House of Evidence (18 page)

January 8, 1919. I was summoned to the Chatfield residence very early this morning. Mr. and Mrs. Chatfield were having breakfast. Mr. Chatfield said that he and his wife were prepared to agree to our marriage if my affairs proved to be in order. The engagement is to last for six months. Then I was allowed to see Elizabeth…

A
fter lunch Halldór went to see Andrés, the retired DC. The old man was astonished to learn that there had been a repeat of the Birkihlíd incident, and, what was more, with the same weapon. He tapped out some snuff from his snuffbox, but then paced up and down the parlor floor with it untouched on the back of his hand.

“Well I never, you don’t say, well I never,” he kept repeating. Finally he sat down, sniffed the tobacco up one nostril, and began to look through the papers Halldór had brought along.

“Of course I remember this case very well,” he said. “We never managed to solve it, as you know, but it was fully investigated. There was even an agent from an English insurance company who came over to check the evidence.”

“Really?”

“Yes, apparently the engineer was insured for a large sum of money, and they wanted to be certain he hadn’t shot himself.”

“Was that ever a possibility?”

“No, the gun would have been found nearby, of course. The English investigator made the caretaker swear he hadn’t removed the weapon from the house after finding Jacob dead.”

“Did you know engineer Jacob while he was alive?” Halldór asked.

“I knew him quite well. He helped us a lot with things involving the military.”

“What do you think really happened there?”

“I don’t know. There were all sorts of speculations; some thought it was a communist conspiracy, and then there were those who claimed the Allies had murdered him because he had been spying for the Germans.”

“Really?”

“Yes, apparently he had studied in Germany and also been there just before the war. He seems to have been trying to interest them in going into business with him.”

“Do you think he could possibly have been a spy?”

“No, not the man I knew.”

“Could it have been a felony murder, then?”

“Yes, maybe. I always believed that the killer was just some drifter who got hold of this gun and had it with him when he broke into Birkihlíd. He must have thought the house was unoccupied.”

“What about the guy who was arrested, this Sigurdur?”

“That was just nonsense. He definitely had nothing to do with it. It’s just that he was so bloody stubborn, he wouldn’t talk. But there were those within the police force who believed he was guilty.”

“Do you know what happened to him?”

“Yes. He was killed in a work accident at the harbor. I went there and did the report.”

“When was this?”

“Probably 1950.”

“What happened?”

“They were unloading a freighter when a sling broke. There were two of them in the hold who had a whole stack of timber collapse over them. The other guy got a broken leg, but there was nothing that could be done to help Sigurdur. It was one of the ugliest accidents I’ve ever seen.”

“He had a large family, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he left five kids and a pregnant wife. I got the parish pastor to go with me to tell her of the accident.”

“What became of the family?”

“They stayed where they were, a squalid place in the west end of town. I seem to remember us having some dealings with the older boys, but nothing serious. The address is probably still the same as the one in my report.”

“Do you know of anyone who knew Jacob Senior who might be able to help us now?”

“The assistant engineer, Thórdur, is the most likely; I think he took over the running of the business, and has done well for himself. The caretaker who found Jacob’s body passed away many years ago.”

“Anything else you can think of about the case?”

“No, but I’ll try and run back over it. Actually, there was a guy here the other day asking questions about it. Called himself a historian, but he was nothing but a hippie. I pretended not to remember anything, just made fun of him,” Andrés laughed.

“Can you remember his name?”

“Yngvi, I think it was,” Andrés replied. Halldór wrote the name down.

“Did he tell you why he wanted to know about this?”

“No, and I didn’t ask. It was none of his business.”

Halldór riffled through the old reports and photographs. “You didn’t have much to go on in this case,” he said.

“No, it was terribly inadequate. A broken windowpane and a dead man, that was all.”

“At least you had the bullet.”

“Yes, it was sent abroad for examination, but we never found a gun for comparison.”

“Weren’t there some Smith and Wessons around?”

“Well, we suspected so. Some of the British officers carried guns like that, and they lost a few, but it was impossible to lay hands on suitable ammunition after the British army left.”

“So you never found a gun like it at all?”

“Yes, a couple, but they had no ammunition, proving they were not involved. One was broken, and the other belonged to a member of parliament who shall remain nameless.” Andrés helped himself to some more snuff. “I really hope it can be sorted now,” he added. “This case has often kept me awake at night.”

Diary V

January 9, 1919. Wrote to my parents with the news of my engagement. They will probably be very surprised, as they still don’t know that I am now in England…

January 12, 1919. I rented a room in a decent house on Halford Street. It is within easy walking distance of the Chatfield family home…

January 15, 1919. With the help of Mr. Chatfield, I am now employed by Mr. James Leslie’s engineering firm here in the city. Mr. Leslie specializes in civil
engineering, so I shall not be involved in railway engineering in the immediate future. This will, however, be good experience, since it is by no means certain that I shall always be able to find work building railroads in Iceland, and it will then be good to be able to work on other projects…

January 17, 1919. Elizabeth and I take long walks round the city, when the weather allows. This morning she showed me Jewry Wall, which was built by the Romans. We have also looked at St. Martin’s Cathedral, where we are planning to get married this coming summer…

March 5, 1919. Had a long talk with Mr. Chatfield about my and Elizabeth’s financial arrangements. He will provide a dowry in the form of a trust fund that will be available to us subject to specific conditions. In return he wants me to take out a life insurance policy for myself…

March 6, 1919. Mr. Leslie has been instructing me on how to design drainage systems. He is a clever engineer and a good teacher, but what a tedious subject this is…

March 23, 1919. Went to meet the agent at the life insurance company. He said that the medical had
gone well, and that I have a clean bill of health. He read to me the whole of the life insurance policy document, and gravely reminded me that the policy would be invalid if I were to take my own life. I promised to remember this. There is a lot of money at stake…

April 4, 1919. Had a letter from my parents. They will be attending the wedding this summer…

I
t was nearing six o’clock when the investigative team convened at the Borgartún headquarters.

“This country would be in far better shape if we had a king. Then there’d be someone to look up to,” Egill said, in regards to the magazine article Hrefna had found about the German royal candidate and was passing around.

Nobody else seemed to agree with his comment, and Halldór moved on to the more pressing point. “We must check Matthías’s reaction to these allegations; they might be relevant to the case.” Then he peered beseechingly at Hrefna and asked, “Would you be prepared to go and talk to him right away?”

Hrefna agreed, despite the late hour. She was keen to get to know Matthías Kieler firsthand anyway.

“We also need to speak to this historian tomorrow,” he continued. “He has shown a lot of interest in all this.” Hrefna understood that she was to take this on as well.

Jóhann had found the teenage girl who delivered
Morgunbladid
to Birkihlíd; she had not noticed anything unusual when she delivered the paper there on Thursday morning. Her winter boots had fit perfectly into the plastic cast Jóhann had made of the footprints in the snow.

Egill and Marteinn had not yet found the left-handed guitarist, but they planned on continuing the search that evening.

Diary V

June 15, 1919. Today is our wedding day. The ceremony at St. Martin’s was very well conducted. Afterwards our photograph was taken before the church doors. There was a large reception at the Chatfield family home…My father made an admirable best man, and my mother had tears in her eyes. Elizabeth and I are on our way to London for our honeymoon…

July 1, 1919. Elizabeth and I moved into a small apartment on Elmfield Avenue. We shall be living here for the coming year, but have decided to move to Iceland next summer…

July 23, 1919. Mr. Chatfield wants to lend Elizabeth and me his new automobile in order for us to travel during our summer holiday…

August 2, 1919. Drove through Dorset in the late afternoon and arrived at the hotel at five o’clock. We rested until supper time…

August 4, 1919. This morning Elizabeth and I climbed Bulbarrow Hill. The view from there is wonderful. There are countless variations of green as far as the eye can see, small meadows broken up between windbreaks…

H
refna took a taxi to Matthías Kieler’s home that evening, wondering on the way what she should say to him. There was just no casual way to broach the subject.
So, do you feel we should have a king?
Then again, maybe it looked different to the generation that took part in the establishment of the republic. It was possible that people had been of two minds then; she had never thought about it before.

Hrefna found Matthías’s apartment on the second floor of a tidy house in Thingholt. She knocked gently on the front door, which was promptly opened by a short, slightly plump man in his sixties, dressed in a dark gray vest and trousers, with a crisply ironed white shirt and a black bow tie. He wore a short, green apron.

“Yes?” he said quietly.

“Matthías Kieler lives here, doesn’t he?” Hrefna asked.

“Yes, he lives here.”

“My name is Hrefna; I’m from the police. I need to trouble him with a few questions regarding his nephew Jacob’s death.”

“Please, come in.”

Hrefna studied the man as she passed him. So this was the manservant Klemenz. He had large, slightly protruding, dark
brown eyes, round cheeks, and a handsome mouth. Prodigious crow’s-feet around his eyes gave his face an amused expression, and his hair was jet-black and combed straight back, held firmly in place by some sort of hair product. Hrefna detected a faint but agreeable scent on him, and he smiled kindly when she looked him in the eye. A cute old guy, she decided.

The sound of a string instrument came wafting through the apartment. “Mr. Kieler is practicing,” Klemenz explained. “Perhaps you would care to take a seat and wait while he finishes the piece?”

“Yes, please,” she said.

The manservant showed her into the room where Matthías sat by the window, playing the cello. Hrefna sat down, and Klemenz disappeared into the next room. She withdrew the magazine article about the business with the king from her bag, intending to read it again while she waited, but she couldn’t concentrate, and just listened to the music instead. It was a lovely piece, beautifully played. Matthías guided the bow expertly across the strings, his eyes closed in deep concentration; he showed no awareness of her presence. Hrefna leaned back in the chair, realizing how tired she was.

She had never heard this piece before, nor had she ever heard a solo cello. She had actually never been particularly interested in classical music, but this piece took hold of her. She nearly forgot the purpose of her visit, allowing the music to wash over her. She felt more relaxed than she had in a long time.

The atmosphere in the room was extremely pleasant. It was airy and clean. Candles had been lit, and the light was just right.

As the final note died away, Hrefna wanted to applaud but sensed that it was not appropriate given the circumstances.

Klemenz reentered and waited for Matthías to look up.

“There is a young woman here from the detective division who would like to speak with you, sir,” he said.

Matthías gave Hrefna a friendly smile.

“That was ‘Berceuse de Jocelyn,’ by Godard. Perhaps you are familiar with it?” he said.

“No, I’ve never heard it before. It’s very beautiful.”

“Yes, you think so? That pleases me. I myself made this arrangement for solo cello—it is quite a bit longer than the original. I want to play it at my nephew’s funeral.”

“He is the reason I am here.”

“I suspected as much.”

“Have you seen this, sir?” Hrefna asked, handing Matthías the newspaper clip; he held it at a slight distance as he read a few lines. Farsighted, Hrefna thought.

“Yes, I have seen this,” he said, handing the paper back to her.

“Are these claims true?” Hrefna asked.

“No, they are not. This piece is pure fantasy from beginning to end.”

“Do you know the author?”

“By reputation. This self-styled ‘historian’ has been relentless over a period of many years as far as my family is concerned. All respectable academics regard this charlatan as a disgrace.”

“What about the paper the royal candidate wrote? Does it exist in Germany?”

“Yes, I understand that it actually does, but this man was a mentally confused eccentric, subject to ridicule by everybody. He must have found the names of me and my brother in some documents dating back from when my brother had some business dealings in Berlin, and then incorporated them in these fantasies of his. He says somewhere else in his paper that the Third Reich’s propaganda minister had offered to accompany him to Iceland
and enter his service here. None of it made an ounce of sense, and it is unfathomable that the poor man’s relations didn’t destroy those documents after he died.”

“What was this business your brother was engaged in?”

“He was raising finance for his railroad company. He was all set to commence construction of a railroad in Iceland but lacked funds, and we went to see certain wealthy industrialists in Berlin who were prepared to invest in the enterprise.”

“What sort of reception did the two of you get?”

“Extremely satisfactory, as my brother Jacob had done the most thorough homework for his mission. I was only there to assist him in a secretarial capacity. But all these plans came to nothing, of course, when the war started.”

“This draft of a summons that was with the article, was it ever submitted in court?”

“No, my nephew and I decided to leave it. Jacob Junior was, however, keen to write a response to the piece for the magazine. He was a scrupulous historian himself and was respected for his research.”

“Was that response ever published?”

“No, I think not. I once saw a draft he had written. It was measured and professional, and would have eliminated these speculations immediately, but I think he felt that the matter would die a natural death anyway.”

“Have you any idea what this man’s motive was for writing the article?”

“Envy, perhaps. I have come across such things in the past. My father was very wealthy by Icelandic standards, so my family was rather in the limelight. There were all sorts of stories going around about us, then as now. Most are fabrications, and the rest half-truths. It has actually not affected me much, as I have lived
abroad. There is a Chinese saying that you can measure the height of a tower from the shadow it casts, and the value of great men from the slander they encounter.” Matthías smiled.

Klemenz entered the parlor. “Excuse me, sir, your supper is ready. Perhaps you would care to invite your visitor to join you?”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Matthías replied and turned to Hrefna. “May I offer you supper, my dear?”

Hrefna was of two minds about the offer; her business here was not finished, yet she was actually quite hungry. Her stomach won out in the end. “Yes, please,” she replied.

“Excellent,” Matthías said and turned to Klemenz. “What is on offer this evening?”

“The first course is quiche lorraine and the main course is filet mignon chateaubriand.”

“How does that sound?” Matthías turned to Hrefna.

“That sounds good.”

“Do you know the story of Chateaubriand?”

“No.”

“He was a nineteenth-century French writer and politician. It was, in fact, his chef, Montmireil, who first cut filet mignon in this manner, but the honor was attributed to his master.”

“How fascinating.”

Matthías turned to Klemenz. “We shall have white wine with the first course, a Sauternes Bordeaux.” He looked back at Hrefna. “It is slightly sweet. Are you familiar with it?”

“No,” she replied, and was about to add that since she was working, she would just have water, but sensed it would be in bad taste. A little wouldn’t hurt, she decided.

“We shall stick with the Bordeaux region and have a Margaux red wine with the main course,” he told Klemenz.

“Excellent, sir. Would it suit you to take a seat right away?”

“Yes, please.”

Matthías went over to the record player and took an LP record from a shelf.

“I should like to listen to the Elgar Cello Concerto while we dine. Jacqueline du Pré is the soloist with the London Symphony Orchestra, conducted by Sir John Barbirolli.”

He took the vinyl disk gently from its sleeve and blew some grains of dust from it before placing it on the turntable. Setting the music to play at low volume, he led Hrefna into the dining room next to the parlor. The table had been set for two, one at each end.

“This is not the sort of tableware I would have chosen, but it comes with the apartment,” Matthías said apologetically, as he invited Hrefna to take a seat.

Hrefna didn’t see anything wrong with the setting in front of her. Klemenz brought in a silver bucket with an open wine bottle on ice, and put it in the center of the table. He took the bottle and wiped it before half-filling Hrefna’s glass, and then did the same for Matthías, before returning the bottle to the bucket and disappearing into the kitchen.

Matthías took his glass and carefully examined the wine.

“You may rest assured that the wine is satisfactory. Klemenz tastes it himself before serving it. He has a better palate than I myself do. Prosit!” He raised his glass.

“Cheers,” Hrefna said, raising her glass and sipping the wine. She was not very familiar with white wine, apart from the cheapest sort in the state wine store, but this tasted very good.

Klemenz returned, bearing two plates on his left arm, and placed a quiche in front of Hrefna.

“This is my favorite dish,” Matthías said. “Klemenz makes a particularly fine quiche.”

They ate in silence. The music wafted in from the parlor and it somehow seemed inappropriate to talk over it. Although Hrefna had a glass of water next to her wine, she had emptied the wine glass before she realized it, and Klemenz had poured her some more.

“May I offer you some more quiche?” he asked when she had emptied her plate.

“No, thank you, but it was very good.”

“Thank you. The main course will be ready shortly.”

He brought larger wine glasses, placing them next to the ones that were already there, and filled them with red wine from a carafe before disappearing again.

“Cheers once more,” Matthías said, raising his glass.

“Here’s to the chef,” Hrefna replied.

“Yes, to the chef. He will now be frying the filet mignon, which he only does when he is ready to serve. If I know him correctly, he will have spent all last week harassing the city’s butchers to find the right ingredients for this course.”

“You are lucky to have such service.”

“Yes, Klemenz has been singularly faithful to me. He could be a head chef in any restaurant anywhere, but he prefers to cook just for me as he knows that I appreciate fine things. That means he can spend days on end preparing just a single meal.”

Matthías got up, and returned to the parlor, then reemerged a moment later at the table.

“Now you will hear a cello concerto by Haydn. The soloist is still du Pré,” he said, after he had taken his seat again.

The filet steak that Klemenz served her could have been eaten with a spoon, it was so tender. She’d never tasted meat like this before. The only beef she had ever come across was the extremely chewy cut used in Icelandic goulash.

The accompaniment and the sauce were also quite different from what she was used to; this was a true gourmet meal.

Klemenz topped up the red-wine glasses and asked whether he could offer them a second helping of the main course. Matthías declined, and Hrefna followed his lead; she would, actually, have been able to eat far more of this delicacy, but sensed it would not be polite. And besides, she was not exactly hungry anymore.

After the meal Klemenz served them coffee in the parlor.

“I was examining Jacob Junior’s accounts today,” Hrefna began. “It seemed to me that he was up to his neck in debt.”

“Is that so? Well, it does not surprise me.”

“Do you know where he got these loans from? You can’t see it in his papers.”

“No, but the lender will surely reveal himself when the estate is settled. I assume that Jacob Junior’s purchase of the house will be canceled now that he has passed away, so the settlement needs to be hastened.”

“What will happen to the house?”

“It will be sold, as originally intended.”

“The history of the Kieler family in Birkihlíd will finally come to an end,” she remarked, thoughtfully.

“Yes,” Matthías replied, a brief smile crossing his lips. “One chapter in the history of this house has come to an end, but it will remain and acquire a new role; and the history of the Kieler family has also come to an end, in the sense that the name will die out here in Iceland. But all this is nothing but vanity.”

“What will you do?”

“I shall go back home to Austria and hope to end my days peacefully there. I have accumulated a reasonable retirement fund, and my share from the proceeds of the house will augment
that. I am assuming that Klemenz will continue to work for me, so I am not worried.”

Hrefna could think of no more questions for her host, so she began to gather her things.

“I am going to play through my ‘Berceuse’ arrangement again,” he commented. “You may listen if you would like to.”