grindstones, snuff, caps, peas, rubber shoes, vanilla drops, rakes, chocolate, and net buoys. These and many other products were crammed into cluttered piles on the shelves that covered all of the store’s walls. Some categories of products simply lay in bundles on the floor or on the counter.
Asmundur soon appeared in the store. He was a short, fat man, bald with a round jovial face, dressed in a white storekeeper’s apron tied around his potbelly. In his breast pocket there were two pencils and a folding ruler. The storekeeper greeted him amiably: “Hello, young man. We’ve got special offers on penknives and vitamins this week, cattle feeding corn is back in stock, and we’ve got the latest fashion in shoes from Reykjavik.”
“I’m not here to buy anything and I apologize for the intrusion, but I came for another reason,” said Kjartan at the end of the storekeeper’s sales pitch. He then asked him the same questions he had asked the farmers earlier. Asmundur’s answers were similar. He remembered the Danish visitor quite well. The man had come into the store to ask about film for his camera.
“Unfortunately, I didn’t have any rolls of film. I order them especially from Reykjavik when someone requests it. Since the Dane was on his way south anyway, I didn’t bother ordering any film for him,” said Asmundur. “I did, however, manage to sell him two pairs of woolen socks.” Then he thought a moment and said, “My boat certainly wasn’t moved during that time.”
“What do you use the boat for?” Kjartan asked.
“Mainly for small deliveries from the store,” the storekeeper answered. “Having a decent motorboat can come in quite handy when you need to pop over to the mainland or to the inner isles when the farmers are busy in the summer. The co-op doesn’t offer a good service like that, and that’s how you get customers. But I never go south to Stykkisholmur because the mail boat brings supplies over once a week. Then I always take my boat away after the slaughtering season and let it rest in the storehouse over the winter. I don’t like traveling by sea in the winter, both because of the dark and the cold. Farmers also normally find they have more time on their hands in the winter and like the change of doing their shopping in town.”
“Have you any idea how that Danish man could have ended up in Ketilsey?” Kjartan asked.
“It’s all people can talk about in the village,” the trader answered. “But nobody can figure it out. Who the hell could have left the man out there? I know every single person on these islands, and I can assure you there isn’t an ounce of evil in any of them. Maybe there was an accident. Maybe the man boarded the mail boat without any of the crew really noticing him. Then maybe he was standing by the gunwale and fainted and fell into the sea. Then perhaps he regained consciousness and swam until he found something to hang onto. Or the current was really fast and carried him all the way to Ketilsey. But it’s all so unlikely that one can barely believe it.”
Kjartan was on the point of giving up on the investigation. He felt no closer to solving Gaston Lund’s death.
“How much do you charge for these penknives of yours?” he asked.
Question three: The bad choice he made for me. Second letter. King Magnus said, “Many people can be grateful to their fathers, and so am I in many ways and more than most, but he made a bad choice in the mother he selected for me.” So “mother” is the answer, and the second letter is o.
CHAPTER 20
Kjartan was on his way back to the district administrative officer’s home when he suddenly remembered that a new name had cropped up in connection with the Danish visitor. The farmer Sigurbjorn had told him that Hallbjorg in Innstibaer had allowed the guest into the library. It could do no harm to hear more details about that side of the story. The young boy who had taken the priest’s message down to Grimur was now on Kjartan’s path and was able to direct him toward Innstibaer. It was easy enough. There was only one path in that direction, and Innstibaer was the last croft on the sea side of the path. Two amicable orphaned lambs greeted him with their bleating by a quaint little house. Two women were sitting on wooden footstools on the sidewalk, knitting woolen socks in the sunshine. One of them was in her seventies, tall and stout. The other might have been just over fifty and was small with delicate features.
Kjartan greeted them and introduced himself. The women returned the greeting, intrigued, but did not introduce themselves in return.
“Is one of you called Hallbjorg?” Kjartan then asked.
“Yes, that’s good old me, young man,” the eldest answered.
Kjartan recounted his conversation with Sigurbjorn to her and asked if she remembered the Danish visitor.
“Yes, that’s my job in the village, to take care of the key to the library. Anyone who wants to borrow a book has to get the key from me first. But when strangers come and want to take a look at the library, I take them there myself. That’s the general rule, dear.”
“Do you remember this Danish man?” Kjartan asked.
“Yes, yes. He wanted to have a go at the old riddle.”
“Do you mean the questions in the Flatey Book?”
“Yes, it’s a terribly innocent little riddle, but they haven’t managed to solve it yet.”
“Who’s they?”
“All kinds of bigheads who claim to know things about the Flatey Book.”
“Do you know if Professor Lund was able to solve the riddle?”
“No. I don’t think so. Not that I was peeping over his shoulder when he was having a go at it. He worked on it until the early hours.”
“Can I get to see the list of questions?”
“Yes, I don’t see any danger in that. I’ll lend you the key and you can have a look yourself. My leg’s bad today.”
The woman stood up stiffly and vanished into the croft.
The other woman silently glanced at Kjartan but immediately averted her gaze and focused on her knitting when he returned her gaze. She must have been a pretty woman in her day, and even though age was clearly creeping up on her, she still possessed a graceful air.
Kjartan stooped over the lambs that had settled by his feet and patted them until Hallbjorg returned.
“Here,” she said, handing him an old key, which Kjartan took.
“Will I be able to find it on my own?” he asked.
“Yes. The Munksgaard book is in a glass case against the northern wall. You can’t miss it. It’s not a big building. You can open the drawer, and the enigma sheets are slipped inside the beginning of the book. Just remember not to take the sheets out of the library. Misfortune and bad luck will follow anyone who takes those pages out or copies them.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s just a fact, everyone knows. An old curse, dear. There are ancient magical runes on the sheets, and no one knows what curse they unleash if they’re not treated carefully. The key to the riddle can only be found on those sheets, and they can never be taken out of the library. Unless, of course, the riddle has been solved, in which case the winner can keep the sheets.”
“Is that the winner’s prize then?”
“Yes, and the honor, of course. The person who solves the enigma will become famous.”
“Is it a very old enigma?”
“Not that old, but a good hundred years at least.”
“Have the sheets been in the library all that time?”
“No, no. The old librarian who received the Munksgaard book for the library’s centenary celebration received the riddle with it. Before that it had been kept by the king in Copenhagen. These are very important documents.”
Kjartan was on the point of leaving when Hallbjorg beckoned him over and shoved something into the palm of his hand.
“Here’s a piece of candy, dear. Something sweet’ll do you good.” She gave him a warm smile.
