Innstibaer’s child was?”
Grimur was taken aback. “No. The boy was grown up and had gone off to sea by the time Gudrun moved here to live with Hallbjorg. I’ve never heard the father mentioned.”
“Valdi in Ystakot wrote in his diary that Gudrun’s son came on a boat the day before Gaston Lund went missing.”
Grimur cleared his throat and shook his head. “You’re taking this a bit too far now, pal,” he said.
“And then there’s that word- lucky,” Kjartan said, growing more excited. “That’s the word we think Lund tried to write with the pebbles in Ketilsey, and it also happens to be the name of Sigurbjorn of Svalbardi’s boat. Isn’t he related to Gudrun somehow?”
Grimur seemed apprehensive. “I hadn’t really made that connection, but we should tread very carefully with this and not go blabbing about it to the Reykjavik police.”
“Why not?” Kjartan asked.
“It’s all so far-fetched, and it would go down very badly with the locals here if that kind of gossip were to get around. False accusations can do so much damage.”
Kjartan suddenly shut up. The district officer’s words hit him hard. He should have known.
A second round of church bells prompted the district officer to put down his papers and stand. Clearing his throat again, he said it was time to go. Kjartan followed him. The assumption had been that he would attend the mass like everyone else, and he saw no reason to fuel any controversy by declining to go, although he wasn’t too keen on the idea. He hadn’t been to any masses since his confirmation, apart from some funerals. Maybe this would give him a good opportunity to observe the islanders without being the center of attention.
He walked toward the church with Grimur in a slow and dignified stride, in unison with other groups that were heading the same way. People then huddled around the church entrance and greeted each other on both sides with handshakes and kisses.
Immaculately dressed children were playing on the slope below the church when the Ystakot clan came strolling over. They showed no signs of having dressed up for the occasion. Two boys broke out of the scrum and yelled out, “Nonni dung boy! Nonni dung boy!”
Their fun came to an abrupt end, though, because Hogni, who had just stepped out of the church to catch a breath of fresh air after the choir practice and was standing a short distance away, angrily snapped at them and they fell into a shamed silence.
“What was that they called the boy?” Kjartan asked.
“Dung boy,” Grimur answered.
“What do they mean?”
“Cow dung is an excellent fuel that used to be used as tinder for fires with dry bird skin. Nowadays most houses use paraffin oil, but not so long ago dung was the most common local tinder. They still use the old method in Ystakot, and little Nonni’s job in the spring is to go around the sheds collecting cow dung to make tinder. He leaves it out in the fields in small cakes and allows it to dry. Everyone of my generation did the same as kids, and it was regarded as a perfectly respectable task. But now they’ve nicknamed him ‘dung boy.’ Hardly what you’d call progress.”
The church bells rang again, and people squeezed through the narrow doors. Kjartan felt this was a completely different building to the one that he and Johanna had stepped into to examine the body in the casket just a few days ago. He hadn’t taken the time to look around it back then. There were many candles glowing here now, and the altarpiece had come to life-a beautiful fresco of Jesus and two of his disciples painted in the same style as the picture cards he used to get at Sunday school when he was a kid. Grimur ushered him onto a pew where he sat beside Sigurbjorn the farmer. Gudjon had obviously finished cutting his hair after Kjartan had left them, but it was still a bit uneven over his cheeks. Kjartan involuntarily started to study the necks of the people sitting in front of him. A gallery of heads extended before him. Different stages of baldness and hairdos had been executed with varying degrees of success, and most of the women had plaits. Everyone was spic-and-span, and a strong scent of soap fused with the faintly stale air of the church. Sigurbjorn gave off a faint odor of alcohol and seemed to be half hungover.
The organ now sounded from the balcony, and the choir launched into the psalm. Kjartan listened and found the music strangely soothing. This might not have been the best choir in the land, but there was a pleasant harmony between the singing and the organ.
Reverend Hannes emerged from the sacristy and turned to the congregation. He coughed twice and said, “Dear parishioners, brothers and sisters, I would like to start this holy ceremony by giving you the sad news that Bjorn Snorri Thorvald, the father of our good doctor, Johanna, passed away in his sleep last night. As you all know, the old man had been very ill for some time, and now the good Lord has called him back to Himself and put an end to his suffering. His loving daughter was sitting by his side when the call came, and I went there this morning to commend his spirit to God. The removal will be on Tuesday and the funeral on Wednesday. Let us join our hands in prayer.”
The congregation bowed their heads, and the priest led the prayer. Kjartan wondered whether the doctor was at the mass. The entire population of the islands seemed to have crammed into the church. He swiftly scanned the congregation but could see no sign of Johanna anywhere. At the very back of the church, however, he saw little Nonni of Ystakot standing up and sneaking out through the open church door. Yes, he probably would have done the same himself if he’d been given half a chance. It was swiftly getting hot and stuffy in there.
The organ erupted, and another psalm was sung.
Question fifteen: Cut in two by the prow of a ship. First letter. Sorli’s Tale narrates how Hedin, the king’s son, was slain by a spell. Blinded by magic, he allowed King Hogni’s queen, Hervor, to be taken and placed in front of the prow of his ship, so that she was cut in two when the ship was launched. Hedin and Hogni then fought in a duel. It is said that there was so much evil attached to this curse that even when they had sliced each other in two from the shoulder down, they were able to stand up again and fight as before. A hundred and forty years were to pass before one of King Olaf’s courtiers broke this pitiful spell. The answer is “Hervor,” and the first letter is h.
CHAPTER 32
Fridrik Einarsson didn’t seem particularly pleased to be visited by Detective Dagbjartur on a Whitsunday afternoon for the second time in two days. Nevertheless, he invited him in and offered him a seat, but he anxiously glanced at his watch.
“My wife and I are off to a wedding. I don’t want to be late,” he said.
Dagbjartur tried to keep it brief: “We compared the list you made of Gaston Lund’s Icelandic acquaintances and another list of the inhabitants of Flatey, which we got back from them yesterday. Bjorn Snorri Thorvald’s name appears on both lists.”
“Yes,” Fridrik answered. “I could have told you that straightaway yesterday. I knew that Bjorn Snorri and his daughter Johanna were there on the island, but I couldn’t see how that was relevant. I heard on the radio at lunchtime that Bjorn Snorri just passed away. My old colleagues seem to be fading.”
“Did Bjorn Snorri and Gaston Lund get along?”
Fridrik looked at Dagbjartur in bewilderment. “How do you mean?”
“You said that the professor sometimes got into arguments about manuscripts with his Icelandic acquaintances.”
Fridrik smiled. “Bjorn Snorri didn’t argue about the manuscripts. He was one of the few Icelanders who was virtually indifferent to where the manuscripts should be preserved. He just wanted to know they were in a good place and that there was easy access to them…”
Fridrik suddenly shut up and frowned. “Easy access to them,” he repeated hesitantly, lost in some thought.
Dagbjartur sensed there was more to this and calmly waited for Fridrik to continue. “But that was the problem. Bjorn Snorri lost his job in Copenhagen at the end of the war and was barred from accessing the manuscripts after that. I remember very well how unhappy he was with his Danish colleagues, including Lund. He’d
