Kjartan was on the point of giving up on the investigation. He felt no closer to solving Gaston Lund’s death.
“How much do you charge for these penknives of yours?” he asked.
Question three: The bad choice he made for me. Second letter. King Magnus said, “Many people can be grateful to their fathers, and so am I in many ways and more than most, but he made a bad choice in the mother he selected for me.” So “mother” is the answer, and the second letter is o.
CHAPTER 20
Kjartan was on his way back to the district administrative officer’s home when he suddenly remembered that a new name had cropped up in connection with the Danish visitor. The farmer Sigurbjorn had told him that Hallbjorg in Innstibaer had allowed the guest into the library. It could do no harm to hear more details about that side of the story. The young boy who had taken the priest’s message down to Grimur was now on Kjartan’s path and was able to direct him toward Innstibaer. It was easy enough. There was only one path in that direction, and Innstibaer was the last croft on the sea side of the path. Two amicable orphaned lambs greeted him with their bleating by a quaint little house. Two women were sitting on wooden footstools on the sidewalk, knitting woolen socks in the sunshine. One of them was in her seventies, tall and stout. The other might have been just over fifty and was small with delicate features.
Kjartan greeted them and introduced himself. The women returned the greeting, intrigued, but did not introduce themselves in return.
“Is one of you called Hallbjorg?” Kjartan then asked.
“Yes, that’s good old me, young man,” the eldest answered.
Kjartan recounted his conversation with Sigurbjorn to her and asked if she remembered the Danish visitor.
“Yes, that’s my job in the village, to take care of the key to the library. Anyone who wants to borrow a book has to get the key from me first. But when strangers come and want to take a look at the library, I take them there myself. That’s the general rule, dear.”
“Do you remember this Danish man?” Kjartan asked.
“Yes, yes. He wanted to have a go at the old riddle.”
“Do you mean the questions in the Flatey Book?”
“Yes, it’s a terribly innocent little riddle, but they haven’t managed to solve it yet.”
“Who’s they?”
“All kinds of bigheads who claim to know things about the Flatey Book.”
“Do you know if Professor Lund was able to solve the riddle?”
“No. I don’t think so. Not that I was peeping over his shoulder when he was having a go at it. He worked on it until the early hours.”
“Can I get to see the list of questions?”
“Yes, I don’t see any danger in that. I’ll lend you the key and you can have a look yourself. My leg’s bad today.”
The woman stood up stiffly and vanished into the croft.
The other woman silently glanced at Kjartan but immediately averted her gaze and focused on her knitting when he returned her gaze. She must have been a pretty woman in her day, and even though age was clearly creeping up on her, she still possessed a graceful air.
Kjartan stooped over the lambs that had settled by his feet and patted them until Hallbjorg returned.
“Here,” she said, handing him an old key, which Kjartan took.
“Will I be able to find it on my own?” he asked.
“Yes. The Munksgaard book is in a glass case against the northern wall. You can’t miss it. It’s not a big building. You can open the drawer, and the enigma sheets are slipped inside the beginning of the book. Just remember not to take the sheets out of the library. Misfortune and bad luck will follow anyone who takes those pages out or copies them.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s just a fact, everyone knows. An old curse, dear. There are ancient magical runes on the sheets, and no one knows what curse they unleash if they’re not treated carefully. The key to the riddle can only be found on those sheets, and they can never be taken out of the library. Unless, of course, the riddle has been solved, in which case the winner can keep the sheets.”
“Is that the winner’s prize then?”
“Yes, and the honor, of course. The person who solves the enigma will become famous.”
“Is it a very old enigma?”
“Not that old, but a good hundred years at least.”
“Have the sheets been in the library all that time?”
“No, no. The old librarian who received the Munksgaard book for the library’s centenary celebration received the riddle with it. Before that it had been kept by the king in Copenhagen. These are very important documents.”
Kjartan was on the point of leaving when Hallbjorg beckoned him over and shoved something into the palm of his hand.
“Here’s a piece of candy, dear. Something sweet’ll do you good.” She gave him a warm smile.
Kjartan looked at the dark piece of candy in his hand and thanked her. He then said good-bye, and the lambs followed him as he headed toward the village.
Question four: Who was the cruelest woman? First letter. The saga of the Greenlanders talks about Freydis, the daughter of Eirik the Red, and how she reached an agreement with the brothers Helgi and Finnbogi to travel with her to Vinland. But after they arrived, Freydis’s real wickedness was revealed and she got her men to enter their lodge and kill them. When all the men were dead, there were five women left that no one wanted to kill. Then Freydis picked up an axe, struck the women, and killed them. The answer is “Freydis,” and the first letter is f.
He said, “Here the guest writes the name Sigrid, the daughter of Skogul-Tosti.”
She browsed through the book and said, “This one is also possible. Harald Grenski came to the estate of Queen Sigrid the daughter of Skogul-Tosti. That same evening another six kings had arrived there, and all proposed to Sigrid. The kings sat in the ancient hall. There was no shortage of drink, so everyone got very drunk and fell asleep. Then in the night Sigrid bade her men fall on them with fire and weapons. The hall was burned down with the seven kings and their men inside. Sigrid said that this would dissuade puny kings from other lands from coming to her and trying to woo her. The letter is therefore s.”
CHAPTER 21
Inspector Dagbjartur found Fridrik Einarsson, a university lecturer in Icelandic philology, at home in his quaint bungalow in Aragata. It had been two hours since Dagbjartur had left Egill, his collaborator at the National Library. He had been allowed to use the library phone and had immediately been able to reach the man Egill had recognized from the newspaper photograph. They set an appointment, and Dagbjartur had a bite to eat at a diner while he was waiting. He then took a stroll by the pond in the mild weather and eventually waved down a cab that took him past the university to Aragata.
Dagbjartur was led into a living room and invited to sit in a deep armchair. The walls were lined with crammed bookshelves, and large, hand-carved chess pieces stood on a chessboard on a beautiful table. The inspector gazed at them, sensing there was something odd about them.
“That’s Viking chess,” said Fridrik, a tall thin man in his sixties. “In addition to the traditional chessmen, there are two Vikings on each team. The chessboard is therefore ten squares wide on each side, instead of the traditional eight.”
Fridrik adjusted the chess parts on the board and patiently waited for Dagbjartur to come to the point.
The policeman gave himself plenty of time to study the chess set and finally said, “You went to Hotel Borg at the end of August last year and asked for Professor Gaston Lund of Copenhagen. Is that correct?”
Fridrik seemed startled. He thought a moment and then said, “Yes. That’s absolutely right. How on earth do you know that?”
“It doesn’t really matter, but why were you looking for him?”
“Is this investigation linked to Professor Lund’s death on that island in the west? I heard about that.”
“Yes, we’re investigating his death,” Dagb
jartur answered. “Why were you trying to find the man?”
Fridrik needed to reflect on this a moment. “I was driving my car down Posthusstr?ti,” he finally said, “and I just happened to glance through the hotel’s restaurant window as I was passing. I thought I’d spotted the professor sitting at a table. I knew him very well from the days when I worked in Copenhagen and thought it was incredible that he would come to Reykjavik without contacting me or even giving me a call. It was bugging me all day, so next morning I went to the hotel and asked them if he was staying there. It turned out to be a mirage.”
Dagbjartur gave Fridrik an inquisitive look. “But now you know that he was here during that period, don’t you?”
“Yes, like I said, I heard about that dreadful thing in the west. I must have had some kind of premonition. It’s happened to me before. I think I recognize someone and it turns out to be a mistake. Then maybe a short while later I meet the same person in some other place. It’s an inexplicable gift.”
Dagbjartur shook his head. “This time you were probably seeing right. You just got the wrong information at the hotel.”
“Really, did I? It had to be. I saw Lund so clearly.”
“You said you would have expected him to visit you?”
“Yes, of course. We worked together for many years in Copenhagen and often chatted about what we were going to do when he came to Iceland. He came here twice in the twenties and thirties but traveled far too little. But he knew the historical spots so well that he could describe them in the minutest detail. He must have intended to surprise me with his visit when that terrible thing happened to him.”
Fridrik stared down at the table.
Dagbjartur paused a moment and then said, “It looks as if no one knew about the professor’s trip.”
“Oh really? Not that there’s anything strange about that.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The professor didn’t have any family, and when I knew him best, he was used to taking summer vacations alone. He never let anyone know about them and just wandered around Europe, following his personal whims. He’d always have lots of fun stories to tell when he came back to Copenhagen, though. He felt he could establish better contact with the locals if he traveled alone.”
Fridrik stood up and walked to the bookshelves.
“The priest in Flatey claims he avoided his acquaintances in Iceland because of some controversy over a manuscript. Do you reckon that’s true?” Dagbjartur asked.
Fridrik smiled numbly. “Oh yeah? Is that what it was? He was certainly adamantly opposed to most of his Icelandic colleagues on the issue, but I can’t think of anyone who would have tried to make him pay for it in any way, although I’m sure he would have been the toughest opponent to dissuade. He cared more about those manuscripts than any human being. And he knew all the arguments and legal loopholes to prevent them from being handed over.”
As Fridrik spoke, he took a folder off the shelf, opened it, found a typed sheet, and said, “I’ve been collecting material on this manuscript issue. Here’s a thesis by Gaston Lund that I translated. Listen to this extract: ‘The international research that is being conducted on the basis of these manuscripts would be hindered if the collection were to be dispersed. The results of the studies that are being made in Copenhagen are published in all the major European languages, whereas in Reykjavik the results would only be published in modern Icelandic. The humanities departments of the University of Copenhagen would unanimously oppose any handing over of the manuscripts.’”
Fridrik slipped the sheet back into the folder and put it back in its place. Then he took out a photo album and placed in on the table beside the chess board.
“So didn’t Gaston Lund have any enemies in this country then?” Dagbjartur asked.
“Some of our fellow countrymen might have let a few insults fly when he vented his opinions at meetings. Lund could also be rash and excitable, but it was never serious enough not to able to be solved with a good glass of schnapps. But I think I know the reason why he wanted to travel incognito.”
“Oh yeah?”
“The first time Gaston Lund came here was in 1926 or 1927. He was a member of what was considered to be a very gifted group of young Danish scholars. The story goes that Lund became intimately acquainted with a pretty local girl somewhere down south and got her pregnant. The fact that he refused to have anything to do with the child says a lot about his lower nature. He didn’t come back until he accompanied King Christian the tenth of Denmark on his official visit in 1936. The mother of the child planned to introduce him to his son, but Lund reacted badly to this reunion and washed his hands of them. The Icelanders in Copenhagen heard the story and weren’t impressed. But personally I think his behavior was just something that was beyond his control. The whole concept of taking on a father’s role was so overwhelming to him that he couldn’t cope. He always treated women with great suspicion after that. I think he didn’t dare go to Iceland because he was scared of bumping into the mother of his child. And now when he finally came back again, he tried to keep a low profile in this clumsy manner.”
“Did he ever receive any threats from this woman?”
“No, definitely not. But he was so deeply intimidated by her that he didn’t dare to come here for decades.”
“Do you know her name?”
“No. I heard this story as a piece of gossip and never asked for any further details.”
“And could you write me out a list of all the Icelanders that you know he knew personally?”
“I can do that, yes,” said Fridrik, skimming through the album. “Here’s a picture I took of Gaston Lund. On a short trip to Sweden.”
Dagbjartur saw the proud figure of a man standing in front of a group of people.
Fridrik said, “If you’re interested in the professor’s other faults, I could tell you that he was incredibly domineering. He often took over on those trips, uninvited, and that could be tiring. To people who didn’t know him, it came across as brashness and arrogance. He could also be quite vain and full of himself and his position. In most of his traits, he was unlike any of the Danes I’ve ever known. They’re normally gentler and more easygoing than Professor Lund was.”
“Could I borrow that picture?” Dagbjartur asked.
Fridrik carefully removed it from the photo album and handed it to Dagbjartur, who stuck it into his notebook.
“They say in Flatey that Gaston Lund traveled there to try his hand at some riddle connected to the Flatey Book. Are you familiar with that story?” Dagbjartur asked.
Fridrik smiled. “Aenigma Flateyensis. It would have given Professor Lund a great deal of prestige to be able to solve that enigma. He would have been quite happy to have that feather in his cap.”
“What kind of an enigma is it?” Dagbjartur asked.
“It’s just a few questions about the sagas contained in the Flatey Book, but I’m not the best man to tell you that story. Arni Sakarias, the poet and historian, is the man you need to talk to about that.”
Question five: King Magnus’s men. Second letter. King Sverrir Sigurdsson reigned in Norway from 1177 to 1202, and his men were the valiant Birkibeins. It had previously been considered shameful to be called a Birkibein, but following the fall of Earl Erling it was deemed an honor. There were then constant conflicts between King Magnus and his men. It happened that an old beggar woman died and left behind her a cowled garment, or a hekla, as it was called. A large quantity of silver was found stitched up inside it. When King Magnus’s men heard about this, they took and burned the garment, sharing the silver between them. This became known to the Birkibeins, who from that point onwards called them the Heklaufs, and the second letter is e.
CHAPTER 22
T he Flatey library stands at the top of the island, just a few yards beyond the church. Kjartan contemplated the building when he reached the gate of the low fence. It was a tiny little building, even smaller than it looked from down below in the village. Once he
had let himself in with the key, he discovered a single narrow room lined with bookshelves. Grimur had told Kjartan that the lion’s share of the library’s collection-old parchment manuscripts, diaries, and files-had long ago been transferred south to Reykjavik where they were preserved in the national library. What remained was old popular literature that was borrowed and read by the parishioners. Kjartan glanced at the spines of various books and dipped into some of them. Titles included The Treasure by Selma Lagerlof, The Ship Sails by Nordal Grieg, and Anna of Heidarkot by Elinborg Larusdottir. Not exactly the most contemporary of selections.
There was no mystery as to where the Munksgaard edition of the Flatey Book was kept. Wedged between two windows against the northern wall, there was a low table covered with a pane of glass, and in a drawer underneath it there was a large open book. Kjartan looked at the pages through the glass. These were black-and-white photographs of the original pages of the manuscript in the same scale. The lettering was clear and distinguishable, but Kjartan was unable to read it. He opened the drawer and turned the pages. At the front he found some old handwritten sheets that he could read. On the top of the first page the words Aenigma Flateyensis had been written, and below that there was a poem:
A black darkness looms over the land, but the sailing carries on the distant trail to death’s cold shores.
The most valiant asks: Why?
A potent spell dictates our journey,
And we are rowing for our lives,
Futile to seek any answers,
In battle we must place our trust.
Heavy gray clouds of eerie pelting hail,
Demanding the magic words,
The world under a skull storing thoughts for the winter.
The Flatey Enigma Page 10