“So Harald wasn’t going to change his dissertation topic, as Gunnar claims?” Matthew asked.
“Far from it,” Thorbjörn replied. “Gunnar’s always convinced every-thing’s going to the dogs. I wonder if he was worried that Harald would stay here as a perpetual student. It’s happened, you know.”
“Would you mind telling us a little about Harald’s research?” Thóra asked. “We were wondering if his interest in witchcraft could be linked to the murder.”
Now it was Thorbjörn’s turn to lift his eyebrows. “Seriously?” Thóra and Matthew nodded their heads. “Well, I never. I’d be very surprised at that. History isn’t so exciting that people kill for it very often,” he said. “Anyway, Harald was planning to compare witch hunts in Iceland and on the mainland. As you know, it was mainly males who were burned at the stake for sorcery in Iceland, but it was females elsewhere. So that was his starting point. Since he was well acquainted with witch hunts on the mainland, Harald concentrated on acquiring Icelandic resources and studying the history of that period here. In my opinion he had established a good overview when he was murdered.”
“So what about those side streets?” asked Matthew.
Thorbjörn paused to think. “Well, he had quite a fascination with Bishop Jón Arason and the printing press he’s said to have imported to Iceland. At first I couldn’t quite grasp how he intended to link that with witch hunts, but I let him proceed. Then he abandoned that angle for Brynjólfur Sveinsson, the bishop of Skálholt. I thought that was a better approach.”
“Was he connected with witch hunts?” Thóra asked.
“Of course,” replied Thorbjörn. “He was bishop at the time, but he was generally considered to take a soft line when it came to witches. It is known that he kept some boys at the school in Skálholt from being burned at the stake when a sorcerers’ quire was found in their possession. But on closer examination it’s an untenable view. For example, he did nothing to restrain his relative, Páll from Selárdalur, who was one of Iceland’s most vigorous witch hunters. Seven men were burned at the stake on suspicion of causing an outbreak of illness at Páll’s farm.”
“This sorcerers’ quire that you mentioned, was Harald particularly interested in that?” Matthew asked.
Thorbjörn shook his head slowly. “No, not that I recall. It goes by the name of the Skálholt Quire and Bishop Brynjólfur probably had it destroyed. Though he did make a record of the eighty spells described in it, I think. Harald was fascinated by Brynjólfur’s library, which contained an assortment of manuscripts and books. And his personal history also aroused Harald’s interest, of course.”
“How?” asked Matthew, adding by way of apology: “I know very little about Icelandic history.”
Thorbjörn gave him a pitying smile. “In short, Brynjólfur had seven children, but only two reached adulthood: Ragnheidur and Halldór,” he explained. “Ragnheidur gave birth to a son out of wedlock nine months after Brynjólfur had made her publicly swear an oath, on her hands and knees, that she was a virgin. The oath was taken because of rumors that she was having an affair with her father’s young assistant, a man by the name of Dadi. Ragnheidur’s bastard son was taken from her arms and sent to be brought up by the father’s family. She died shortly afterward, when the baby was about one year old.
“Halldór, Brynjólfur’s son, died a few years later while studying abroad. Brynjólfur then brought back his only surviving heir, Ragnheidur’s son Thórdur, who was six by then. He soon became the apple of the old man’s eye. Brynjólfur’s wife died three years after the lad moved to Skálholt and to top off the bishop’s tragedy Thórdur died of consumption at the young age of twelve. So Brynjólfur, one of the great figures of Icelandic history, was left with no family or heirs. I think Harald was enthralled by the bishop’s story and what could be read into it. If Brynjólfur had treated his daughter more fairly at the fateful moment, somehow you feel things would have turned out better for him and his family. Ragnheidur had tricked him, you see. Popular belief has it that she swore an honest oath in the church but allowed herself to be seduced by Dadi the same evening, in vengeance against the old man.”
“I’m not surprised that such a story appealed to Harald,” said Thóra. He must have felt sympathy for Ragnheidur, she thought. “Was Harald still studying Brynjólfur when he was murdered, or had he turned to another topic?”
“If I remember correctly, his interest in Brynjólfur had started to wane—he’d studied him comprehensively. I’m told he took a week off before he was murdered, so I don’t know exactly what he was up to then.”
“Do you know if Harald had any other business in Iceland apart from studying? Was he trying to buy up antiquities or objects of possible historical value?” asked Matthew.
Thorbjörn laughed. “Do you mean treasure troves? No, we never discussed anything like that. Harald seemed to have both feet firmly on the ground, he was a devoted student and I found him nice to work with. Don’t let Gunnar’s hysteria deceive you.”
Thóra decided to change the subject and asked about the meeting in the faculty building on the fateful night.
“Quite right,” said Thorbjörn. The playful glint had vanished from his eyes. “We were here, most of the teachers from the department. Are you implying anything?”
“Not at all,” Thóra retorted. “I was just asking in the vague hope that you noticed something that might help us. Something that may have dawned on you since you gave your statement to the police. Memories often take a while to gestate.”
“You won’t learn anything from those of us who were at the meeting. We left long before the police said the murderer appeared. We were celebrating our application for a grant in cooperation with a university in Norway. We’re not exactly party animals, and we don’t have much stamina at such gatherings. We’d all left before midnight.”
“You’re certain?” Matthew asked.
“Absolutely—I was the last to leave and I switched on the security alarm myself. If anyone had been left inside it would have set off every bell in the building. That’s happened to me and it’s not exactly pleasant.” He looked at Matthew, who appeared unconvinced, and added: “The printout from the security system can corroborate that.”
“I don’t doubt that it can,” said Matthew, stone-faced.
CHAPTER 24
DECEMBER 10, 2005
The good weather from the previous evening seemed likely to hold. They were at the aviation school office where Thóra and Matthew had hired a plane the day before. While Matthew completed a form for the pilot, Thóra took advantage of the complimentary coffee. The fare had surprised her—the scheduled flight time to Hólmavík was just under an hour either way but it cost less than if they had driven and stayed at a hotel. She had even been offered a lower price if they were willing to accept a trainee pilot. She opted for the higher fare.
“Okay, we’re ready.” The pilot smiled. He was so young that he must have just been promoted from the lower fare bracket. They followed him to a small plane that accommodated four people including the pilot. Matthew offered Thóra the seat in front, but she declined when she saw how cramped it was in the back. Although tall, she was still smaller than Matthew and therefore less likely to need a shoehorn to get her out at the other end. She climbed in and buckled up.
The pilot took his seat and handed them each a headset. “Put these on. The plane’s a bit noisy, so we have to communicate through the mikes on these headphones.” Thóra and Matthew put the clunky apparatus over their heads and plugged them in. The pilot turned on the engines, and after a short discussion with the control tower they took off.
They flew over Reykjavík, which looked much larger from the air than on the ground. Matthew looked down, fascinated, but Thóra found it more rewarding to look ahead, a rare opportunity on a plane. “There aren’t many tall buildings,” observed Matthew, looking back at Thóra. She found it mildly embarrassing to talk over the sound system in case the air traffic controllers
were listening in, so she just nodded and averted her gaze downward, watching the low-rise houses zip by. The city and its suburbs were characterized by the Icelandic need to live in a house. Not an apartment, a house. Apartments were mere stepping-stones. Thóra craned her neck to try to see her own home, but could not. They were heading inland, away from the sea. Once they had flown over the boundaries of the residential areas, Matthew turned back to Thóra. “What happened to your trees? There’s hardly any vegetation down there,” he said in an unnaturally loud voice.
“Oh, most people think the sheep ate them,” replied Thóra, now almost certain they were out of earshot of flight control.
“Sheep?” repeated Matthew incredulously. “Since when do sheep eat trees?”
“They don’t,” said Thóra. “They get the blame, though. I don’t think there were ever any trees, to be honest. Maybe some shrubs.” She looked down at the barren ground. “I like it this way, actually. Who needs trees?”
Matthew shot her a quizzical glance and then went back to scanning the mountainous landscape up ahead.
The flight to Hólmavík went quickly and the airstrip in the village soon appeared. Thóra saw a gravel runway with a single shed, nothing more. It was just outside the village beside the main road. The pilot flew over the runway and sized it up; then, satisfied with what he saw, he turned the plane and made a soft landing. They unfastened their belts and got out.
Matthew took out his mobile to make a call. “What’s the number of the local taxi company?” he asked the pilot.
“Taxi company?” He laughed. “There’s not even one taxi here, let alone a whole company. You’ll have to walk.”
Thóra smiled along with the pilot, pretending she had known this all along. But like Matthew she had expected to be able to take a taxi from the airstrip down to the museum. “Come on, it’s not far,” she said to Matthew, pulling her shocked companion with her. They crossed the road, which was completely devoid of traffic, and walked to the gas station and shop at the entrance to the village. They went in to ask for directions. The girl working there was very helpful and even went outside with them to point out the museum. It could not have been easier; a walk down the road, along the shore into the village, and there, right next to the harbor, was the museum. A black wooden house with a turfed roof, it was just barely discernible in the distance. It was only a few hundred yards and the weather was good. They set off.
“I recognize this from the photographs on Harald’s computer,” said Thóra, looking back at Matthew. The pathway was so narrow that they could not walk side by side.
“Were there many shots from here? Anything worthwhile, I mean?”
“Not really,” Thóra replied. “Actually just typical tourist shots, apart from a few that he took inside the museum, where photography is prohibited.” She cautiously skirted a patch of ice on the path. “Watch out here,” she warned Matthew, who strode over it. “You’re not exactly wearing the right shoes for walking.” She glanced at his black patent leather shoes. They matched Matthew’s other clothes: pressed trousers, a shirt, and a half-length woolen coat. She was wearing jeans and outdoor shoes and had put on her goose-down coat as a precaution. Matthew had not yet commented on the coat—making do with a raised eyebrow when he picked her up and she squeezed into his car, the upper part of her body triple its normal size.
“The last thing I expected was to have to go hiking,” Matthew said crossly. “He could have warned me, that man.” “That man” was the curator of the sorcery and witchcraft exhibition at the museum, whom Matthew had phoned the day before to make sure it would be open. “It’s good for you. It will teach you not to be such a dandy,” teased Thóra. “That doesn’t work up here in Iceland. If we don’t finish this job soon I’ll have to take you into town and buy you a fleece jacket.”
“Never!” declared Matthew. “Even if I had to stay here until my dying day.”
“If you don’t, that day will come sooner than you suspect,” she retorted. “Aren’t you cold, though—maybe you’d like to borrow my coat?”
“I made a reservation at Hótel Rangá for tonight,” he said, swiftly changing the subject. “And I’m going to swap the rental car for a Jeep.”
“See, you’ve gone half-native already.”
Finally they made it all the way to the museum—without slipping on the ice. The museum looked old-fashioned from the outside. The yard in front of it, enclosed with a stone-built wall, was covered in beach gravel and a few driftwood logs. The door was deep red, contrasting sharply with the earth-colored hues of the building itself. A portly raven was sitting on a wooden bench outside. It looked skyward when they arrived, opened its beak wide and cawed. Then it spread its wings and soared up to the gable where it watched them go inside. “Appropriate,” said Matthew as he opened the door for Thóra.
Inside they found a small service counter on the right with several shelves directly in front of them displaying witchcraft souvenirs. All very unpretentious and tidy. Behind the counter sat a young man, who looked up from his newspaper. “Hello,” he said. “Welcome to the sorcery and witchcraft exhibition.”
Thóra and Matthew introduced themselves and the young man said he had been expecting them. “I’m just working here temporarily,” he said after shaking their hands and introducing himself as Thorgrímur. His handshake was old-fashioned, firm and steady. “The director of the museum is on sabbatical, but I hope that’s no problem.”
“No, it’s fine,” said Thóra. “But is it true that you were here this autumn?”
“Yes, that’s right. I took over in July.” He gave her an inquisitive look and added: “May I ask why you want to know?”
“As Matthew told you yesterday, we’re investigating an incident connected with a person interested in witchcraft. He came here this autumn and we thought we ought to drop in for some insight into his world. I presume you remember him.”
The man laughed. “You can’t be sure. A lot of people come here.” Then, realizing that they were the only visitors, he added: “This time of year is nothing to go by—it’s packed here in the tourist season.”
Matthew gave a faint smile. “You know, this man isn’t so easy to forget. He was a German history student with a very unconventional appearance. His name was Harald Guntlieb and he was recently murdered.”
Thorgrímur’s face lit up. “Oh, yes, he was all—all covered in—how can I describe it—ornamentation?”
“If you can call it ornamentation,” said Thóra.
“Yes, sure, I remember him. He came here with another man, a bit younger, who said he felt too hungover to come inside. Soon after that I read in the paper about the German being murdered.”
“That fits,” Matthew said. “This guy with the hangover—do you know anything about him?”
The man shook his head. “Not exactly—when your friend said goodbye he told me he was a doctor. I think he must have been joking. He had to make an awful noise to wake him up when they left. I was in the doorway watching. I remember thinking how improbable a doctor he was, passed out on the bench outside.”
Thóra and Matthew exchanged glances. Halldór.
“Do you remember anything else about their visit?” asked Thóra.
“I remember he was very well informed. It’s nice to have visitors who know as much as he did about history and witchcraft. As a rule, people don’t know anything; they can’t even tell a revenant from a poltergeist.” From their expressions he could tell these visitors were two more in that category. “How about taking a walk around the museum and I’ll tell you about the main exhibits? Then we can talk about your friend.”
Thóra and Matthew exchanged glances, shrugged, and followed the curator inside.
“I don’t know how much you know about these matters, but I should maybe give you a little background.” Thorgrímur walked up to a wall covered with the skin of an unidentifiable animal. The fur faced the wall, and on the hide facing outward a magic symbol had been drawn, much more
complicated than the one carved on Harald’s body. Beneath the skin a wooden box was mounted on the wall, resembling an old-fashioned pencil box. It was half-open and full of what looked like hair, along with a silver coin. A simple symbol was carved on the lid and on top of it was a strange creature that could have been mistaken for a mutant hedgehog. “In the age of sorcery, the common people in Iceland lived in appalling conditions. A handful of families owned most of the property while almost everyone else starved. The only way they could see to escape from their poverty was through magic and supernatural powers. In those days this wasn’t considered unusual. For example, they thought the devil went around in the company of men, trying to ensnare their souls.” He turned to the hide on the wall. “Here’s an example of a spell to get rich—the symbol represents a sea mouse or circular helmet. You needed the skin of a black tomcat, then you drew this symbol or circular helmet on it with the menstrual blood of a virgin.”
Matthew grimaced and looked out of the corner of his eye to see whether Thorgrímur touched the symbol. Noticing this, the curator told the German dryly: “We used dark red ink.” Then he continued. “They had to catch a small vermin that according to folklore lived along the shore and was called a sea mouse. It had to be caught in a net made from a virgin’s hair.” Thóra felt Matthew running his hand down her long, loose hair. Stifling a giggle, she brushed his hand away inconspicuously. “Then they made a nest for the mouse from a wooden box and the hair and put a stolen coin in it, and then the mouse was supposed to fish a treasure from the sea and into the box. Then you had to put the circular helmet over it to prevent the mouse from escaping and causing a storm at sea.”
He turned to them. “So it wasn’t just hocus-pocus.”
“No,” replied Matthew, and pointed to a wall with a glass case containing what looked like the lower half of a human body. “What on earth is that?”
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