Last Rituals

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  It was Thóra’s turn to nod. “Yes, I’ve even had the misfortune to read his masterpiece, if that’s the right word for The Witches’ Hammer.”

  “I’ve never bothered, but I know all about it—you can’t avoid it in my family. Harald became obsessed with finding out what had happened. I tried to point out to him that it happened five hundred years ago and there was no chance of unearthing it now. But he always maintained that you could never rule anything out. The Church was involved and most of its documents have been preserved. He didn’t give up, anyway—he enrolled in history to gain access to archives. Then he chose witch hunts to give the theme of his dissertation more credibility. Of course that was plain sailing, with his grandfather’s collection in front of him and the old man’s passion in his blood.”

  “So your grandfather was kind to him?” Thóra asked, knowing the answer would be positive but nonetheless wanting it confirmed.

  “Oh, yes,” Elisa said. “They spent a lot of time together. Harald always sought his company, even when Grandfather was in the hospital on his deathbed. Understandably, Grandfather was much fonder of him than he was of the rest of us. Maybe because he felt Harald was the odd one out with our parents. Harald inherited his interest in history. They seemed able to pore over it endlessly.”

  “And did his research lead anywhere?” asked Thóra. “Did he find anything out from all this?”

  “Yes,” replied Elisa. “So Harald claimed, at least. Through the university in Berlin he gained access to the Vatican archives and went to Rome after his second year. He spent a long time there, probably most of the summer. He said he’d found a document from Kramer demanding permission for a second witch hunt—he claimed they’d stolen a copy of a book he had written. Kramer apparently said the book was invaluable to him, a manual on how to uproot sorcery and prosecute witches. He was worried they could use the book to curse him and wanted to reclaim it whatever the cost. Harald couldn’t find the Vatican’s answer to his request, but because Kramer apparently didn’t go back to Innsbruck, it was probably rejected.

  “Anyway, Harald became incredibly excited and thought he had discovered what was stolen from Kramer and sent all the way to hell: Kramer’s draft of The Witches’ Hammer, the oldest known version of that famous book. It wasn’t identical to the edition published a year later, Harald said; presumably it was illustrated and handwritten. Kramer’s coauthor, Springer, still had to make his contribution, and this was one of the main reasons for Harald’s interest. Kramer’s original manuscript would dispel all doubt as to who wrote what. Some people claim Springer had no hand in it at all.”

  “But didn’t the thief send the manuscript straight to hell? Wasn’t that the phrase?” asked Thóra. “The obvious conclusion is that it was burned.”

  Elisa smiled. “The last letter to the Bishop of Brixen mentioned an emissary who was bound on a journey to hell and asked the Church to assist him on his way. So the book wasn’t burned, at least not immediately.”

  Thóra raised her eyebrows. “An emissary on a journey to hell, yes. Sounds like the most natural thing in the world.”

  Matthew smiled. “Quite.” He took a sip of his wine.

  “In those days it wasn’t so absurd,” Elisa said seriously. “Hell was considered to be a real place—in the bowels of the earth. There was even supposed to be a hole down to it in Iceland. On some volcano whose name I can’t remember.”

  “Hekla.” Thóra helped her out before Matthew tried to pronounce it. So that was it—Harald’s motive for coming to Iceland. He was looking for hell, just as Hugi claimed he had whispered to him.

  “Yes, right,” said Elisa. “That was where the manuscript was supposed to be sent. Or so Harald claimed, at least.”

  “Then what? Did it ever get there?” asked Thóra.

  “Harald told me he’d been looking for information on this emissary’s journey and had found a reference to it in a church chronicle from Kiel from 1486—at least he thought it was the same man. The chronicle mentions a man on his way to Iceland with a letter from the Bishop of Brixen asking for him to be given lodgings and provisions on his journey. He arrived on horseback carrying something that he guarded jealously. He could not even accept the sacrament because the package couldn’t be taken into church, and he never let it out of his sight. It says he stayed for two nights, then continued on his way north.”

  “Did Harald find any clues about how the journey ended?” asked Matthew.

  “No,” responded Elisa. “Not immediately, at any rate. Harald came here to Iceland after he gave up trying to trace it on the mainland. At first he made little headway, then he got hold of an old letter from Denmark that mentioned a young man who had died of measles at a bishop’s see whose name escapes me—he was on his way to Iceland. He staggered into the see at night, desperately ill, and died a few days later. But before he died he managed to entrust to the bishop a package that he was supposed to take to Iceland and throw into Hekla—with the blessing of the Bishop of Brixen. Some years later the Danish bishop wrote to ask the Catholic authorities in Iceland to finish the task. The bishop said he would hand over the package to a man who was on his way to Iceland, if I remember correctly, to sell pardons for the pope to finance the building of St. Peter’s Church in Rome.”

  “When was this?” Thóra asked.

  “I think Harald said it was quite a while later, probably around 1505. The bishop was old by then and wanted to clear up unfinished business—he’d kept the package for almost twenty years without passing it on.”

  “So the package came to Iceland?” mused Thóra.

  “Harald was adamant that it did,” Elisa replied. She ran her right index finger in circles around the rim of her wineglass.

  “Didn’t they throw the manuscript into the volcano then?” Matthew asked.

  “Harald said that couldn’t be right, because no one would have dared climb the mountain then. The first recorded ascent is much closer to our day. Then it erupted a few years later. Harald thought any potential candidate for the job would have been put off once and for all by that.”

  “So where did the manuscript end up?” asked Matthew.

  “At a bishop’s see, something beginning with s, Harald thought.”

  “Skálholt?” Thóra guessed.

  “Yes, that sounds right,” replied Elisa. “At least, that was where the pardoner went with the money he’d collected.”

  “Then what? No manuscript of The Witches’ Hammer has ever been found in Skálholt,” said Thóra, pouring herself more coffee.

  “Harald claimed it was kept there until the first printing press arrived in Iceland, when it was sent to another see. This one began with p, I think.”

  “Hólar,” declared Thóra, even though there was no p in the name. Iceland only had two sees, so it was an easy guess.

  “I don’t remember,” said Elisa. “But it could well be.”

  “Did Harald think they were going to print it there?”

  “Yes, I had that impression. It was the most widely published book in Europe at the time, apart from the Bible, so they probably considered it at least.”

  “Presumably someone opened the package then and saw what it contained. Surely they were tempted to take a peek,” said Matthew. “But what happened to the book? It was never published here, was it?” he asked Thóra.

  “No,” she said. “Not as far as I know.”

  “Harald said he had traced it,” said Elisa. “He said he’d gone on a wild-goose chase looking for the printing press and that place beginning with p—”

  “Hólar,” Thóra interjected.

  “Yes, right,” said Elisa. “He thought the bishop had sent the book somewhere else before he was executed, but then he became convinced that it was never removed from the other see—that S-place.”

  “Skálholt,” said Thóra.

  “Whatever,” Elisa replied. “Anyway, he located the book when he started investigating that angle—he said it had been hidden away
to save it from being sent out of Iceland.”

  “And where was it?” asked Thóra.

  Elisa took a sip of wine before answering. “I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. He said he’d save the rest of the story until he could show me the trophy.”

  Thóra and Matthew made no attempt to conceal their frustration. “Didn’t you ask any more about it? Didn’t he imply anything?” Thóra asked impatiently.

  “No, it was late by then and he was so delighted about the whole business that I didn’t want to ruin his pleasure by nagging on about it.” Elisa smiled apologetically. “The next day we talked about completely different things. Do you think it’s linked to the murder?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” Thóra said in disappointment. Suddenly Mal crossed her mind. Maybe Elisa knew Harald’s friends. They seemed to have been close, judging by everything she said. This Mal might have the missing information. “Elisa, do you know who Mal is? Harald had an e-mail from him suggesting that Mal knew something about his search for the book.”

  Elisa smiled. “Mal, oh, yes. I know Mal. His full name’s Malcolm and they met in Rome. He’s a historian too. He phoned me the other day—said he’d got a strange e-mail about Harald from Iceland. I told him he’d been murdered.”

  “Do you think he knows more about it?” asked Matthew. “Could you put us in touch with him?”

  “No, he knows nothing,” said Elisa. “He’s been asking me about the book; he said Harald told him he’d found it but gave no details. Malcolm had always thought Harald was chasing a red herring, so he was interested to find out what had happened.”

  Thóra’s mobile rang. It was the police.

  Thóra exchanged a few words with the officer, put down the phone, and looked at Matthew. “Halldór, that medical student, has been arrested in connection with Harald’s murder. He wants me to act as his legal counsel.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Thóra felt uncomfortable sitting at the police station. She was wondering whether she could be disbarred for serious abuse of her position and a flagrant conflict of interest. In fact she was unsure whether the law made such a provision; if not, it needed to be amended. The position was this: she was working for the family of a murdered man and was about to become the lawyer of the alleged killer. It was an on-the-spot decision and she had rushed out to hail a taxi. Matthew stayed behind with Elisa and took it upon himself to tell Frau Guntlieb the news and the rationale behind their sudden decision. Presumably he would argue that it gave Thóra a chance to talk to the murderer in person and get answers to the remaining questions. Good luck to him, Thóra thought, not envying him the task. Migraine sufferers were not usually very understanding.

  “Hello. He’s ready.” The police officer had walked up to Thóra without her noticing him.

  “Yes, thank you,” Thóra said, and stood up. “Can I see him alone or am I supposed to be present when he’s interrogated?”

  “He’s made a statement. He refused counsel then. It was a rather awkward situation—we’re not used to questioning people without counsel on such serious charges. But he insisted, and in the end we had to leave it to him. It was only when he’d given his statement that he asked to see his lawyer. You.”

  “Is Markús Helgason in?” asked Thóra. “I was wondering if I could have a word with him before I see Halldór,” she added as meekly as she could.

  The officer showed her into his colleague’s office.

  Thóra greeted Markús, who was sitting with his Manchester United coffee cup in front of him. “I don’t want to bother you for long, I just wanted to see you for a moment before I go in to Halldór.”

  “Of course,” Markús said, but his tone suggested that he was none too excited.

  “I expect you remember that I’m working for Harald Guntlieb’s family, don’t you?” The officer nodded thoughtfully. “I’m in a rather uncomfortable position, sitting on both sides of the table, so to speak.”

  “Yes, you certainly are. You ought to be aware that we strongly advised Halldór against choosing you, for precisely that reason. But he wouldn’t listen. In his mind you’re a kind of Robin Hood figure. He hasn’t confessed to the murder. I suppose he thinks you can get him out of this mess.” Markús grinned spitefully. “Which you can’t.”

  Thóra brushed aside the slight. “So you believe he’s guilty?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Markús. “Further evidence has come to light that proves his involvement. Watertight—absolutely. They did it together, the two childhood friends. The funny thing, if you can call it that, is that the evidence came from two different sources on the very same day. I’ve always liked coincidences.” He smiled.

  “And this has just happened?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. We received phone calls connected with the dead man from two people. Both had acquired information that demonstrated not only Halldór’s guilt but also the probable scene of the murder.”

  “Who were these people, if I may ask?”

  “It doesn’t make any difference if you find out now or later.” Thóra shrugged. “A box of gruesome objects was found where Harald lived—in the space he shared with the other tenants. This box contained a strip of skin with a contr—”

  “A contract about removing his eyes,” interrupted Thóra calmly. “I knew about it.”

  The officer’s face reddened. “And it didn’t occur to you to contact me? Do you know anything else that you’ve been concealing from us?”

  Thóra dodged the second question by answering only the first. “To tell you the truth, Matthew and I just discovered this today, and it was only a suspicion. We didn’t have the proof you seem to have.”

  “But you still would have been legally required to let us know,” said Markús, still annoyed.

  “Which we would have done, of course,” Thóra said, quite irritated herself. “It’s Sunday today—we would hardly drag you out on your day off because of a hunch. We were going to try to see you tomorrow.” She turned on the sweetest smile she could manage.

  “All right. I hope that’s true.” He gave her a skeptical look.

  “What other ‘gruesome objects’ did you find?” Thóra asked.

  “Two fingers, a whole hand, a foot, and an ear.” He stared at her, half expecting her to say she knew about them too. Her expression told him that she didn’t. “From different owners, we think.” He waited for her reaction.

  “What?” Thóra was taken aback. She knew only about the finger that Gunnar had mentioned—the finger that was found at the faculty building but could not be linked to Harald. What was going on? “Are you talking mass murder? Collecting body parts from the victims?”

  “At the moment we don’t know. Your client says he knows nothing about it. But he’s lying. I can tell when people are lying.”

  “So what evidence do you have—only the contract, presumably signed by Halldór?”

  “Yes,” replied Markús. “And a steel star from the shoes Harald was wearing the night of his murder—found under the doorsill in the students’ common room. That suggests the body was dragged through the door, and it’s worth noting that Halldór had access to that room. So the murder was surely committed there. What’s more, a teaspoon was found at the same location. A bloodstained teaspoon. It’s been dusted and Hall-dór’s fingerprints were on it. The blood is from Harald; at least, that’s what the initial tests suggest.”

  “A teaspoon,” repeated Thóra, surprised. “A bloodstained teaspoon. How do you link that to the case?”

  Markús evaded a direct answer. “The janitor, who’s also the head of maintenance, handed it over to a professor who brought it straight here.” Markús looked reproachfully at Thóra. “Unlike some people, he didn’t decide to wait until Monday.”

  “But a bloodstained teaspoon? I don’t quite see how that fits in, nor why it’s just now being discovered. Didn’t you search the whole building after the body was found?”

  “The teaspoon is thought to have been used to remove t
he eyes from the body. As far as the janitor goes…” Markús hesitated and Thóra realized she had hit a sore spot. “Of course a search was made. How we missed the spoon is unclear at the moment. We’ll find out why.”

  “So you have a contract and a bloodstained teaspoon,” Thóra said, watching Markús rock back and forth on his chair. There was something else. “I don’t think that necessarily proves Halldór’s guilt, to tell you the truth. As far as I remember he has an alibi.”

  “That barman?” Markús scoffed. “We need to talk to him again. Don’t faint if his testimony starts to crack under pressure.” He looked at her down his nose. “Also, we have more evidence against your client. Two pieces of evidence, actually.”

  Thóra raised her eyebrows. “Two?”

  “Yes—or one pair, to be more accurate. They turned up in a search of Halldór’s place this morning. I have no doubt they’ll be enough to convince even his own mother of his guilt.” Markús’s expression was so smug that Thóra thought about yawning and leaving without asking any more questions just to put him in his place. But her curiosity got the better of her.

  “So what did you find?”

  “Harald’s eyes.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Thóra regarded Halldór silently. He was sitting directly opposite her with his head down on his chest—he had not spoken a single word since she entered the interrogation room. After glancing up when she sat down, he immediately resumed laser-beaming a hole in the floor with his eyes. “Halldór,” Thóra said with a hint of impatience. “I can’t stay very long. If you don’t want to talk to me, I have other things to do with my time.”