been thrown out of the house with unnecessary force. But those were special times at the end of the war, and a lot of errors were made as a result of pent-up anger. My family and I took the father and daughter in some days after he was fired, and they came home with us to Iceland a few weeks later. Johanna and Einar, my youngest son, were half engaged in high school until Einar died in a sudden accident.”
Fridrik’s voice faltered a moment before continuing: “I think Bjorn Snorri must have gotten over his misfortune in Copenhagen, but he was ill for many years. I imagine it’s the cancer that finally crushed him.”
“Can you describe Bjorn Snorri a little bit better for me?” Dagbjartur asked.
Fridrik reflected a moment before starting: “Bjorn Snorri had a particularly sharp mind. He was a great scholar, and few contemporaries could stand up to him when it came to his knowledge of Icelandic manuscripts. Instead of focusing on the text, he started off by forming a picture of the scribes. By placing himself in their shoes, he could guess which manuscripts they were copying. Was the scribe in the habit of cutting his quill as he was leafing through a manuscript? When was the scribe in the best form, at the beginning of the work or later? Was there a greater danger of making mistakes at certain times? Did he think the text was fun and did this make him rush the work so that he could swiftly move on? Or was the text boring and did that give him cause to labor on the calligraphy and adorn the letters? In what environment did he learn his craft, and what were his specialized skills? Bjorn Snorri tried to form a picture of these men for himself and look over their shoulders as they were working, as it were. But he was so absorbed by his quest to define these many centuries-old acquaintances of his that he neglected the present. His contemporaries were too close to him for him to give himself the time to consider them. He never asked anyone how they were today. Instead, he could trace back various versions of the same paragraph in different manuscripts and talk about their evolution from the perspective of the personal characteristics of each scribe. But he was incapable of relating to the circumstances of his fellow travelers in space and time. He just assumed that if anyone had any issue to raise with him they would step forward and say so. Body language and gestures were simply beyond his understanding. The mundane faded into insignificance when he was struggling to analyze and understand a seven-hundred-year-old margin label on a torn vellum manuscript. He accumulated enormous knowledge. And he needed an outlet for that. He was a writer of only average ability and compiling reports bored him, but he could stand and talk about his interests for hours on end. And he could speak all the Nordic languages with ease. German came to him quite easily, too. He used his lectures to formulate his opinions and findings, put some order into them, and place them in a logical context. Talking was, therefore, the final phase in the formulation of his theories, and it didn’t matter to him whether anyone was listening or not. If the issue was above the heads of the university students who sat with him, then he would just talk to himself or the one listener who was always close by and never flinched, little Johanna. And he used the time to explore new angles on his subject matter and could even make original discoveries in the middle of lectures in unknown cities. But as soon as that was all taken away from him, he withdrew into himself. He couldn’t find peace anywhere, because he’d lost his outlet in the mundane world. He sank into depression and numbed his pain with alcohol. It could only end in one way.”
Fridrik looked at his watch and stood up, but Dagbjartur remained seated. “How do you suppose Bjorn Snorri reacted when Gaston Lund showed up in Flatey?” he asked.
“To be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea,” Fridrik shrugged. “He might have treated him with disdain, he could do that, or maybe they were both delighted to have found each other again. I’d say that’s more likely.”
“Is it possible that Bjorn Snorri would have wanted to harm Lund in some way?”
Fridrik sat again at stared at Dagbjartur in bewilderment. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe by dispatching Lund to that island.”
“Bjorn Snorri had been too ill to travel over the past years,” said Fridrik.
“But his daughter?”
“Are you asking me if Johanna Thorvald could have harmed Professor Lund?”
“Yes.”
Fridrik suddenly rose to his feet. “Johanna was like a daughter to me when she was my son’s girlfriend. I won’t tolerate that kind of talk about her,” he said, walking toward the door.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife is waiting,” he said.
Dagbjartur stood up and said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, and I won’t delay you any longer. But could you direct me to someone who knew them well?”
“Thorgerdur, my daughter, studied medicine at the same time as Johanna. They’ve been in regular contact ever since. Thorgerdur is a doctor at the National Hospital. Try to find her.”
Dagbjartur was on the way out, when he turned at the door and apologetically asked, “But what about the mother of Gaston Lund’s child? Any ideas on where I might find some information about her?”
Fridrik looked at him gravely. “Have you spoken to Arni Sakarias about the Flatey enigma?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask him about Gaston Lund?”
“No.”
“Then you better.”
Question sixteen: Drowned in a deep bog. Second letter. He told her that when she got there, he would give her a wedding with all the honors. Gunnhild liked this arrangement and traveled to Denmark with a fine retinue. But when King Harald heard of her arrival, he sent slaves and guests to her. They grabbed Gunnhild with a lot of commotion and jeering and drowned the wretched queen in a terribly deep bog. This brought an end to the cruelty and crimes of Gunnhild, the king’s mother. The answer is “Gunnhild,” and the second letter is u.
CHAPTER 33
After the Whitsunday mass, the congregation drank coffee on the slope below the Flatey church. The weather was still fine so everyone sat outside, but otherwise the community center would have been opened for the after- mass coffee. The guests from the various isles took out their picnics, and little clusters of different ages and genders soon formed. District Officer Grimur found himself grouped with the old farmers of the islands. The first topic for discussion was the Dane who had been found out on Ketilsey. One of the inner isle farmers was convinced that foreign pirates had left the man there. And maybe also a treasure. Had anyone looked into that? Grimur confirmed that their investigation had revealed that there was no treasure to be found on Ketilsey. It was then prophesized that the island would be haunted for generations to come and it would yield very little while the curse lasted. Most of them agreed and glanced at the Ystakot clan, Valdi and Jon Ferdinand, who had exclusive rights on that skerry. The two men kept to themselves, drinking coffee and nibbling on the pieces of cake that someone had handed them, but the boy was nowhere to be seen.
Grimur told the farmers that a reporter from Reykjavik had arrived on Flatey and that he was here to dig up a story about it. The district officer asked the men to be careful about what they said to this guest. There was no need to implicate the locals on the islands in this unfortunate event. There had been enough damage done as it was.
The conversation then shifted to farming and forecasts. There was good news on the pricing front. The head of the co-op had heard that they could get eight hundred kronur for a good seal pup fur and at least fourteen hundred kronur for a kilo of cleaned eiderdown. This could be one of the islands’ best farming years if the weather stayed good.
Question seventeen: King Harald’s meal. Fifth letter. King Olaf walked out to the pond where the children were playing. Then the king called the boys over and asked Guttormur, “What would you most like to own?”
“Fields,” the boy answered.
“How vast would you want the fields to be?”
Guttormur answered, “I would want the ness to be completely sown every summer. There would be ten farms on it.”
Next the king asked Halfdan, “What would you most want to own?”
“Cows,” he answered.
