game? How had he gotten into the locked building?
Question six: Who could not hold back their tears? First letter. They dragged up the body, and King Sverrir said it was the body of King Magnus. They slid a shield under the body and lifted it onto the ship and rowed to land. The body was still recognizable because its complexion had not changed; it still had rosy cheeks and rigor mortis had not set in. Before the body was veiled with a shroud, the king allowed Magnus’s men to file past it to identify it and bear witness. They filed past the body, and almost no one could hold back their tears. The answer is “Magnus’s men,” and the first letter is m.
CHAPTER 23
Thormodur Krakur stood watch on the flagpole stand in front of the church for two hours around lunchtime and finally rushed down to the village to ceremoniously announce that the mail boat was now visible on the southern horizon. Some men walked toward the shore, dragging two handcarts and preceded by a flock of running children.
Benny in Radagerdi put down his paintbrush when he became aware of the gathering crowd and sauntered after them out of sheer habit, even though he had no errand there. Life was so drab for a young man on this island that even the weekly arrival of the mail boat was something of an event. Maybe he’d know some of the passengers, and there was also always the hope of some workers from the south who might be on their way to the inner isles.
By the time the kids came charging around the corner by the fish factory, the mail boat had reached the tip of the island. It was an old white oak boat that was heavy and sluggish, although the skipper managed to maneuver it with surprising agility toward the pier. Valdi caught the hawser that was thrown to him over the gunwale and looped it around the bollard. Then the boat was tied at the back. Little Nonni followed his father every step of the way and paid no heed to the other children on the pier.
Two young boys in their Sunday best stood by the gunwale of the mail boat and were soon lifted onto the edge of the pier and followed by a brown suitcase crisscrossed with strings. A woman welcomed them, enveloping them both in a simultaneous embrace and calling them her darling little sweethearts. Three sacks of mail were then hoisted off the boat and placed on one of the carts, followed by four crates of malt ale and two sacks of flour that went into the other cart. This seemed to be the sum total of the delivery from this trip. The load that needed to be sent south to Stykkisholmur would only be loaded on board when the boat was making its return journey later in the day.
The men on the boat were preparing to depart again when the weary face of a tall man in a dirty light trench coat with a brown peaked cap appeared out of the forecastle and stiffly stepped onto the deck. He held a heavy case and scanned the pier with his eyes.
“Young man,” he shouted hoarsely at Benny, who was standing by the gunwale. “Would you grab this for me?” he asked, handing him the case. “But carefully now, carefully, I’ve got some fragile objects in there,” he added as Benny stretched out to take the case. The man clambered onto the edge of the pier, but then wobbled a bit and grabbed Benny’s arm for support.
“Bloody dizziness,” he said. “I think I must have just dozed off on the way. The journey seemed endless.” He looked toward the land and squinted his eyes at the fish factory on the embankment. “So this is the famous ancient island of Flatey in Breidafjordur. Is this it in all its glory then?”
“You can’t see the village from here,” Benny answered apologetically. “That’s on the other side of the island. That’s where all the houses are.”
“Is that right, my friend? What’s your name?”
“Benny…Ben.”
“Benny Ben. I see. My name is Bryngeir, a poet and writer, even though I’m temporarily hacking for a Reykjavik rag.”
“Just Ben…or Benny,” Benny swiftly corrected him. He was almost on the point of giving up on the name that he’d decided to adopt after reading a book about Ben Hur over one whole night two weeks ago.
“Put the case down really gently, Benny Ben pal,” said Bryngeir. “I have to check on its delicate contents.”
There was a rattle of glass from the case as it knocked against the pier. Bryngeir crouched over it, unzipped it, and pulled out a half bottle of rum. He unscrewed the top, poured drink into it, and knocked it back. Then he had another swig, this time straight from the spout, and straightened up, propping himself up against the lamppost on the pier.
Benny tried to guess Bryngeir’s age. His face looked rugged and gaunt, but something seemed to suggest that he wasn’t quite as old as he first seemed. He was probably forty. His dark hair had started to gray and recede. But one of his eyebrows was as white as snow, as were his eyelashes on the other side.
Bryngeir refilled the tap of the bottle.
“Would you be partial to a drop of rum, young man?” he asked Benny.
Benny looked up at the pier where the islanders could be seen making their way to the interior. There was no one left but Valdi, who was loosening the moorings of the mail boat. It wouldn’t do his reputation among the islanders any good to be seen boozing in the middle of the day, but he couldn’t say no to some slight refreshment. Besides, it was Saturday, after all.
“Thanks,” he said, taking a sip and coughing.
Bryngeir fished a half-smoked cigar out of his coat pocket and managed to light it after several attempts. “Is there any news about that dead man, the one they found here out on one of the islands?” he asked.
“He was Danish. They’ll be taking him south when the boat sails back this evening,” Benny answered, lighting himself a cigarette to keep Bryngeir company.
Bryngeir sipped on his bottle of rum and then said, “Yeah, I heard he was a Danish professor, the one and only Gaston Lund. Who was it that left him out there on the skerry?”
“No one knows. The guy from Patreksfjordur is investigating that.”
“The guy from Patreksfjordur?”
“Yeah, he works for the district magistrate. His name is Kjartan.”
“Kjartan? A lawyer?”
“Yeah. He’s just started working for the magistrate.”
Bryngeir puffed musingly on his cigar. “Tell me this, does this spy have a big scar on his forehead? From his left eyebrow up to his hairline?” Bryngeir pressed a finger against his forehead by way of illustration and drew an invisible line.
“Yeah, he has a scar like that.”
“Well what do you know? I think I heard that in Reykjavik. That Kjartan was working in Patreksfjordur.” Bryngeir took off his cap, shook it, and scratched his head before putting it back on again.
“Do you know him?” Benny asked, intrigued.
“Nah, not that much, but more than enough.”
“How do you mean?”
Bryngeir declined to answer. “Where can a man find accommodation around here?” he asked.
“Accommodation?” said Benny. “Just need to find someone with a free bed.”
Bryngeir broke into a grin. “Yes, of course. Guesthouses shouldn’t even exist in a Christian country, some godly man who liked to travel cheap once said. OK, let’s start walking and looking at the options. You can carry my case for me while I recover from the crossing.” He took another sip from the bottle and shoved it into his trench coat pocket.
Valdi of Ystakot watched them walking up the pier and jotted something into his notebook. Little Nonni sat on the bollard and stared at the mail boat, which had by now reached the west of the island and was heading north.
Benny stared furtively at the newcomer’s face as they walked. Finally, he just couldn’t hold it in anymore and came straight out with it: “What happened to your eye? Why is your eyebrow so white?”
