“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.”
