The Blue Ice

by Innes, Hammond;

‘Yes – yes, of course,’ he answered, smiling with the relief of having been able to do something. ‘I have it here in my pocket all ready for you. One hundred thousand kroner. Will that be sufficient?’

  ‘How much is that?’

  ‘A kroner is a shilling.’ He brought out a thick pocket book. ‘There,’ he said, handing a pile of notes over to me. ‘That is five thousand pounds. Will you please sign this – for the accounts of my agency, you know.’

  I counted the notes and signed. Then I got to my feet. ‘It is enough, eh?’ he asked. He was like a puppy wriggling for a pat on the head.

  ‘It’ll do for the moment,’ I answered.

  ‘Now please, what will you wish me to do? Sir Clinton Mann wrote me that I was to place myself unreservedly at your disposal. Anything I can be of service to you with, Mr Gansert—’

  ‘Go back to Bergen,’ I said, ‘and sit on the end of a telephone. What’s your number?’

  ‘Bergen 155 102.’

  ‘Good. And find out for me who blocked that exhumation order.’

  ‘Yes. I will do that. And I will wait for you to telephone me.’ He bustled after me as I went to the door. ‘I will leave tonight if you do not mind. There is a boat going to Balestrand tonight. It is much warmer at Balestrand. You have your boat here, eh? Do you go to Balestrand?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answered. An idea was forming in my mind. Thank God he was leaving tonight.

  ‘Then I wait for you to telephone me, please. Anything I can do—’

  ‘Yes, I’ll telephone you,’ I said and went down the steps to the driveway.

  At the road I hesitated. But instead of turning left towards the quay, I turned right and walked slowly towards the church.

  It stood alone on a slight mound some distance beyond the hotel. Its white paint caught the slanting sunlight. It was a fairy church, so bright and gay against the gloomy background of the fjord winding down to the Sogne. Above it, up a long boulder-strewn valley, towered the mountains, cold and forbidding, their snows crystal white. Beyond the graveyard a torrent went rushing down to the fjord. I opened the gate and went up the path towards the church, searching the graves as I passed. Some had stone monuments, but many were marked with small wooden crosses on which the names of the buried were painted in black. The shadow of the church lay right across the graveyard and out to the edge of the fjord. In the sunlight beyond, I found what I was looking for – a freshly painted cross with the name Bernt Olsen on it. It was just as it had been in that newspaper cutting – the small white cross and the church behind. What the cutting had not shown was the towering mountains beyond and the atmosphere of the place – so remote and chill. I remembered Farnell out in Rhodesia. I remembered him talking of places like this, talking endlessly of the snows and the glaciers up in the mountains and the narrow fjords as the lamp-smoke thickened in our hut and the whisky got lower in the bottle. It had all seemed so remote out there, for at the time of the year the land had been dry as dust under a blazing sun. But now I understood what he had been talking about. And I was glad to know he’d been buried here in the land he loved and for whose riches he had sacrificed everything.

  As though I had spoken my thoughts aloud, a voice said softly – ‘This is where he would like to have been buried, isn’t it?’

  I turned. It was Jill. Her face was very pale and her lips trembled. I think she had been crying, but I was not sure. ‘I was thinking just that,’ I said. I looked round at the fjord and the mountains. ‘This was what he lived for.’ And then I looked again at the little cross stuck in the heaped-up mound of earth that was so fresh that the sods had not yet bound together to form a solid covering of grass. Had he died a natural death – or had he been murdered? Why had the application to exhume the body been blocked? The answer lay right there. I had only to lift the sods and dig down to the coffin … I glanced at Jill. She had been prepared to face a legal exhumation. There was no difference really. And yet … ‘He’ll be happy here,’ I said quickly, for fear she would divine my thoughts.

  ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Thank you for bringing me, Bill.’ Her lip was trembling again and she started off down the graveyard path to the gate. I followed her and as we reached the road she said, ‘When is the exhumation?’

  ‘There isn’t going to be one,’ I answered. ‘The application has been refused.’

  She sighed. I think it was with relief. ‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘There seems no point in disturbing him now.’

  I looked at her. ‘Don’t you want to find out whether it was an accident or not?’

  ‘No,’ she answered. ‘Nothing that we do can bring him back to life.’

  I didn’t say anything and we crossed the wooden planking of the quay. Dick and Curtis and Sunde were waiting for us as we came on board. ‘Well?’ asked Curtis.

  ‘No good,’ I said. ‘The application has been blocked at the top. There’s somebody doesn’t want a postmortem examination.’

  ‘Jorgensen?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I answered and ordered the boat to be cast off.

  ‘Hold it,’ Dick said. ‘Dahler’s up at the hotel, phoning.’

  ‘Who’s he contacting?’ I asked.

  But Dick didn’t know. And when Dahler came on board he gave no explanation. ‘I am sorry if I delay you,’ he apologised.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I answered. ‘I’m only moving just down the fjord.’ I ordered Wilson to cast off and had the engine started.

  The sun set as we left Fjaerland. For a moment the snows of the Jostedal high above the village were tinged with pink. Then the light faded and the fjord was a dark, cold gash in the mountains, its waters no longer green, but inky black. Night fell quickly and lights began to show in the huddle of wooden buildings round the quay.

  Just beyond the headland, not a mile from the village, I steered the boat into a wooden landing stage. Above it, perched precariously on a little plateau of green grass, stood a fisherman’s solitary hut. We moored the boat to the rotting piles and I ordered the dinghy to be cleared.

  ‘What’s the idea?’ Curtis asked.

  I glanced round. Jill was standing by the cockpit, watching us. ‘I didn’t want to lie at Fjaerland with my representative staying up at the hotel,’ I said. ‘I had a bit of a row with him.’ Then I asked Jill to take Wilson and get some food prepared.

  As soon as she had gone below, Curtis said, ‘Is your representative a short man in a black suit, with a round, chubby face?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Well, he boarded a fishing boat and went off down the fjord about ten minutes before you came back to the boat with Jill.’ He looked at me searchingly. ‘What are you up to, Bill?’ he asked. And then as I didn’t answer immediately, he said, ‘You’re planning to dig Farnell’s body up, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The church is quite isolated. The moon rises just after midnight. We’ll have four hours.’

  He caught hold of my arm. His eyes were suddenly angry.

  ‘You can’t do it,’ he said.

  ‘Can’t do it?’ I laughed. ‘Don’t be a fool. It’s quite safe. There’ll be nobody around. And even if we are interrupted they won’t know who we are. That’s why I didn’t want to moor up at Fjaerland.’

  ‘I’m not worried about your being discovered,’ he answered. ‘It’s Jill I’m thinking about.’

  ‘Jill?’ I remembered how she had sighed and said she was glad there was to be no exhumation. ‘Jill mustn’t know,’ I said.

  ‘God almighty, man,’ he cried. ‘She’s been standing there white as a sheet ever since you ordered the dinghy to be cleared. Do you think she doesn’t realise why you’ve moored up here?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Are you going to tell her?’

  ‘Of course not,’ he answered.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Now let’s get on with clearing the dinghy.’

  But he caught hold of my arm and swung me round. I could feel his fingers like a vice on my flesh and the s
udden thought crept into my mind that he was in love with Jill. ‘Are you going through with this?’ he demanded angrily.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Curtis – don’t be childish. Jill needn’t know anything about it. But I must know how Farnell died.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? If he was murdered, then Schreuder knows the location of the mineral deposits. If the body bears no indication of a struggle, then perhaps the secret has died with him. I must know the answer to that.’

  ‘You must know the answer!’ he sneered. ‘Can’t you think of anything else but your bloody mineral grabbing? The girl wants the body left alone. She doesn’t want the poor sod disturbed to satisfy your damned avarice.’

  ‘It’s not my avarice,’ I replied hotly. ‘Work for a hundred thousand men could be built up out of those deposits – if they exist. And I mean to find out. Jill needn’t know. And if she does discover it, then I think she’ll understand. You needn’t have anything to do with it if you’re squeamish about corpses.’

  Curtis laughed. ‘I’m not squeamish,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking of the girl. If you’re going on with this, then she must be told. She must give her permission.’

  ‘I’m not asking her,’ I answered shortly.

  ‘But she’s a right to be consulted.’

  ‘Right?’ I asked. ‘She’s no rights in the matter at all.’

  ‘I tell you she has. She has the right—’

  I caught hold of his arm. ‘Listen, Curtis,’ I said. I was tired of all this ridiculous argument. ‘Who’s captain of this boat?’

  He hesitated. ‘You,’ he answered.

  ‘And who’s in change of this expedition?’

  ‘You are,’ he answered reluctantly.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘Now get that dinghy slung over the side. We meet up here on deck at eleven-thirty – the three of us; you, Dick and I. Warm clothes and rubber shoes. I’ll look after the girl.’

  For a moment I thought he was going to argue. But the long habit of obedience to command was stronger than his sudden outburst of conscience. He turned and began to haul the dinghy over the rail.

  At supper that night everybody seemed unnaturally quiet. Jill ate in silence, her eyes on her plate. Only Dahler was talkative. I wondered who he had telephoned from the hotel. ‘What is your next move, Mr Gansert?’ he asked me quite suddenly.

  ‘Wait for Sunde’s partner,’ I answered.

  ‘It is a pity Mr Sunde will not talk without his partner.’ His eyes met mine. Some devil of laughter was there in the dark pupils. He glanced at Sunde.

  The diver looked up quickly. Then his eyes fell to his plate again. He seemed nervous.

  Dahler smiled. An unnatural excitement emanated from the man.

  After the meal, I got everyone off to bed. It had been a long day and they were tired. Moreover, the sudden transfer from coast to mountain air had made us all sleepy.

  I went and lay on my bunk. Sunde, who was sharing my cabin, came in shortly afterwards. He lay tossing for a long time. I fought off the desire to sleep and lay staring into the darkness. The ship was silent. There was no movement, no sound of water lapping against the hull. The utter stillness seemed unreal. Sunde began to snore. I thought of the grave in the churchyard under the mountains. There was something frightening about the thought of opening it up. Perhaps Curtis had been right. Perhaps we shouldn’t do it. Body-snatching was something revolting. But we weren’t body-snatching. We were trying to get at the truth of a man’s death. The desire for sleep left me then and I lay in the dark, wondering how the hell I was to tell whether Farnell had died a natural death without a doctor to examine the body.

  But I had made up my mind to see Farnell’s body and at eleven-thirty I rose quietly and slipped on my rubber shoes. Dick was waiting for me up on deck. A faint light showed behind the mountains. The moon was rising. We only had one pick and one shovel. I got these from the lazaret and lowered them into the dinghy which Dick had pulled alongside. Curtis came up and joined us. I got my torch from the chartroom. ‘In you get,’ I said to Dick. He lowered himself quietly over the side. Curtis followed. Then a hand gripped my arm. I swung round. Dahler was standing beside me. ‘I have been waiting for you,’ he whispered. ‘I also wish to see the body.’

  ‘How did you know what we were going to do?’ I asked him.

  He smiled. I could see the line of his teeth in the dark. ‘You are a man of determination, Mr Gansert,’ he replied. ‘You do not come all the way to Fjaerland for nothing.’

  I nodded to the boat. ‘Get in,’ I said.

  I followed him down. Dick and Curtis had the oars out. I pushed the boat clear. The outline of the yacht’s hull vanished in the darkness as the rowlocks creaked to the thrust of the oars. The jagged rim of the mountains sharpened to a black line against the moonlit sky as we rowed towards Fjaerland. We rounded the headland and hugged the line of the shore. There were no lights showing at Fjaerland now. There was a deathly stillness in the air. The only sound was the creak of the oars and the gurgle of water coming down from the mountains.

  As the sky brightened and our eyes became accustomed to the darkness, we were able to make out the dark line of the shore and the huddled mass of buildings round the quay at Fjaerland. The sound of water grew louder as we approached the torrent that ran into the fjord below the church. And then we saw the church itself, standing black and silent on its mound. I directed the boat towards the shore. We spoke in whispers. The bows suddenly jarred against a stone and then grated on pebbles. We clambered out and slipped the painter round a rock. Then we started up the slope to the graveyard.

  That graveyard – it is difficult to describe how it felt in the half darkness with the mountains towering over it. It was just like any other graveyard really, and yet … The trouble was we came as thieves in the night. And a guilty conscience isn’t the best companion in a graveyard. We located the newly painted cross and fresh sods of Farnell’s resting place without difficulty. I seized hold of the shovel and cleared the turves and pulled up the cross. Then we began to dig. The ground below the surface was hard as iron. We sweated and grunted as we swung the pick into the frozen soil. Slowly, very slowly, the narrow pit opened up. It was hard, back-breaking work. We stripped to our vests and sweated in the chill air, our breath steaming.

  Then the moon rose over the lip of the mountains. The snow shone white and cold. The piled-up ice of the Suphelle Glacier glistened a cold green. The waters of the fjord looked blacker than ever. As I stood back and handed my pick to Curtis, I glanced past the church to the village. All was quiet as the grave. Yet I had the awful feeling that we were being watched, that at any moment irate villagers might rush to protect their little graveyard from this sacrilege. ‘See anybody?’ Dick asked in a whisper.

  ‘No,’ I answered. My voice was harsh.

  He leaned on his shovel and watched the village.

  ‘Give me that,’ I said and took the shovel from him and began lifting out the earth loosened by the pick Curtis wielded.

  Every time I paused I was conscious of the moonlight and the silence. The little torrent hissed and gurgled over the boulders to the fjord. The stillness of the mountains stood over us, cold and remote. We must be visible for miles.

  The earth became softer, less frozen. The grave pit deepened until suddenly the pick struck wood. In a few minutes we had cleared the soil from the rough pine coffin. Then we bent down and lifted it out of its shallow grave.

  And at that moment Dahler stiffened beside me. ‘Somebody is coming,’ he hissed.

  ‘Where?’ I whispered.

  His head turned towards the stream. ‘Something moved down there.’

  ‘You’re getting jumpy,’ Dick whispered.

  I turned back to the coffin. Curtis had the pick again. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Open it up.’

  But he didn’t move. He, too, was staring down towards the stream where it ran into the fjord. ‘There is somebody there,’ he said. �
��Look!’ He seized my arm and pointed.

  In the moonlight I saw a figure moving across the bed of the stream. It was white in the moonlight – a human figure dressed in white. It stopped and looked up towards us. Then it began to move again. It crossed the torrent and started up the slope.

  ‘Who can it be?’ Dick whispered.

  I caught a glimpse of a scarlet jumper and I knew who it was. ‘Open up that coffin,’ I snapped at Curtis.

  But he didn’t move. A moment later Jill stopped, facing us. Her breath came in great sobs of exertion and her eyes were wide in her white face. She was wearing a light-coloured raincoat. It was torn and muddied. Her slacks were wet to the knee.

  I stepped forward. ‘You shouldn’t have come,’ I said.

  But she was staring at the coffin, lying aslant on the pile of loose earth. ‘How could you?’ she breathed. And she began to sob uncontrollably.

  I looked at her torn clothing and realised how she must have hurried through the darkness and the moonlight along the rough foreshore. ‘I had to,’ I answered roughly. Then I turned to Curtis. ‘Open it up,’ I said.

  ‘No,’ he answered. ‘You shouldn’t have done this without her permission.’

  ‘If you don’t do it, I will,’ I said, and seized the pick from him. I heard Jill cry out as I brought the point down into the crack between the top and sides. With a splintering of wood, I prised up the top. It came away in one piece. Few nails had been used. I ripped it up with my hands and flung it back. Curtis had pulled Jill away. Her face was buried against his chest and she was sobbing. Very gently I pulled the white shroud away from the body.

  Then I shuddered. The body was a mangled mass of frozen blood and flesh. The head was smashed in, the neck broken and the left arm and hand crushed to a pulp. I straightened up. How was I to tell whether Farnell had died by accident or design? The body was so broken and destroyed that I couldn’t even recognise it as Farnell. It wasn’t decomposed at all. The frozen ground had seen to that. It was just that there was nothing left by which to recognise him. The face was pulp and the hand … I suddenly bent down. Why had that hand been so badly battered? Of course it could have happened naturally. He’d fallen from a great height. Boulders might have crashed down on top of him. But I’d seen a lot of accidents – accidents in mines where men had been crushed by fallen rock. Hardly ever had I seen a man as badly smashed as this. It was almost as though the body had been deliberately smashed in such a way that it wouldn’t be recognisable. That left hand. I picked up the broken, lacerated member. The torn flesh and congealed blood were stiff and frozen. In the light of my torch I saw that the bones of the fingers were all crushed and the splinters stuck out like sharp teeth from the flesh. I examined the little finger. The top two joints were missing, just as Farnell’s had been missing. But a long sinew stuck out from a torn joint.