“Yes?” said Kjartan.
“Yes and ahem…I think I know who the deceased is.”
“Really?”
“Yes, it just has to be Professor Gaston Lund from Copenhagen.”
“How do you know that?”
“It’s a bit of a long story. The professor came here from Reykholar at the beginning of September of last year with some of the women who had been to the mainland to pick berries. He sent me Reverend Veigar in Reykholar’s regards and asked me if we could put him up for two nights, which, of course, was fine. He was obviously quite a distinguished man.”
The priest took the lid off a cake dish and handed it to Kjartan.
“Here, have a pancake with sugar.”
“He was Danish, you were saying?” Kjartan asked, taking a pancake.
“Oh yes. He was a professor from the University of Copenhagen. He’d spent the summer following the saga trails in the Flatey Book, i.e., the saga of Olaf Haraldsson and the saga of Olaf Tryggvason, in Norway, of course, and then he came out here to Iceland on a short trip, as I understand it. First he went east to Skalholt, where Brynjolfur served as bishop. Then he traveled north to Vididalstunga, where the manuscript was put together and written. After that he traveled west to Reykholar, where the manuscript was preserved for some time, and then over here to Flatey. He realized, of course, that no one could call themselves experts on the Flatey Book without first visiting the place the manuscript derived its name from. He also wanted to try to solve the old Aenigma Flateyensis, which I only realized later. From here he traveled directly to Reykjavik to catch a flight to Copenhagen. He was due to attend a very important manuscript symposium in Copenhagen, and then, of course, he had to start lecturing at the university straight after that.”
“But how did he end up in Ketilsey then?” Kjartan asked.
“It’s totally incomprehensible to me. He said good-bye to me when the mail boat was about to come in and set off for the pier with plenty of time to spare.”
“So how do you know it was him then?”
“I should have recognized him from the description of the clothes, but since I just assumed that he was in Copenhagen, it never occurred to me. But it was the note with the quotation from the Flatey Book that convinced me. It’s probably written in my handwriting.”
“Oh?” Kjartan pulled out the note that he had stuck into his wallet the night before and handed it to the priest.
Reverend Hannes took the note and nodded after glancing at it. “I’ve sometimes had to receive foreign visitors who come here on the Flatey Book trail,” he said. “I’ve tried to acquaint myself with the history of the manuscript as well as I can and, in the process, formed my own ideas about its history. The theory has been advanced that Jon Finnsson of Flatey inscribed the manuscript with those words that are quoted on the note to dispel any ambiguities regarding heirship. I, on the other hand, believe that he wrote this in the manuscript when he once lent it in Skalholt, quite some time before it was finally handed over to Bishop Brynjolfur. And I’m also sure that Jon Finnsson only intended to lend Brynjolfur the manuscript when he came for a visit in the belief that it would return to him once it had been transcribed and researched. Otherwise, he would have forfeited his ownership by his own hand with some declaration of ownership in the manuscript. A man doesn’t give away an inscribed book without transferring the ownership in writing first. That’s how it worked back then, and that’s how it works now. I explained all this to the professor and copied the text down on that note for him. We actually disagreed on whether the Danes should return the manuscript to Iceland or not. He was very opposed to the idea and was collecting material for a thesis to support his opinion. But I think I managed to get him to listen to my point of view. I believe that Jon Finnsson’s descendants or the Icelandic nation own the Flatey Book by right.”
Kjartan listened to the lecture but was still gnawed by doubt. “But the man must have been missed in Copenhagen. Why wasn’t there a search for him?” he asked.
“That’s what I simply don’t get. He led me to understand that he wanted very little attention on this trip and avoided meeting up with Icelandic colleagues or anyone he knew. These manuscript issues are so sensitive that he wanted to avoid any public debates here. Professor Lund was obviously one of the most prominent opponents on this issue. It’s also possible that no one in Copenhagen knew he was coming out here. He was a bachelor and didn’t contact anyone back in Denmark during his trip here.”
“Did he speak Icelandic?” Kjartan asked.
“Yes, yes. He could understand it quite well, and could read and write OK. But, as with most Danes, his spoken Icelandic was a bit ropey, of course, although he got by just fine.”
“What’s that thing he wanted to solve you just mentioned?” Kjartan asked.
“The Aenigma Flateyensis. It’s a semi kind of crossword. It came with the facsimile version of the Flatey Book that was given to the library on the centenary in 1936. The pages are loose inside the book, and no one is allowed to take them out of the library building or to copy the key that solves it. Every now and then visitors come here and take the test. But no one has succeeded so far. Some of the clues are, of course, very unclear, and the key is incomprehensible.”
“Why was this man trying to solve the enigma?”
Reverend Hannes smiled faintly. “The professor is-or was, should I say-a member of Copenhagen’s Academy of Scholars. They meet once a week at a famous restaurant called Det lille Apotek. The group is divided into two sections. Those who’ve distinguished themselves in the field of humanities and received recognition for it get to sit on the bench by the wall that offers the best view. The others have to sit opposite the wall by the passageway and sometimes get splashed with beer. The professor was going to win himself a better seat by solving the enigma.”
“Did he succeed?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t want to say, and he was very reticent on the subject. Although I suspect he intended to disclose it when he got back to Copenhagen. Who knows? He gave me a copy of his answers, but I don’t know if they fit the key.”
Reverend Hannes opened a drawer in his standing desk, took out a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to Kjartan. “There you go. I think you should keep this.”
Kjartan took the sheet and examined it carefully. The sentences were in Danish and Icelandic, although the handwriting was barely legible.
“I need to call Reykjavik,” Kjartan said, “to find out if the body could be the professor’s. Then you’ll need to look into the casket to confirm that the clothes are the same you saw him in the last time. The body itself is, of course, unrecognizable.”
Reverend Hannes sipped his coffee with trembling hands. “Yes, I suppose I better do that,” he said.
Kjartan continued: “But could it be that he fell overboard off the mail boat and swam to Ketilsey?”
“I would think that highly unlikely. The island is miles from the sailing route.”
“Are there strong currents there?”
“Yes, I’m sure, although I’m no expert on the subject. You need to talk to the seamen about that.”
“When was it he left you again?”
“It was on September fourth. I’ve checked it in my diary. I remember there was some news about the manuscript issue on the radio the same evening he left.”
“Didn’t he have any luggage?”
“He had a small traveling bag, enough for a few days, with a toiletries bag, change of underwear, and that kind of thing. A camera and small binoculars. I seem to remember him saying that his case was in storage in Reykjavik.”
Kjartan picked up the note that lay on the table between them.
“What does this mean on the note: folio 1005?”
“That’s the Flatey Book ’s registration number in the Royal Library in Copenhagen. I remember Lund wrote that on the note I gave him and then stuck it in his pocket.”
Kjartan turned the note around.
“Do you know what these letters on the back of the note stand for?” he asked.
The priest examined the note. “No. He must have written that on the note after he left here. That’s not unlike the series of letters that are supposed to be the key to the Flatey enigma, but he knew he wasn’t allowed to copy the key. And he didn’t go back to the library after I gave him the note.”
Kjartan wrote down: Gaston Lund of Copenhagen, 4 September. “I’m going to the telephone exchange to call the Danish Embassy,” he said and stood up.
Reverend Hannes escorted him to the door, said good-bye, and walked back to his wife in the living room.
“The case is in good hands,” he said. “What I’m dreading the most is having to look at that body in the casket. I always find these things so uncomfortable.”
He looked out the window and gazed into the distance for a long time before saying, “I remember the day Lund left us as if it were yesterday. I walked him to the door and shook his hand. He promised to write to me. Was I suppose to guess that something was up when I never got a letter from him?”
The woman put down her handwork. “Did you ever write to him?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t, in fact. I was more expecting the letter to come from him.”
She reflected a moment. “Maybe he was on his way here on another visit when the Lord took him away?”
The priest shook his head. “I don’t know, but I can still picture him walking down the road with that little case in his hand. He left for the boat with plenty of time to spare because he was going to drop by Doctor Johanna’s to get some seasickness tablets. He was worried about a rough crossing because the weather was getting worse.”
He stared through the window in silence and then muttered to himself: “But how on earth did he end up on Ketilsey?”
“…The medieval lettering used was Latin Carolingian script, which reached Iceland from Norway and England, albeit with a few additions to fulfill the needs of the Norse language. Accents were placed over long vowels, and new letters appeared. The? and? came from English, from which they later disappeared but survived in Icelandic. The writing of the Flatey Book also bears the personal traits of its scribes, Jon and Magnus. Jon wrote most of the first part and Magnus the latter half. And the workmanship reveals more. An unknown person with rather poor handwriting seems to have gripped the pen in four places in the first half of the manuscript, probably when Jon was sharpening his quill, because his handwriting is generally slightly thinner after the unknown handwriting that precedes it. This was no cowshed boy in Vididalstunga who had sneaked in to try his hand at writing. The priest would not have allowed that to happen. It is more likely to have been someone who had some authority over the priest, perhaps even Jon Hakon himself. I think that is quite possible.
“Magnus Thorhallsson’s calligraphy and illuminations in the Flatey Book are among the most beautiful to be found in Icelandic medieval manuscripts. One can assume that this artist was a sought-after scribe and that he made several manuscripts. He was well trained by the time he came to the Flatey Book. However, his workmanship and handwriting can only be found in a few words in two other manuscripts. One can therefore assume that his life’s work has been lost…”
CHAPTER 12
When Kjartan returned from the telephone exchange, he found the district administrative officer by his storage hut by the landing. Grimur sat on a wooden crate and had spread a canvas bag over his knees. He had placed the seal fur over it and was scraping the layer of fat off it with a sharp knife. A large basin of red soapy water lay by his feet, and another fur was soaking inside it. The third had been nailed to the gable of the hut, freshly scraped and washed.
Hogni 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?” Hogni 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 Grimur 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,” Hogni 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 Patreksfjordur, 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.”
Grimur 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 Grimur. “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 Breidafjordur 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 Arnason 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 Bardastrond 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.
The Flatey Enigma Page 7
