The Flatey Enigma

by Ingolfsson, Viktor Arnar

“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.”

  “I didn’t go near Bryngeir,” Kjartan repeated.

  “Go over the evening for me,” said Thórólfur.

  “Jóhanna and I were at the library until the early hours of the morning, and then I walked her home and left her outside her house. It had started to rain, so I rushed home to the district officer’s house and crept up to my bedroom in the loft. I didn’t know anything about Bryngeir before Grímur sent for me in the morning.” Kjartan wiped the sweat off his brow with the palm of his hand.

  “What the hell were you doing in the library all night?” Thórólfur asked.

  “Jóhanna was telling me about the Flatey Book.”

  “Is that something you could talk about all night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time was it when you went to bed?”

  “I wasn’t keeping track of time, but it was daylight. I would guess six in the morning.”

  Thórólfur pondered a moment and then said, “You’ll accompany us on board the ship. There’s a cabin reserved for you there. Jóhanna will be kept under observation at the doctor’s house. Both of you will be asked to write a full account of every single moment of that night. It’ll be interesting to see how your details match up.”

  Question thirty-seven: The place where a man’s laughter is located. First letter. A man’s rage is located in his gall, life in his heart, memory in his brain, ambition in his lungs, laughter in his spleen, and desire in his liver. The answer is “spleen,” and the first letter is s.

  CHAPTER 54

  A cloud of gloom hung over the district officer’s dining table that night. Grímur, Högni, and Ingibjörg sat in the kitchen eating fried kittiwake eggs, puffin breast, and sugar-browned potatoes. There was plenty of food to go around because Ingibjörg had expected both policemen and Kjartan to join them for dinner. But they were on board the coast guard ship and would be there all evening. Probably overnight, too. Björn Snorri Thorvald’s funeral was scheduled for eleven the next morning, after which the coast guard ship was supposed to depart in the afternoon. Jóhanna and Kjartan were to go with them for further questioning. The detectives were now convinced that they were responsible for Bryngeir’s death and that Jóhanna had also played some role in Professor Lund’s fate.

  “There’s no way that Kjartan and Jóhanna had anything to do with this nonsense,” Ingibjörg said decisively. “I know people, and I can see it in their eyes when they’re speaking the truth.”

  Grímur looked bewildered. “It is very strange, though. All the islanders have been able to account for their movements that night. And they were the only two people who were up. Not that I bring myself to believe that there’s anything bad about Jóhanna. And Kjartan seems like such a decent guy, too, even if he had that stroke of bad luck in his youth.”

  Högni’s mouth was full of food. He liked it.

  “Mmm, maybe they found him dead and just did those things to mock him,” he said.

  “No, no, no,” said Ingibjörg. “Not my Jóhanna.”

  They finished the meal and drank coffee afterwards. The sky had cleared, and the evening sun now appeared in the west. Grímur felt somehow restless. “Come on a walk with me,” he finally said to Högni. “I find it easier to think in the evening air. We can collect the cattle for the night while we’re at it.”

  The men stepped outside and walked over the eastern slope. Thormódur Krákur was carrying water to his shed. He didn’t answer when they said good evening to them and just vanished behind the shed door with his buckets of water.

  “Everyone seems to be in a somber mood this evening,” said Grímur. He looked around. “This is where Bryngeir was last seen alive,” he said, puzzled. “And it’s from here that he was going to walk across the island to visit Jóhanna. What route could he have taken?”

  “Well,” Högni answered, “he must have taken the road and followed it down. I walked that way with Inspector Lúkas today. He was timing it and measuring
the distance. It’s six hundred strides.”

  One of Thormódur Krákur’s cows bellowed loudly from within the shed.

  “Yes, that’s a short walk,” Grímur said. “But what did the man do when he realized Doctor Jóhanna wasn’t in her house?”

  Högni thought about it. “Krákur says he was trying to get someone to take him to Stykkishólmur.”

  “But none of the boat owners could remember him asking to be taken over that night.”

  Högni thought again. “Maybe he went out to Ystakot and asked Valdi. He’d done it once before,” he said.

  Grímur started walking. “But don’t forget the poor man drowned before he was carved,” he said. “In unsalted water. There isn’t a single drop of water in the rocks around Ystakot.”

  “No, except in the barrel in Valdi’s yard.”

  “Do you think Valdi might have dragged the rascal by the scruff of the neck and drowned him in the barrel of water like a kitten?”

  “Nah.” Högni was baffled. “But Valdi can be hot tempered.”

  “And why should he have dragged the body to the churchyard?”

  “I don’t know,” Högni answered, feeling uneasy about taking on the role of the accuser in this reasoning.

  “Let’s walk across the island and see what the Ystakot clan have to say for themselves this evening,” said Grímur. They walked down the road below the church in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. No lights shone in the doctor’s house, but when they reached the pier they saw the coast guard ship was lit up.

  “Those Reykjavik people obviously don’t go to bed early,” said Grímur, but then he suddenly halted when he saw that the Ystakot boat wasn’t anchored in its place at the pier.

  “Damn, they’re out at sea,” he said. “We can’t talk to them then.”

  Högni looked at the coast guard ship. “Should we step on board and talk to the police about Valdi?” he asked hesitantly.

  Grímur thought it over. “No. It’s just pure conjecture on our part, and we have no proof. I want to talk to Valdi myself when he gets back.”

  Högni seemed relieved. “Then we should just go to bed,” he said.

  They walked the same way back and fell into an even deeper silence. At the crossroads, Högni said good night and walked on home to the school.

  Question thirty-eight: How did Erlingur Hákonarson die? Sixth letter. Erlingur was a promising seven-year-old boy when his father Earl Hákon was fighting off an invasion from the Jomsvikings in Norway. The earl was faring very badly in the battle and eventually invoked Thorgerd Hördabrúd, vowing to make a human sacrifice, offering Erlingur for this purpose. This brought about a great transformation because clouds erupted and the Jomsvikings had to struggle against a violent hailstorm that broke out over the ships. The hailstones weighed two ounces each and pelted the Jomsvikings’ faces so fiercely that they almost blinded them. They had pulled off some of their clothes during the day because of the heat, but now it grew much colder. They then realized that Thorgerd was on the earl’s side, and arrows shot out from all her fingers. Every single arrow killed someone. The answer is “sacrifice.” The sixth letter is f.

  CHAPTER 55

  Wednesday, June 8, 1960

  It was past midnight by the time Grímur started to undress in the small bedroom of his house. Ingibjörg seemed to be asleep, but she stirred as he slipped under the quilt.

  “Did you remember to give water to the cows, Grímur dear?” she asked sleepily.

  Grímur sat up on the edge of the bed again. “No, of course not. I’ve been so preoccupied, or maybe I’m just going senile,” he said, stretching out for his clothes.

  “These are bad times. I haven’t been myself these days, goddamn it,” he said as he walked to the cowshed. He fetched some buckets from the shed and lowered them into the well. The water level was reasonably high after the rainfall, so it was easy to fill them. He took two trips, but as he was passing the shed door, he noticed that Thormódur Krákur was also fetching water in the well by his shed.

  Grímur walked across the field to him. “Are you still up, Krákur?”

  “Yeah, got to take care of the animals,” he answered heavily.

  Grímur was silent a moment. Finally, he said, “These are bad times for us on the island.”

  Thormódur Krákur silently nodded.

  Grímur continued: “The inspectors think that Kjartan, the magistrate’s assistant, and Doctor Jóhanna killed the reporter and dragged him up to the churchyard.”

  Again, Thormódur Krákur silently shook his head.

  “Then they got news from Reykjavik that the reporter drowned,” Grímur added, “not at sea, but in freshwater.”

  “Oh, in that case the police must realize they’re innocent,” said Thormódur Krákur eagerly.

  “No, they say that Kjartan and Jóhanna drowned the man in the bathtub in the doctor’s house,” said Grímur.

  Thormódur Krákur shook his head again. “Bullshit. They haven’t harmed anyone,” he said.

  “I happen to agree with you, but who did it then?” Grímur asked.

  Thormódur Krákur didn’t answer.

  “Högni and I were wondering if Valdi in Ystakot might have lost control of himself. Do you think that’s possible?”

  Thormódur Krákur looked at Grímur and suddenly started to cry, the silent, tearless weeping of an old man.

  Grímur stared at the broken man in astonishment.

  “It’s all my fault,” the old man yelled into the night in a cracking voice, as if he wanted the whole island to hear his confession.

  Grímur struggled to understand. “Your fault?” he asked.

  “Yes, it was me, it was me,” Thormódur Krákur uttered through his heavy sobs.

  “How do you mean, Krákur?”

  “It was me, and now everyone else is being blamed for it.”

  “Did you murder that man, Krákur?”

  “Murder? No, not at all. He drowned helplessly, but then it was me who did those things to him.”

  “Did you place him in the churchyard?”

  “Yes. I had to do it because of the dream.”

  Grímur patted Thormódur Krákur on the shoulder. “Come on, pal. Tell me the whole story.”

  Thormódur Krákur got a hold of himself, wiped his eyes with his sleeve, and then started to talk: “The reporter came up to me in the shed on Sunday evening and asked me for some milk to drink. Then he offered me a sip of rum and we started chatting.”

  Thormódur Krákur pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose before continuing: “The man wanted to hear some good stories, so I told him stories, old dreams, deciphered and undeciphered, as I usually do. Then I told him about the calf dream, which is about the three eagles over the church and the eagle that sits in the churchyard and has blood on its wings and the distinguished-looking men leading the calves up the pass. D’you remember?”

  Grímur nodded. He had often heard Thormódur Krákur describe that dream.

  “The man said he could decipher the dream. He said that when a blood eagle perches in the Flatey churchyard, it would be a sign that the Flatey Book was on its way back home out of its exile.”

  “Huh?” Grímur wasn’t quite following.

  “Yes, the distinguished figures are the ancient Norwegian kings and the calves symbolize the 113 vellum sheets of the manuscript. Then the reporter said these exact words to me: ‘If you ever have to kill anyone or stumble on anyone who’s already dead, take him up to the churchyard, place him on a grave there, and carve a blood eagle on his back. Then see what happens.’ That’s what he said, and that’s what I did. Obviously the bird with the bloody feathers meant a man cut into a blood eagle, as described in the Flatey Book. Bryngeir could see that, but I was so blind that I never made the connection, even though I’d read about blood eagles many times. It was the most ingenious decoding of a dream I’d ever heard. Then, after we’d been chatting for a while, I had to take the milk to the priest, and the rep
orter was going to visit Doctor Jóhanna.”

  “Yes, I know.” Grímur nodded.

  “From the vicarage I went home for dinner and then up to the shed again in the evening to give water to the cows for the night. But as I was fetching the water, I saw the man there at the bottom of the well. He was lying on his back at the bottom with his legs sticking out of the water.”

  “How the hell did he end up in there?” Grímur was aghast.

  Thormódur Krákur shook his head. “I don’t know. The old lid was smashed, and pieces of wood were floating around the man in the water.”

  Grímur looked at the path that led from the shed to the well. It pointed to the southwest of the island in a direct line to the doctor’s house. “Maybe he intended to take the shortcut across the island from the shed,” said Grímur, “and the path just led him across the field to the well. Then he stepped on the old lid of the well and broke it.”

  Thormódur Krákur nodded and shook his head alternately. “The man was stone dead when I finally managed to hoist up him with my long hook. My first thought was to go and get you, Grímur, but then I remembered what he’d said. ‘If you ever have to kill anyone or stumble on someone who who’s already dead, take him up to the churchyard, place him on a grave there, and carve a blood eagle on his back.’ That was his final wish, and I couldn’t deny him that. The man had said it to me in all seriousness, and I didn’t dare to disobey. He could have started to haunt the shed here, and the Flatey Book was at stake. I grabbed my slaughtering knife in the shed and took the man up to the churchyard on the cart. I placed him on a grave there as I’d been instructed to do and carved his back. Then I dug my hands into the wounds and pulled his lungs out and all this blood came out. Then I just left him there and went home to sleep. The man didn’t mention how long he’d have to stand there like that for the prediction to come true.”

  “Didn’t anyone see you doing this?” Grímur asked.

  “No, no. It was so late.”