his knowledge, but he couldn’t answer much. We then tried to reason about it a little more, but I think it’s fair to say that we were just unable to understand each other.”
Sigurbjorn grinned at the memory of it, but then he turned serious and said, “Of course, it was terrible for him to perish out on Ketilsey like that.”
Gudjon seconded this with a nod.
“Where did you meet?” Kjartan asked.
“In the library. Hallbjorg in Innstibaer let him in to look at our Munksgaard edition of the book. He was very impressed by how it was kept in a glass case. I don’t think they treat the original manuscript any better. He took several photographs. Then he was going to have a crack at the old riddle. That was when I asked whether he was going to return the manuscript to us, but he wouldn’t hear a word of it.”
Kjartan said, “We know that the deceased left the priest on September fourth and intended to take the mail boat to Stykkisholmur. We don’t know if he ever boarded the boat. If not, is it possible that he may have left the island on some other boat? Could he have gone on one of your boats?”
Gudjon and Sigurbjorn looked at each other and both shook their heads.
“We go out very little that early in September,” Sigurbjorn said, “except maybe to collect the hay on the outer islands when it’s been cut. Later we take a few trips to the mainland to collect the sheep from their summer grazing. We never sail south to Stykkisholmur or anywhere in that direction at that time of the year. Anyone who needs to travel south takes the mail boat.”
Kjartan persisted: “Is it possible that someone would have taken him on one of your boats without you knowing?” he asked.
“Taken the boat in secret, you mean?” Gudjon asked.
“Yes.”
“That would be a first on these islands.”
“Could it have happened? There’s a first time for everything.”
Gudjon and Sigurbjorn looked at each other and both shook their heads again.
“No,” they said in unison, and Sigurbjorn added: “I think I would notice it straightaway if someone else had landed my boat.”
Gudjon seconded him with a nod.
“Have you any idea, then, of how he could have reached Ketilsey?”
“I’m sure he didn’t fall off the mail boat on the way to Stykkisholmur,” said Gudjon. “The crew would definitely have noticed it if a passenger they had picked up in Flatey failed to disembark in Stykkisholmur. Especially in September when there are normally very few passengers on the boat. They’re very observant and conscientious.”
Kjartan wondered whether he should also mention that the Danish man had probably written the word Lucky with pebbles on Ketilsey, but he decided against it. He had no way of knowing if it was connected to Sigurbjorn’s boat and could not think of how to formulate his question. Feeling the farmers could be of no more use to him for the moment, Kjartan said good-bye and headed back toward the village. Glancing back, he could see that the men were deep in conversation and seemed to have forgotten about the haircut altogether.
She read, “Question one: It will come near when it is God’s wish. First letter. King Sverrir was going to his ship on a small rowboat when an arrow struck the bow over his head and another one came close to his knee. The king sat there and did not flinch, and his companion said, ‘Dangerous shot, sire.’ The king answered, ‘It will come near when it is God’s wish.’ The answer is ‘dangerous shot,’ and the first letter is d.”
CHAPTER 18
Detective Dagbjartur sat at the National Library with Egill, the reception manager from Hotel Borg, who was skimming through the newspapers of the last months. Egill was supposed to try to recognize the man who had inquired about Professor Lund the previous autumn. The reception manager was sure he had seen pictures of the man in the papers, and now they had to flip through them until they found him. This was their second day on this task, and it was proceeding slowly. Egill carefully studied all the photographs of men and occasionally stumbled on snippets of articles that drew his attention. Dagbjartur just sat there patiently, yawning and cleaning his nails. He had set himself a very clear and delimited task, which at best could be stretched out for another day or two. This temporarily freed him of petty criminals and paperwork. A press release had been dispatched to the papers that morning requesting the man to come forward, and it read as follows: “The man who entered Hotel Borg at the end of August of last year and enquired about Gaston Lund from Denmark is asked to contact the police in Reykjavik.” The notice would not be appearing before next Wednesday at the earliest. Whitsunday was upon them and no papers would be coming out.
Large, thick folders of newspapers lay on the table in front of the two men, and Dagbjartur ensured each pile was renewed as soon as it had been viewed. It was a moderate task to be performing on a beautiful June day, and it seemed to be proceeding nicely. It was also a quiet day at the library on that Saturday, and there was only a small group of regulars at work. Every now and then a smothered cough, sneeze, whisper, or shifting chair could be heard. Otherwise everything was as quiet as a morgue.
Dagbjartur was dozing off in his seat when the reception manager suddenly exclaimed, “There he is!”
Dagbjartur popped off his chair. “Are you sure?” he asked, disappointed.
“Yes, yes,” he said, “absolutely sure.”
Dagbjartur looked at the paper. The picture was of an amiable-looking silver-haired man, who was named underneath as Fridrik Einarsson. The title of the article was “Killing methods in the Orkneyinga saga.”
Dagbjartur glanced at his watch. There was still plenty of time left in the day to find this man and talk to him. There was no way of avoiding it. Dagbjartur sighed wearily.
Question two: Most impudent. First letter. When they reached Reine, they spotted three longships rowing down the fjord. The third was a dragon ship. As the ships passed the merchant vessel, an imposing figure walked onto the deck of the dragon ship and said, “Who is the commander of this ship, and where did you first make land and camp last night?”
Sarcastic Halli replied, “We spent the winter in Iceland and sailed from Gasir, and our commander is called Bard. We made land at Hitra and camped at Agdanes.”
The man, who in actual fact was King Harald Sigurdsson, then asked, “Didn’t Agdi sodomize you?”
“Not yet,” Halli answered.
The king smiled and said, “Have you made some arrangement for him to perform this service on you later then?”
Halli answered, “If you’re curious to know, Agdi is saving that up for nobler people than us and is expecting you to arrive this evening so that he can pay you this debt in full.”
“You’re exceedingly impudent,” said the king.
The answer is “sarcastic Halli,” and the first letter is s.
CHAPTER 19
The island’s store was a two-story building close to the co-op building. Its doors faced west, but on its eastern side there was an extension and other entrances. From there was a staircase to the top floor where Asmundur, the storekeeper, lived with his wife in a small apartment. The store and stockroom were on the lower floor. When Kjartan opened the door into the store, a shrill bell resounded in the empty space. Kjartan looked around and took a deep breath. Strong and familiar odors lingered in the air. Wooden furnishings gave off a symphony of smells to the accompaniment of a broad range of products: candy, shoe polish, coffee, nails, books, oatmeal, hooks, potatoes, needles, baking powder, coffee jugs, raisins, scythes, brown sugar, paint, lemonade,
