“You know, I don’t think I’ve stayed at a hotel for two years,” she said as she carried her flight bag to the hotel. “Not since I got divorced.”
“You’re joking, of course,” Matthew said, taking his own bag.
“No, I swear I’m not,” said Thóra, almost enjoying the memory. “We made a final attempt to save our marriage with a weekend in Paris two years ago, and since then I haven’t been abroad or had any reason to stay at a hotel. Strange.”
“So the trip to Paris didn’t work any miracles?” asked Matthew as he opened the door for her.
Thóra snorted. “Not exactly. We were making a final effort to save our relationship, and instead of sitting over a glass of wine and talking things over—finding cracks that we could patch up—he was continually asking me to photograph him in front of tourist sights. That was the death sentence really.”
Right inside the door they bumped into a huge stuffed polar bear—standing on its hind legs with glaring eyes, ready to pounce. Matthew walked up to it and posed. “Take a photograph. Please.”
Thóra made a face and went up to the reception desk. Behind a computer screen sat a middle-aged woman wearing a dark uniform and white blouse. She smiled at Thóra, who informed her that they had booked two single rooms and gave their names. The woman made an entry in the computer, found two keys, and gave them directions to the rooms. Thóra reached over to pick up her bag and was about to leave when she decided to ask the woman if she remembered Harald as a guest. He might have asked for directions or information that could give her and Matthew a lead. “A friend of ours stayed here this autumn. Harald Guntlieb. You wouldn’t happen to remember him?”
The woman looked at Thóra with the patient expression of someone accustomed to all manner of unlikely questions. “No, I don’t remember the name,” she answered politely.
“Could you check, he was a German with rather unusual facial piercings?” Thóra tried to smile, to pretend this was merely routine.
“I can try. How do you spell the name?” the woman said, looking back at her computer screen.
Thóra recited the letters one by one and waited while she called up the details of Harald’s reservation. From where she stood, Thóra could see a succession of menus appearing on the screen. “Here it is,” the woman said at last. “Harald Guntlieb, two rooms for two nights. The other guest was a Harry Potter. Does that fit?” If she found the other name odd, she did not show it.
“Yes,” said Thóra. “Do you remember them at all?” Peering at the screen, the woman shook her head. “No, sorry. I wasn’t even working here then.” She looked at Thóra. “I was on holiday abroad. In this line of business it’s difficult to get away in the summer,” she said apologetically, as if Thóra might reproach her for being a slacker. “Maybe the barman remembers him. Ólafur, or Óli as we call him, must have been here. He’ll be on duty tonight.”
Thóra thanked the woman and she and Matthew walked off to their rooms. As they turned the corner in the corridor, the woman called after them: “I see here that he borrowed a flashlight from reception.”
Thóra turned back. “A flashlight?” she asked. “Does it say what for?”
“No,” the woman replied. “It was just noted to make sure he returned it when he checked out. Which he did.”
“Can you see whether this was in the middle of the night?” Thóra asked. Maybe Harald wanted to look for something he dropped in the driveway.
“No, the day shift lent him the light,” the woman replied. “Excuse my curiosity, but isn’t that the name of the foreign student who was murdered at the university?”
Thóra said it was and thanked her again for her help. She and Matthew proceeded to their rooms, which turned out to be side by side.
“Should we rest for half an hour or so?” Thóra asked when she looked inside the nicely furnished room. The big bed was tempting and aroused an urge within her to stretch out for a while—the quilts were big and thick and the linen looked ironed. It was not a sight Thóra saw every day. Her own bed normally greeted her at night in the same state of chaos she left it in when she rushed off to work in the mornings.
“Sure, we’re not in any hurry,” Matthew replied—clearly with the same idea. “Just knock when you’re ready. And remember, you’re always welcome to drop in on me.” He winked and closed the door before Thóra could respond.
After putting down her belongings and peeping into the bathroom and at the minibar, Thóra flopped back onto the bed. She lay with her arms in a crucifixion position and relished the moment. It didn’t last long, however—a ring tone came from her handbag. With a groan she sat up and took out her phone.
“Hi, Mom,” said her daughter Sóley cheerfully.
“Hello, sweetie,” said Thóra, glad to hear her voice. “What are you up to?”
“Oh,” she said, slightly less cheerfully. “We’re on our way to the stables.” Then she whispered so softly that Thóra had trouble making out the words, especially since her daughter seemed to have pressed her mouth right up against the phone to avoid being heard. Her voice came out muffled. “I don’t want to go at all. Those horses are nasty.”
“Hey!” said Thóra, trying to pep up her daughter. “They’re not nasty; horses are really kind actually. It’ll be fun for you—isn’t the weather nice?”
“Gylfi doesn’t want to either,” Sóley whispered. “He says horses are old-fashioned and outdated.”
“Tell me something fun: what did you do today?” asked Thóra, well aware that she was not the best advocate for horses.
Her daughter brightened up. “We had ice cream and watched cartoons. It was real fun. Hey, Gylfi wants to talk to you.”
Before Thóra managed to say good-bye to Sóley, her son was already on the phone. “Hi,” he said glumly.
“Hello, sweetheart,” replied Thóra. “How are things?”
“Useless.” Gylfi did not even try to whisper—if anything, Thóra thought he raised his voice.
“Oh, is it the horses?” she asked.
“Yes and no. Just everything.” After a short pause he added: “I need to have a little talk with you when I get back tomorrow.”
“By all means, darling,” Thóra replied, not knowing whether to feel happy that he was opening up at last or afraid about what he would say. “I look forward to seeing you both tomorrow night.” When the call was over she made another attempt to take a nap—in vain. In the end she got up and took a hot shower.
While she was drying herself with the thick, snow-white towels, Thóra noticed a guide to the local tourist attractions. She browsed for places that might have appealed to Harald. There was plenty to choose from but few possible links with the case. Three places did catch Thóra’s attention, however. The see of Skálholt received a two-page spread and had a clear connection with Harald through his interest in the bishops Jón Arason and Brynjólfur Sveinsson. Two other sights were possible candidates, as well: Mount Hekla and some caves from the days of Irish monks at Aegissída on the outskirts of Hella. What surprised her most was that she was fairly sure she had never heard of them before. Thóra wondered whether the name Hella was from the same root as hellir, the Icelandic word for “cave.” She folded down the corners of the pages describing these three places. Then she dressed, taking care to put on warm clothes—and plenty of them—even though they weren’t exactly attractive. If they were going to stroll around some caves, it would help to be dressed for the task. In her mind’s eye she saw Matthew clambering over boulders in his dancing shoes. Out of sheer spite she decided not to tell him about the caves until they had left the hotel. Besides, it was going to be dark out soon, and Thóra figured he’d be more likely to give in if she sprang the idea on him last minute. She put her hair in a ponytail, slipped on her coat, and left the room.
No sooner had her knuckles left the door than Matthew opened it. Thóra smirked when she saw his clothes. “That’s a nice suit,” she said in a jolly tone. “And nice shoes.” Judging from th
e well-polished leather, his shoes must have cost a pretty penny, and Thóra stifled a momentary pang of conscience about not warning him. He was bound to own plenty of other pairs.
“It isn’t a suit,” Matthew said tetchily. “It’s a sports jacket and trousers. There’s a difference. Not that you’re likely to realize.”
“Oh, sorry, Mr. Kate Moss,” teased Thóra, now quite at ease with her conscience, and the pending mistreatment of his footwear.
Without answering, Matthew closed the door behind him and jiggled the keys to the Jeep in his hand. “Well, where to?”
Thóra took her phone from her coat pocket to look at the time. “I suppose it’s best to start at Skálholt. It’s almost four and we’ll see from there.”
“Fine, Madam Guide,” Matthew said, scrutinizing her getup. “You know there’s a restaurant at the hotel, don’t you? We don’t actually have to go out to hunt for our dinner.”
“Ha-ha,” Thóra said. “I’d rather be warm and cozy than worry about looking cool. Though you might end up cool in more than one sense of the word, dressed like that in this weather.”
When they reached Skálholt it was beginning to get dark. The church was open and they hurried inside and began looking for someone to talk to. Soon they found a young man who greeted them and asked if he could help. They explained they were hoping to meet someone who might have spoken to their friend some time before. They described Harald’s appearance.
“Hey,” the young man said when Thóra was halfway through an account of the studs along Harald’s right eyebrow. “Aren’t you talking about that student who was murdered? I met him!”
“You wouldn’t happen to remember his reason for coming here?” asked Thóra, smiling encouragingly.
“Let’s see—if I remember correctly he wanted to talk about Jón Arason and his execution. Yes, and Brynjólfur Sveinsson.” He looked at them and hastened to add: “There’s nothing unusual about that—a lot of our visitors have heard their stories and want to find out more. They’re tragic but do have a macabre attraction. People are particularly interested in the fact that it took seven blows of the axe to behead Jón Arason. His head was literally split from his body.”
“Was he just wondering about these bishops in general terms?” Thóra asked. “Or was he interested in anything special connected with them?”
The young man turned to Matthew and switched to English. “I don’t know how familiar you are with the story of Jón Arason.”
Realizing this remark was intended for him, Matthew answered: “I know as much about him as I do about his mother. In other words: nothing.”
“Oh, I see.” The man sounded almost shocked. “To cut a long story short, Jón Arason was the last Catholic bishop of Iceland. He was bishop of Hólar from 1524 and controlled Skálholt for a while as well. He was beheaded here in Skálholt in 1550, thirteen years after King Christian III of Denmark abolished Catholicism in Iceland and other parts of his realm. Jón Arason tried to prevent the Reformation and led a revolt against the new Lutheran faith, but he failed and ended up with his head on the block. The execution was a separate story because two weeks before, Jón had been granted immunity until the next parliament convened to discuss his case and that of his two sons. They were executed too.”
Matthew wrinkled his brow. “His sons? Wasn’t he a Catholic bishop? How could he have sons?”
The young man smiled. “Iceland had won some kind of dispensation—I don’t know exactly how—whereby priests, deacons, and bishops could have mistresses. They were even allowed to make formal contracts that were tantamount to marriage vows. If they had children they paid a fine and everyone was happy.”
“How convenient!” exclaimed Matthew, taken aback.
“Yes, very,” came the jovial reply. “Your friend Harald seemed to know the story well; he’d clearly read up on it. Of course I’ve only summarized it for you, there’s much more to it. But anyway, that’s the background to the question you were asking.” He looked at Thóra, who tried to conceal the fact that she had forgotten her question long ago. “Your friend was mainly interested in one thing when he talked to me: the printing press that Jón Arason had sent to Iceland in 1534 and set up in Hólar, and what he printed on it.”
“And?” prompted Thóra. “What could you tell him?”
“It was a big question,” the young man replied. “Very little is known about the first print. Some sources say it was a missal—a sort of manual for priests with a calendar of services, psalms, and the like. The four gospels of the New Testament were also printed at some stage. As far as I can establish nothing else is known about printing in Jón Arason’s day. I remember your friend asking some rather curious questions—for instance, if the bishop could have published a certain book that was very popular at that time. I asked if he meant the Bible but he just laughed. I didn’t quite see the joke.”
“No, I can imagine,” said Matthew with a glance at Thóra. “Malleus?” She had thought precisely the same. Malleus Maleficarum was the most printed book after the Bible in those days. Maybe Harald was trying to unearth whether it had been printed in Iceland. A copy would have been priceless, not to mention its symbolic value to a passionate collector such as him.
“And what did he want to know about Brynjólfur Sveinsson?” Thóra asked.
“That was quite interesting,” the young man said. “At first he was only interested in seeing his grave—which is impossible because it hasn’t been found yet.”
Thóra interrupted him. “Not found yet? Wasn’t he buried here?”
“Yes, he was, but he asked to be buried outside the church, beside his wife and children. There’s an account of the location, but it still hasn’t been excavated. He wanted to rest in an unmarked grave.”
“Wasn’t that unusual?” Thóra asked.
“Very much so. In fact, the grave was marked later with a wooden fence that stood for thirty years. Then it began to fall down and wasn’t maintained, in defiance of the church’s orders. No one really knows why he didn’t give himself a tomb beneath the nave, as was the custom at that time. It’s thought that he found it too cramped when he attended the funeral of one of his clergymen here. Maybe he wanted to put an end to the practice.”
“And did it end?” asked Matthew.
“No, not at all. But there may have been another reason. He died a broken man. Understandably—dying alone, that remarkable figure, with all his family dead and no descendants. Most people find his fate very moving.”
“But you said Harald was interested in seeing Brynjólfur’s grave at first—did he move on to something else?” asked Thóra.
“Yes, he did. I started talking to him about Brynjólfur when I saw how upset he was about the grave. I took him into the crypt and the archaeological exhibition there. Then I showed him the excavations outside. We got onto the subject of Brynjólfur’s library—you know that he owned a large collection of Icelandic and foreign manuscripts?” Thóra and Matthew shook their heads—neither had any idea. “And you know that he gave some of Iceland’s most remarkable calfskin books to King Frederik of Denmark?” Thóra shook her head again.
“Your friend got very excited when I started telling him about the manuscripts and wanted to know what had happened to them when Brynjólfur died. I couldn’t tell him exactly, but I did know that he gave his foreign books to the infant son of the governor of Iceland at the time, who was a Dane named Johann Klein, and that he shared out the Icelandic ones between his cousin Helga and his sister-in-law Sigrídur. As far as I recall, some of the Icelandic books went astray; at least, some were missing when Johann Klein came to collect them. The clergy at Skálholt are suspected of hiding them to stop them from being sent to Denmark. Those books and manuscripts have never been found. No one even knows the titles.”
“Where could they have hidden them?” Thóra asked, looking all around.
The young man smiled. “Not in here. This building dates from 1956. The old church that Brynjólfur had
built in 1650–51 collapsed in an earthquake in 1784.”
“And you haven’t looked for them?”
“We still haven’t found the graves of Brynjólfur and his family, in spite of the description of the location. He died in 1675. We certainly wouldn’t look for books that were only rumored to have been buried here at that time. And the fate of the books he bequeathed is uncertain. Apparently Árni Magnússon came across a few when he began collecting manuscripts. Some of Brynjólfur’s books can be recognized from his monogram.”
“BS?” Thóra asked, for the sake of contributing something.
“No. LL.” The young man smiled.
Thóra repeated in surprise: “LL?”
“Loricatus lupus—Latin for ‘armored wolf,’ which is what the name Brynjólfur means.” He smiled at Thóra who could not restrain herself from clicking her fingers. “Loricatus lupus” was written on Harald’s scrawled map. They were clearly on the right track if his jottings had some connection with the murder.
Their conversation soon came to an end. Matthew and Thóra thanked the young man for his patience. Before starting the car, Matthew turned to Thóra and said: “Loricatus lupus, yes. Should we wait until everyone’s gone home and dig up everything we can get a shovel through?”
“Definitely,” Thóra said with a smile. “Let’s start with the cemetery.”
“You’ll have to do the shoveling, then—you’re dressed for the part. I’ll sit in the car and light you up with the headlights.”
They left Skálholt. “I know where we could go next,” Thóra said, with an air of innocence. “There are caves near Hella that were probably dug out by Irish monks. Maybe we can find an explanation there for Harald’s interest in the hermits. I have a hunch Harald borrowed the flashlight to take a look around there.”
Matthew shrugged. “It’s worth looking into—won’t we need a flashlight too?”
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