Burial Rites

by Hannah Kent

  ‘I am sure you are right,’ Tóti said, looking at the servant busy untying his laces. She glanced at him without smiling.

  ‘Come, Karitas, leave him alone now,’ Blöndal said. ‘Reverend Thorvardur, if you will follow me to my office.’

  ‘Thank you, Karitas.’

  The servant stood up, holding his shoes, and looked at him as though she was about to say something.

  ‘Karitas. Leave.’

  Blöndal waited until the woman had stepped out of the room, before gesturing for Tóti to follow him. ‘Down this way, if you please, Reverend. My rooms are in a remote quarter of the building. It keeps the roar of the servants from becoming more than a mild disturbance.’

  Tóti followed Blöndal down a long corridor, over which more servants and children ran, going into other rooms. Tóti marvelled at the size of the house – it was like no other he had seen.

  ‘In here please, Reverend.’

  Blöndal pushed open a door to a light-filled study. The pale blue walls were lined with two solid bookshelves, filled with leather-bound spines. A large writing desk sat in the middle of the room, its surface gleaming in the sunlight that entered through a tiny curtained window near the peak of the gable.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Tóti gasped.

  ‘Sit down, Reverend,’ Blöndal said, pulling out a cushioned chair.

  Tóti sat as directed.

  ‘Here we are then.’ Blöndal ran his large hands over the smooth surface of the desk. ‘Shall we begin?’

  ‘Of course, District Commissioner,’ Tóti said, nervously. The grandeur of the office made him uncomfortable. He had not known that people in the north lived like this.

  ‘My men said that the condemned was brought to Kornsá without incident.’

  ‘That’s my understanding, also,’ Tóti said. ‘And I am pleased to report that Agnes has settled into her new custodial holdings at Kornsá.’

  ‘I see. You call her by her Christian name.’

  ‘She prefers it, District Commissioner.’

  Blöndal leaned back in his chair. ‘Continue.’

  ‘Well, the prisoner has hitherto been included in all aspects of the household’s haymaking,’ Tóti continued. ‘And I have been informed by District Officer Jón Jónsson that she labours with a humble demeanour, as befits her reduced state.’

  ‘They do not keep her in irons?’

  ‘It is not usual practice.’

  ‘I see. And her domestic duties?’

  ‘She attends them with utmost diligence. The prisoner seems quite content to spend days of ill weather knitting.’

  ‘Remind them to be wary of supplying her with tools.’

  ‘They are watchful, District Commissioner.’

  ‘Good.’ Blöndal pushed his chair back and, opening a drawer in his desk, carefully drew out a sheet of light green paper and a penknife. He then turned and picked up a glass jar stuffed with long, white swan feathers from a corner of a bookshelf. ‘I always send the women to collect these,’ Blöndal said, momentarily distracted. ‘In late summer. It’s best to get them when the birds moult. No need to pluck them out.’ He offered Tóti the jar holding the clutch of feathers.

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t.’ Tóti shook his head.

  ‘I insist,’ Blöndal boomed. ‘A true man is distinguishable from all others by his writing implements.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Tóti gingerly took a feather.

  ‘A provider, the swan,’ Blöndal said. ‘The skin of the feet makes excellent purses.’

  Tóti absently brushed the light edge of the feather against his hand.

  ‘And the eggs are tolerable. If boiled.’ Blöndal neatly swept up the slivers of quill from the desk, and then unscrewed a small bottle of ink. ‘Now, if you will, a brief summation of your religious administrations to the criminal.’

  ‘Of course.’ Tóti was aware of sweat creeping out on his palms. ‘During the harvest I visited the criminal intermittently, being, as you will understand, occupied with the harvest at Breidabólstadur.’

  ‘In which ways did you prepare for your communication with the condemned?’

  ‘I . . . I would be lying if I said that, at first, my responsibility towards her immortal soul did not weigh heavily upon me.’

  ‘I was worried of as much,’ Blöndal said grimly. He made a note on the paper in front of him.

  ‘I thought that the only recourse to her absolution would be through prayer and admonishment,’ Tóti said. ‘I spent several days in consideration of the verses, psalms, and other literature I thought might bring her to the feet of God.’

  ‘And what did you select?’

  ‘Passages from the New Testament.’

  ‘Which chapters?’

  ‘Uh . . .’ Tóti was unnerved by the rapidity of Blöndal’s questions. ‘John. Corinthians,’ he stammered.

  Blöndal looked askance at Tóti and continued writing.

  ‘I tried to talk to her about the importance of prayer. She asked that I leave.’

  Blöndal smiled. ‘I’m not surprised. She struck me as especially godless during the trial.’

  ‘Oh no. She seems very well versed in Christian literature.’

  ‘As is the Devil, I am sure,’ Blöndal rejoined. ‘Reverend Jóhann has set Fridrik Sigurdsson to reading the Passion Hymns. Revelations, also. It is more inciting.’

  ‘Perhaps. However . . .’ Tóti sat up straighter in his chair. ‘It’s become apparent to me that the condemned requires means other than religious rebuke to acquaint herself with death and prepare for her meeting with the Lord.’

  Blöndal frowned. ‘By what means have you been acquainting the condemned with God, Reverend?’

  Tóti cleared his throat and gently set the feather on the desk in front of him.

  ‘I fear that you may find it unorthodox.’

  ‘Pray, tell me and we shall ascertain whether your fear is reasonable.’

  Tóti paused. ‘I have come upon the conviction that it is not the stern voice of a priest delivering the threat of brimstone, but the gentle and enquiring tones of a friend that will best draw the curtain to her soul, District Commissioner.’

  Blöndal stared at him. ‘The gentle tones of a friend. I hope I am mistaken in thinking you are serious.’

  Tóti reddened. ‘I am afraid you’re not mistaken, sir. All attempts to press the condemned with sermons had adverse effect. Instead, I, I . . . I encourage her to speak of her past. Rather than address her, I allow her to speak to me. I provide her with a final audience to her life’s lonely narrative.’

  ‘Do you pray with her?’

  ‘I pray for her.’

  ‘Does she pray for herself?’

  ‘I find it impossible to believe she does not, in private. She is to die, sir.’

  ‘Yes, Reverend. She is to die.’ Blöndal slowly set down his quill and pursed his lips together. ‘She is to die, and for good reason.’

  There was a knock on the door. ‘Ah,’ said Blöndal, looking up. ‘Sæunn. Come in.’

  A nervous-looking young maid entered the room, bearing a tray.

  ‘On the desk, if you will,’ Blöndal said, watching as the girl placed coffee, cheese, butter, smoked meat and flat bread in front of him. ‘Eat, if you are hungry.’ Blöndal immediately began heaping slices of mutton onto his plate.

  ‘Thank you, I am not,’ Tóti said. He watched the District Commissioner push a large mouthful of bread and cheese into his mouth. He chewed slowly, swallowed, and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his fingers.

  ‘Assistant Reverend Thorvardur. You might be forgiven for thinking that friendship will direct this murderess to the way of truth and repentance. You are young and inexperienced. I bear some blame for this.’ The District Commissioner slowly leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk.

  ‘Let me be forthright with you. Last year, in March, Agnes Magnúsdóttir hid Fridrik Sigurdsson in the cowshed at Illugastadir. Natan Ketilsson had returned from the farm Geitaskard wit
h a worker there, Pétur Jónsson –’

  ‘Forgive me, District Commissioner, but I believe I know what is thought to –’

  ‘I think you do not know enough,’ Blöndal interrupted. ‘Natan had returned home after visiting Geitaskard to attend to Worm Beck, the District Officer there. Worm was very ill. Natan returned to Illugastadir to consult his books, and – as I understand it – fetch additional medicines, and Pétur accompanied him. It was late, Reverend. They decided to sleep the night at Natan’s home and return in the morning.

  ‘That evening Fridrik arrived in secret from Katadalur and Agnes hid him in the cowshed. They had planned to kill Natan and steal his money all winter, and that is what they did. Agnes waited until the men were asleep before summoning Fridrik. It was a cold-blooded attack on two defenceless men.’

  Blöndal paused to gauge the impact of his words upon Tóti.

  ‘Fridrik confessed to their murder, Reverend. He confessed that he took a hammer and a new-sharpened knife into the badstofa and killed Pétur first, crushing his skull with one blow of the hammer. He either believed it was Natan, or wished to be rid of a witness – I do not know. But he then certainly attempted to kill Natan. In his confession Fridrik said that he raised the hammer and aimed the blow at Natan’s skull, but missed. He said he heard the crunch of bone, and, Reverend, examination of the remains revealed that Natan’s arm was indeed broken.

  ‘Fridrik told me that Natan then woke, and thought, in what was likely a stupor of pain, that he was at Geitaskard and that it was his friend Worm before him.

  ‘He said: “Natan saw Agnes and me in the room and he started begging for us to stop, but we continued until he was dead.” Note his words, Reverend. “Agnes and me.” Fridrik said that Natan was killed with the knife.’

  ‘Agnes did not kill them, then.’

  ‘That she was in the room cannot be disputed, Reverend.’

  ‘But she did not handle the weapon.’

  Blöndal settled back in his chair and placed his fingertips together. He smiled. ‘When Fridrik confessed to the murders, he was unrepentant, Reverend. He thought he had done the will of God. He thought it was justice for past wrongs committed by Natan, and claimed both murders as his own. I am of the opinion that it was not quite as he said.’

  ‘You think Agnes killed Natan.’

  ‘She had incentive to, Reverend. More incentives than Fridrik.’ Blöndal daubed his finger against the crumbs remaining on his plate. ‘I believe Fridrik killed Pétur. The man was killed with one blow, and a hammer is a heavy tool to wield.

  ‘Fridrik said Natan woke and saw what it was they were doing to him. I believe that he lost his nerve, Reverend. How easy it is to forget that Fridrik was only seventeen on this night. A boy. A thug, certainly – it is well established that he and Natan were enemies of a kind. But think, Reverend . . .’ Blöndal leaned closer. ‘Think of how it must be to kill a man for his money. Imagine if he begged you for his life? If he promised to pay you whatever ransom asked, no authorities notified, if you would only let him live?’

  Tóti’s throat was dry. ‘I cannot imagine such a thing.’

  ‘I must,’ Blöndal said. ‘And I have. I am of the opinion that, on seeing Natan wake and beg for his life, Fridrik lost his nerve and faltered. He wanted money, and it would undoubtedly have been offered to him in those moments.’ His voice was low. ‘I am of the opinion that Agnes picked up the knife and killed Natan.’

  ‘But Fridrik did not say that.’

  ‘Natan was stabbed to death. Fridrik was a farmer’s son; he knew how to kill animals with a knife. The throat is slit.’ Blöndal reached over his desk and jabbed a finger in Tóti’s throat. ‘From here . . .’ He dragged the nail across Tóti’s skin. ‘To here. Natan did not have his throat cut. He was stabbed in the belly. This indicates motives more sordid than theft.’

  ‘Why not Sigga?’ Tóti asked in a small voice.

  Blöndal shook his head. ‘The maid of sixteen who burst into tears as soon as I summoned her? Sigga didn’t even attempt to lie – she is too simple-minded, too young to know how. She told me everything. How Agnes hated Natan, how Agnes was jealous of his attentions to her. Sigga is not bright, but she saw that much.’

  ‘But women may be jealous and not murder, District Commissioner.’

  ‘Murder is unusual, I’ll concede that, Reverend. But Agnes was twice the age of Sigga. She had travelled to Illugastadir from this valley – a not inconsiderable distance – where she had spent all her life. Why? Surely not just for employment – she had sufficient opportunities here. There was something else, surely, that made her go to work for Natan Ketilsson.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t understand, District Commissioner,’ Tóti said.

  Blöndal sniffed. ‘Excuse me for speaking plainly, Reverend – Agnes believed that she deserved more. A hand in marriage, I would expect. Natan was an indiscreet man – his bastards litter this valley.’

  ‘And he broke his promise?’

  Blöndal shrugged. ‘Who said he promised her anything? As far as I can see, Agnes was under the impression that she had successfully seduced him. But Sigga testified that Natan preferred her . . . attentions.’

  ‘This was spoken of in the trial?’

  ‘A coarse matter. But murder trials are composed of coarse matters.’

  ‘You believe Agnes planned to kill Natan because she was spurned.’

  ‘Reverend. We have a seventeen-year-old common thief armed with a hammer, a sixteen-year-old maid afraid for her life, and a spinster woman whose unrequited affections erupted into bitter hatred. One of them plunged a knife into Natan Ketilsson.’

  Tóti’s head spun. He focused on the white feather resting on the edge of the desk before him.

  ‘I cannot believe it,’ he said, finally.

  Blöndal sighed. ‘You will not find proof of innocence in Agnes’s stories of her life, Reverend. She is a woman loose with her emotions, and looser with her morals. Like many older servant women she is practised in deception, and I do not doubt that she has manufactured a life story in such a way so as to prick your sympathy. I would not believe a word she says. She lied to my face in this very room.’

  ‘She seems sincere,’ Tóti said.

  ‘I can tell you that she is not. You must apply the Lord’s word to her as a whip to a hard-mouthed horse. You will not get anywhere otherwise.’

  Tóti swallowed. He thought of Agnes, her thin pale body in the shadowy corners of Kornsá, describing the death of her foster-mother.

  ‘I will invest all my energies into her redemption, District Commissioner.’

  ‘Allow me to redirect you, Reverend. Let me tell you of the work Reverend Jóhann Tómasson has done upon Fridrik.’

  ‘The priest from Tjörn.’

  ‘Yes. I first met Fridrik Sigurdsson in person on the day I went to arrest him. This was in March of last year, shortly after I heard news of the fire at Illugastadir and saw for myself the remains of Natan and Pétur.

  ‘I rode to his family’s home, Katadalur, with a few of my men, and we went to the back of the cottage so as to surprise him. When I knocked on the farm door, Fridrik himself opened the hatch and I immediately set my men upon him. They put him in irons. That young man was furious, exhibiting behaviour and language of the most foul and degenerate variety. He struggled with my men, and when I warned him not to attempt escape, he shouted, plain enough for all to hear, that he regretted not having brought his gun outside with him, for it would become me to have a bullet through my forehead.

  ‘I had my men bring Fridrik here, to Hvammur, and I proceeded to question him, as I had done previously with Agnes and Sigrídur, who told me of his involvement. He was stubborn, and remained silent. It was not until I arranged for Reverend Jóhann Tómasson to speak with him that he confessed to having, with the aid of the two women, murdered the men. Fridrik was not repentant or remorseful as a man accused of killing in a passionate state might be. He repeatedly uttered his conviction t
hat what he had done to Natan was necessary and just. Reverend Jóhann suggested to me that his criminal behaviour was a direct consequence of his having been badly brought up, and indeed, after seeing Fridrik’s mother’s hysterics when we arrested her son, I have come to share his opinion. What other factor could incite a mere boy of seventeen winters to thrash a man to death with a hammer?

  ‘Fridrik Sigurdsson was a boy raised in a household careless with morality and Christian teaching, Reverend. Slothfulness, greed, and rude, callow inclinations bred in him a weak spirit, and a longing for worldy gain. After recording his confession, I was of the unwavering opinion that his was an intransigent character. His appearance excited in me strong suspicions of that order – he is freckle-faced and – I beg your pardon, Reverend – red-headed, a sign of a treacherous nature. When I set him in custody with Birni Olsen at Thingeyrar I had little hope for his reformation. However, Reverend Jóhann and Olsen fortunately possessed more hope for the boy than I entertained, and set to work upon his soul with the religious fervour that makes both men so necessary to this community. Reverend Jóhann confided to me that, through the combination of prayer, daily religious reprehension, and the good, moral example set by Olsen and his family, Fridrik has come to repent of his crime and see the error of his ways. He talks openly and honestly of his misdeeds and acknowledges that his impending execution is right given the horrific nature of the crime committed by his hands. He recognises it as “God’s justice”. Now, what do you say to this?’

  Tóti swallowed. ‘I commend both Reverend Jóhann and Herr Birni Olsen for their achievement.’

  ‘As do I,’ Blöndal said. ‘Does Agnes Magnúsdóttir repent of her crime in a similar manner?’

  Tóti hesitated. ‘She does not speak of it.’