákur, holding his handcart and dressed in his black suit, and the three generations of men from Ystakot. Valdi had seen the ship approach from the south and went down to grab the ropes as usual. Kjartan, on the other hand, had asked to be relieved of any further participation in the investigation after the discovery in the churchyard, and said he was ill and had gone to bed.
The chief investigating officer greeted Grímur first. “I’m Thórólfur,” he said, before introducing his partner: “Lúkas from forensics. He’ll be examining the scene and assisting me in the interrogations.”
Thórólfur was a vigorous and slim man in his early sixties. His white hair had started to thin slightly and was combed back. His weather-beaten and clean-shaven face was wrinkled, as if it had been exposed to too much sun. Lúkas, on the other hand, was younger, probably in his thirties, short, and chubby, with thick lips and rugged skin that stretched over a broad face crowned with light brown hair.
The Flatey Enigma Page 17
