The Flatey Enigma

by Viktor Arnar Ingolfsson

  CHAPTER 7

  Grimur’s predictions about the doctor’s arrival proved to be correct. They did not have to wait long before a woman dressed in dark clothes appeared beyond the graveyard. She took the shortest route between the graves toward them.

  “I knew we could count on her,” Grimur said with a twinkle of admiration in his eyes. “Johanna Thorvald never keeps you waiting in this district if she can help it.”

  Johanna was around thirty, with a pale complexion and long dark hair tied at the back in a ponytail. She wore glasses, jeans, and a black coat, and she held a small briefcase in one hand and a paper bag in the other.

  “Thank you for coming over, Johanna,” said Grimur.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked, barely glancing at them.

  The three men looked at each other. Finally Grimur answered: “You could maybe take a brief look at the man in the casket. See if he has anything in his pockets or whether he has any distinctive features. Anything that might give us some indication of who he is.”

  “I can do that if one of you is willing to write the notes.”

  Grimur looked at Kjartan. “Isn’t that your job?”

  “Yes, probably,” Kjartan replied.

  Johanna took a thin plastic coat out of the paper bag and put it on. It included a hat, which she placed and tightened around her head. Finally, she placed a white surgical mask over her face and slipped her hands into some rubber gloves.

  “Ready?” she asked Kjartan.

  “Yes.”

  “Then let’s start.”

  They walked into the church. Kjartan stopped five steps away from the casket and took out his notebook and pen. Johanna placed her open briefcase on one of the pews and loosened the latches on the casket.

  Some flies appeared as soon as she lifted the lid, but they didn’t seem to have much life left in them and soon tumbled to the floor. The mixture Grimur had sprayed inside the casket had clearly done its job.

  For a long moment Johanna stood motionless by the casket, staring at its contents in silence.

  “A male judging by the clothes,” she finally said.

  “Yes, we know that much,” Kjartan answered.

  She glanced at him. “It doesn’t matter what you know. You just write down everything I say. This will be my report to the Directorate of Health.”

  Kjartan seemed taken aback. He hadn’t realized the investigation had actually started.

  Her eyes continued to linger on Kjartan a moment.

  “I remember you from high school,” she said finally.

  He gave a start and suddenly looked up, but he was unable to distinguish any expression behind her mask. He could not place her face. She must have been in a lower year, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask her. They looked into each other’s eyes for a moment and then gazed down into the casket.

  “ Corpus decompositium,” she said.

  “I’m sorry?” Kjartan didn’t understand Latin.

  “The body is decomposed,” she said.

  That’s pretty obvious, Kjartan thought to himself, but he said nothing and just jotted it down on the page.

  Johanna firmly gripped the parka and trousers and turned the body over in one swift move. A few additional flies woke up with the shift and flew out of the casket.

  “No remains of skin or flesh on the face, nor in the eyes,” said Johanna, taking some implement out of her bag, which she used to loosen the skull’s clenched jaw.

  “No cavities in the teeth, but worn. Some gold fillings. A man well into his middle age and wealthy enough to be able to afford a good dentist.”

  She examined the skull under the hood.

  “Remnants of gray hair.”

  She walked to the other end of the casket and scrutinized the shoes. “Sturdy leather hiking shoes. Lace missing on right shoe.”

  Next she examined the hands. “No rings on his fingers.”

  She loosened the parka around his throat and unzipped it.

  “Quality parka with a rust-free zipper. Seems to be a foreign label; color: dark green.” She peered into one pocket and then fetched some tongs and a small envelope in her briefcase. “In the outer pocket there are several small shells, mussels, small starfish, remains of…sandworm, I think.” She placed it all in the envelope as soon as she extracted it from the pocket.

  “The deceased may have eaten some of this to stave off hunger. Need to examine this in the autopsy. Test for shellfish poisoning, if possible.”

  She examined the inside of the parka. “No internal pockets on the parka. Wearing a brown woolen cardigan under it. No visible labels on the cardigan. Side pockets. A leather wallet in the right pocket.” She removed the wallet with her tongs, placed it in a small envelope, and took it over to Kjartan. “Here, take a look.”

  He opened the wallet and counted several banknotes and coins. He counted: “Seven thousand two hundred and fifty-two crowns and fifteen cents.” There was nothing else in the wallet, and he left the money in it.

  “That’s a lot of money to be carrying around,” he said.

  Johanna looked into the other pocket of the cardigan. She took out a small folded piece of paper with her tongs and handed it to Kjartan. He unfolded the note and examined some words that had been written with a pencil, and then he read them out loud: “This book belongs to me, Jon Finnsson, and was a gift from my departed father’s father, Jon Bjornsson, as can be verified, and was personally given to me by my departed father and is cherished in their memory.” The handwriting was clear and legible.

  Kjartan pondered the note. Below it another hand had written “folio 1005.” On the back of it thirty-nine letters were written out in three rows of meaningless text.

  O S L E O Y I A R N R Y L

  E M H O N E A E N W T L B

  A U R M L E Q W T R O N E

  The note had been ripped out of a perforated copybook, a small sheet with blue lines and narrow spacing. He placed the note in the envelope with the wallet, which he in turn slipped into his pocket.

  “So we’ve got a name to go on, Jon Finnsson,” Kjartan said. “This is some kind of a book inscription, but a rather old-fashioned use of words.”

  “Some of the islanders are a bit old-fashioned,” said Johanna.

  She finished searching through the pockets but could find nothing else.

  “Under the cardigan a light brown cotton shirt and green foulard. Quality clothes, it seems.”

  “Could he be a local from these islands?” Kjartan asked.

  “Very unlikely,” she answered. “He would have been missed. No one’s isolated enough here to be able to disappear without questions being asked after two or three days. Then there’s the clothing that doesn’t quite fit the islanders’ style.”

  “A foreigner maybe?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea about that,” she said. “But this’ll have to do for now. We’ll send him to Reykjavik like this. They’ll be able to investigate it better down there.”

  She placed the lid on the casket and locked it firmly. Then they walked outside.

  “Is Jon Finnsson a name that rings any bells?” Kjartan asked the three men waiting outside.

  “In what context?” Grimur asked.

  Kjartan took out the note and read them the text.

  Grimur and Hogni stared blankly at each other, but Thormodur Krakur tilted on his toes and puffed up his chest. “I know who this Jon Finnsson is.”

  “Who is he?” Kjartan asked.

  “That’s Jon Finnsson, the farmer in Flatey, the one who delivered the Flatey Book to the bishop of Skalholt, Brynjolfur Sveinsson. It was the bishop who sent the book to the king, wasn’t it?”

  The deacon looked around with a triumphant air.

  “But that was in the autumn of 1647,” Grimur added.

  Thormodur Krakur continued: “Those words are written at the beginning of the Flatey Book and were copied in that note. It’s actually quite peculiar that the only person who inscribed this book
was the person who allowed it to leave the family.”

  Thormodur Krakur gesticulated to add emphasis to his story.

  “And the Flatey Book is now with the king in Copenhagen,” said Grimur. “So this was hardly copied from the original source.”

  “What could have been the purpose of copying that text down on a piece of paper?” Kjartan asked. “And what does folio 1005 mean?”

  The others looked at each other, but no one had an answer. Finally Grimur said, “Sometimes tourists who’ve read some of the Flatey Book come here and want to find out about the making and history of the manuscript.”

  “And who’s the person who can tell them about it?” Kjartan asked.

  “Various people here and there,” said Grimur. “Most of the islanders can recount some of the sagas if they’re asked. Sigurbjorn in Svalbard is pretty well read and often quotes the book, although Reverend Hannes speaks better Danish and talks to the foreigners.”

  As the men were chatting to each other, Johanna slipped out of her plastic coat and packed it back into her bag. Then she took Kjartan’s notes.

  “I’ll copy these and bring them back to you tomorrow,” she said before walking away without saying good-bye.

  Thormodur Krakur turned the key in the lock of the church door and then vigorously shook the handle to convince himself that the door was definitely locked.

  “No one goes in here without me, and no one goes out except in God’s name,” he said, drawing a cross in front of the door with his hand before sticking the key into his pocket. “Isn’t that enough for this evening then, District Officer?”

  “Yes. Thanks for all your help,” said Grimur.

  The deacon grabbed the cart and pushed it down the slope, allowing it to roll in front of him until he reached level ground, and then he turned it around again. He paused a moment and started to spin, first making three clockwise circles and then making three counterclockwise ones, blessing himself after each circle. Then, dragging the cart behind him, he headed home.

  “He doesn’t want any impure spirits to follow him home to his cottage tonight,” Hogni said with a smile.

  “He’s a bit special and holds some unconventional beliefs,” Grimur explained to Kjartan.

  “He’s also a bit of a psychic,” Hogni added.

  “In what way psychic?” Kjartan asked.

  Grimur answered: “Krakur can catch glimpses of the supernatural, although he’s useless when he’s really needed.” He smiled.

  “A normal medium wouldn’t have any problems communicating with that dead man in the box in there,” Hogni added. “For example, there was a man from a farm in Kjalkafjordur who could never shut up at funerals. He was always talking to ghosts.”

  Kjartan forced an awkward smile. “I don’t expect the case to be solved that way,” he said. And then, just to change subject, he asked, “Does Thormodur Krakur live off his eiderdown work?”

  “Yes,” Grimur answered, “and the odd little job here and there. He has two cows and makes hay for them in the patch of field behind my land. He can sell the milk. He also works in the slaughterhouse in the autumn and has rights to collect eiderdown and eggs on some of the islets up here to the north. But he farms out those rights to others and gets eiderdown in return. He had a shock when he was young, and he’s been terrified of the sea ever since.” Grimur gazed at the church door. “Plus he’s incredibly superstitious,” he added.

  “What kind of shock?” Kjartan asked.

  “Krakur was reared by a farmer on the island,” Grimur answered, “and was considered to be a bit of a wild one and a boozer, so the farmer decided to teach him a lesson one day when they were out at sea and sent him up a crag to knock out a seal pup. But they didn’t wait for the boy while he was doing it and went off to check on some nets. When they came back, the crag was submerged in water and the sea came right up to the boy’s chin where he was standing on the rock.”

  “And ever since that day,” Hogni interjected, “Krakur prefers to stand on his toes.”

  “The boy was extremely well behaved after that,” Grimur continued, “but hasn’t had the guts to go back to sea ever since. Although he still doesn’t say no to a drop of schnapps, if he’s offered it.”

  “Does that mean he never leaves the island?” Kjartan asked.

  The men exchanged pensive glances.

  “Yes, I don’t remember Krakur ever going anywhere,” Grimur answered. “His wife Gudridur was the one who traveled. She used to go to Reykjavik to visit her daughter before she developed her leg problem.”

  Kjartan turned the conversation to another subject: “So what do we do now? There’s nothing to give us any indication of who the dead man is. We don’t know of anyone being reported missing.”

  Grimur stroked the beard on his cheek. “We can write a description of the man. Describe how he was dressed. Then we can hang up a notice at the co-op. Maybe someone will come forward. We can also talk to the people on the other islands over the radio and find out if any of the farmers remember this tourist.”

  “Where can I get to a typewriter to write a description?” Kjartan asked.

  “I have a typewriter at home. Let’s go back to the house. I think I’m getting hungry.”

  As they walked down the slope, Kjartan was still pondering what lay ahead.

  “The district magistrate spoke about dispatching the body down south on the mail boat on Saturday. But how will it be transported from Stykkisholmur to Reykjavik? Does someone need to follow it maybe?” he asked.

  “I guess so. The casket will go on the bus if there is room. Otherwise, there’s the co-op van. The police officer in Stykkisholmur will take care of that for us somehow,” Grimur answered.

  Kjartan nodded. “That’s probably the best thing. I’ll also talk to the magistrate tomorrow about any further arrangements,” he said.

  Ingibjorg received them with a ready dinner: boiled puffin breast with potatoes and a knob of butter. Once again the table had been set for three in the dining room and the woman did not sit with them any more than she did at lunchtime. This time the meal was silent. It was eight o’clock and the radio was turned on. The evening news was being broadcast. The newsreader was giving an update of Soviet leader Khrushchev’s latest disarmament proposals. Then there was a piece about an all-night session in the Icelandic parliament before the imminent summer recess.

  Kjartan had gotten his appetite back and ate well. In fact, he’d never eaten puffin before and preferred it to the taste of the seal meat he’d had earlier that day. The news ended and Grimur turned off the radio.

  “That’s politics for you,” he said. “You’re better off being neutral when those superpowers are at each other’s throats. But here in Iceland it’s the Progressive Party you should be voting for,” he said to Kjartan. “Young people tend to turn to socialism if someone doesn’t set them straight. And the Conservatives are even worse.”

  Hogni responded with an indulgent smile and gave Kjartan a furtive wink.

  “I think Khrushchev is just a Progressist,” said Hogni. “There aren’t any real communists left anymore, not since Comrade Stalin died.”

  “He’s only kidding,” Grimur said to Kjartan. “Hogni is the biggest Progressive I know. He just hasn’t realized it himself yet. It’s the same story with a lot of people who waste their time trying to vote for other parties. Don’t let it sway you, lad.”

  That was the end of the political debate, and the men walked out of the house with coffee in their glasses.

  The sun was setting in the sky in the west, and there was a chill in the air.

  “How many days do you reckon that man survived on that island?” Kjartan asked.

  “Difficult to say,” Grimur answered. “Maybe a few.”

  Hogni sipped on his coffee and said, “There was once a woman who tended to her animals in the winter on a remote island out there in Skardsstrond. There were two laborers with her, a man and a woman. The man had run out of tobacco after the
long period of isolation, and the girl had some boyfriend on the mainland. So they wanted the old woman to allow them to go home, but she wouldn’t let them until they tricked her by extinguishing the fire in the hut. That way she had to send them to the mainland to fetch more fire. But when they left her, there was a cold northern wind one night, and the sea froze over so that the old bag couldn’t be reached for the next eight weeks. She had something to eat on the island, even though it was raw, and she got a tiny bit of warmth from the animals, but she was always considered a bit weird after that.”

  Hogni gave Kjartan a meaningful look.

  “But the man in Ketilsey had neither food nor heat,” said Kjartan.

  “You’re right there, lad,” Grimur answered with a grave air. “I just hope the poor wretch didn’t have to suffer long.”

  They walked inside, and the district officer showed Kjartan the old typewriter on the small standing writing table in the living room. It seemed to be in reasonable condition, and Kjartan placed two sheets in it with a carbon sheet in between and rolled it into place. He recalled the doctor’s words from memory and then started to type. He was accustomed to using a typewriter and wrote texts with relative ease. The opening read as follows: “Notice to the inhabitants of the district of Flatey. The remains of a man’s body were found on Ketilsey.”

  Once the description of the man’s clothes had been written, he added the words of Jon Finnsson that had been found in the deceased’s cardigan pocket. Finally, he wrote: “If anyone can provide any information on the man’s journey to Ketilsey or knows of a missing person, they are asked to contact Grimur Einarsson, the district administrative officer of Flatey.”

  “…the characters in the sagas contained in the Flatey Book are not my favorite people. If its accounts are accurate, these were some of the worst rogues, and few of them were honorable leaders. Olaf Tryggvason’s and Olaf Haraldsson’s relentless endeavors to convert the Norse to Christianity are of little credit to their religion. It can also be argued that the Viking raids delayed the advance of civilization in northern Europe for centuries. It is, however, the Icelandic record keepers that I admire. The people who passed the sagas down from one generation to the next, first orally and then from one vellum sheet to another. There are countless phrases in the Flatey Book that have now become sayings that are quoted over and over again, without anyone being remotely aware of their origin. Sayings such as ‘No one can stand against great odds,’ ‘Ale is another man,’ and ‘The one who yields is generally the wisest.’ These are all sayings that Icelanders have become accustomed to using without thinking particularly about their origin. Few contemporary authors exhibit this kind of insight…”