House of Evidence (31 page)

I
t was past midnight when Jóhann arrived at Borgartún in his Cortina; Hrefna was waiting in the lobby and quickly got into the car. She had brought two large flashlights with her.

On the way to Birkihlíd, she recounted what Pétur had told her that evening. Jóhann listened to her story in silence, and then said, “I checked the fireplace in the basement. There’s definitely no gun there now.”

“Still, I want us to have another look,” Hrefna said.

“Where is all this leading?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m sure that this gun is important. I also want to get an explanation for what Jacob was doing up on the roof by the chimney, assuming, of course, that Egill was right about that.”

It was dark around the house, so they had to use the flashlights to see their way to the door. Once inside, they headed straight down to the basement.

It was just as Jóhann said, the fireplace was empty but for a bit of dirt at the bottom of the hearth.

“Can you take a look up the chimney?” Hrefna asked.

Anticipating a dirty job, Jóhann had brought his tools and a pair of coveralls from the car. He changed into the work clothes
and then lay on his back, squirming his way into the fireplace until he was able to shine his flashlight up the flue.

“Can you see anything?” Hrefna asked.

“There’s some sort of grill shutting it off up here,” Jóhann called. He tried to reach up, but the flue was too narrow for him. “Looks like something’s lying on top of the grill. At any rate, my flashlight doesn’t seem to shine beyond it.”

He wriggled back out again and said, “We’ll have to break up the chimney to get a better look at what’s up there.”

“Let me try,” Hrefna offered.

She was about to clamber straight into the fireplace, but changed her mind, realizing how filthy it was. “Give me your coveralls,” she demanded.

She pulled them on, then rolled up the sleeves, and crawled into the hearth. She was able to squeeze her head and one shoulder up into the flue.

“Can you reach it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice strangely distorted inside the chimney. “I can get my fingers through. There’s something lying on top of the grill.”

All of a sudden there was a deafening explosion. Hrefna shot from the fireplace and rolled out onto the floor, where she lay curled up, her hands covering her ears.

Jóhann was badly shaken as well. “Are you okay?” he asked, kneeling beside her.

“Shit, that was loud,” Hrefna said. “It’s still ringing in my ears.”

“What was it?” he asked.

“The bloody gun, of course. I must have hooked my finger around the trigger.”

“In that case, it was lucky you didn’t shoot yourself.”

“Yes.” Hrefna sat up, regarding the fireplace angrily.

“Why don’t we come back tomorrow and knock a hole in the chimney?” Jóhann suggested.

“No, we are going to sort this out right now,” she declared.

“All right then.” Jóhann crawled back into the fireplace and shone the flashlight up the chimney again. This time he took a closer look: The grill, made of steel, seemed comparatively new; it fitted closely inside the flue and was held in place by wedges pushed up between it and the sides of the flue.

“This’ll be easy,” he said, crawling out again. In the laundry room he found an old wooden pole that had been used to stir the washtubs, and he shoved it up the chimney and banged vigorously at the grill several times until the wedges gave way and the whole setup came crashing down onto the bed of the fireplace.

Jóhann jumped out of the way, in case the gun should go off as it fell; fortunately, it didn’t. Once the dust had settled, they both focused their flashlights on what had fallen: there was the steel grill; on top of it, a heavy weight covered by a large tangle of cord; and crowning the whole pile, a gleaming revolver.

Jóhann took a screwdriver out of his bag and poked it into the barrel of the gun so that he could pick it up without handling it. He recognized the Smith & Wesson 38/200 from the picture in his manual; the cord was tied with a rough knot to the lanyard loop on its butt, and when he laid the gun down and unraveled the cord, he found that the other end was attached to the weight.

“Looks like this is the weight that was missing from the box with the distance-measuring equipment,” Jóhann said.

Hrefna considered what they had found, and said, “I have a feeling that Jacob Junior was somehow responsible for his own murder. But I’m not exactly sure how yet.”

“Ah, but I think I know,” Jóhann said. “Father and son both shot themselves. How brilliantly clever!”

“How did they do it?”

“They stood by the fireplace in the parlor, holding the gun. The cord was threaded into the hearth and up the chimney, then over into the top of this flue, where the weight hung, pulling the cord taut. When the shot is fired, they drop the gun and the weight falls down the chimney, pulling the gun into the fireplace, up that flue, then over into this one, where it falls to the bottom here, never to be found again.”

“So Jacob Senior prepared for his suicide by having this basement fireplace bricked up,” Hrefna said. “Then, when the time came, he took the family to the summer house, gave the servants leave, and staged the burglary.”

Jóhann nodded in agreement, adding, “His son must have worked this out when he found the gun. Then he repeated the performance.”

“But why, in heaven’s name?” Hrefna asked.

“Let’s get Halldór here before we begin to puzzle over that one,” Jóhann said. “He’s going to be so relieved that we’re about to solve this case.”

Diary XIX

January 5, 1945. I am feeling well now. I wrote letters to the president and some of my friends, apologizing for my behavior this fall. It was inexplicable, but the doctor says it was linked to my illness. It distresses me for Elizabeth’s sake…

January 10, 1945. I am planning some changes in the basement of the house. The laundry room can be
made much more pleasant. There is no need for the coal storage now that we are connected to the hot water main. The large fireplace is also redundant, and I have decided to have the opening bricked up…

W
hile Jóhann telephoned Halldór, Hrefna went into the kitchen, switched on all the lights, and turned the radiator all the way up; the house was freezing. Then she sat down at the table and started to try to fit the pieces of this extraordinary puzzle together.

Jóhann entered a few moments later and began to make coffee. In the light of the kitchen, Hrefna could see he was pretty dirty and imagined she was probably no cleaner. Her hair felt absolutely stiff with grime.

Halldór arrived impressively fast, and Jóhann took him down to the basement to show him the setup. When they came back up, they had the gun in one plastic bag and the cord and weight in another.

They sat down at the table with Hrefna, and she ran over again what they had discovered. When it came to explaining how it had all worked, Jóhann took over. Halldór listened without saying a word; then there was a long silence while Jóhann fetched a cup of coffee and brought it back to the table. The room was finally beginning to warm up a little.

“Let’s just try and figure this out,” Halldór said. “Why would Jacob Senior take his own life?”

“We know that he showed symptoms of depression in the latter half of his life,” Hrefna replied. “His financial situation was dire, and he was aware that all the investments in preparation for the railroad had become worthless. He had tried to work hard during the war years to pay off some of his debts. He seems to have planned in advance for this possibility, from the time he had the basement fireplace bricked up. He wouldn’t have expected anybody to open it up again later.”

“What was it that pushed him over the edge?” Halldór asked.

“Matthías and Klemenz arriving in the country,” Hrefna surmised. “Jacob was very relieved when he learned that his brother had survived the war, and was looking forward to welcoming him home. Matthías overestimated Jacob’s financial position, and, thinking that Jacob would be able to help them obtain medical treatment, told him of the mutilations they had suffered. Jacob was devastated by the thought that he had, however indirectly, brought this dreadful suffering upon Matthías and Klemenz, and as some kind of recompense, made a legal transfer of half the house to Matthías. He knew that Elizabeth would be well provided for when the life insurance was paid out, but that the conditions of the policy meant it must not appear that he killed himself, which is why he went to such lengths to cover the means of his death up.”

“What about Jacob Junior? Why would he kill himself?” Halldór asked.

“Jacob Junior was probably somewhat mentally unstable, as well,” Hrefna replied. “This compulsion of his regarding the family home was very morbid. He was completely consumed by his father’s memory, and his life revolved around it, so it’s not difficult to imagine his reaction when he found the gun and realized how it had been used. Once all his various attempts to secure
the permanent preservation of the home had failed, and he had burned all his bridges financially, he must have decided to choose the same way out as his father had. He probably felt it appropriate for his own death to become an enigma as well, even a kind of homage to his father. Old Alfred’s will must have been his last hope for rescuing his finances, but Matthías put an end to that when they met last Wednesday evening, the night he put his plan into practice.”

“Tomorrow I’ll check the gun and the weight for fingerprints,” Jóhann said. “We’ll need to try firing the gun to get a bullet for comparison. Then we can reinstall the whole setup and see if it works the way we think it does.”

“How did they manage to set this up?” Halldór asked Jóhann.

“The first thing, I guess, was to go up onto the roof and lower the cord down the chimney into the parlor, tying one end onto something solid up there. Then they went down to the parlor and fixed the lower end in the same way. They then went back up onto the roof, detached that end of the cord, and tied it to the weight, which they lowered a little way down the basement flue, readying it for use whenever they might need it.”

“An automatic gun swallower!” Hrefna said.

Jóhann continued. “We have testimony that Jacob Junior was seen up on the roof a few days ago.”

“But what was the dining room chair for?” Halldór asked.

“I assume that when Jacob Junior’s big moment came, he found it difficult to stand on his own two feet, and got the chair so he could do the deed sitting down,” Jóhann replied.

“Perhaps this shows how different father and son actually were,” Hrefna observed. “Jacob Senior stands and looks straight into the barrel of the gun as he fires. Jacob Junior sits and tries to aim for his heart, but misses; he falls off the chair and tries to
crawl off to call for help. He must have been in a lot of pain, poor man.”

“Well,” Halldór remarked, standing. “All this is very plausible. I hope the forensics will support your conclusions. If it proves true, we need not tell the media; we’re usually spared that when it’s suicide.”

As he reached the door, Halldór turned and asked Hrefna, “Who is this man that told you about the gun?”

“Pétur. He’s the janitor in the house where I live.”

“I see,” Halldór said. Adding as he left, “The Almighty has his own way of answering people’s prayers.”

Hrefna didn’t quite understand what he meant; the state of her appearance was more concerning to her at the moment. She was absolutely covered head to toe in dust and soot. It’ll be great to get into a shower, she thought, but then remembered that her bath was out of commission.

She looked at Jóhann, who was examining the gun. She liked the way he furrowed his brow over it.

“It must have been fully loaded,” he remarked.

She had noticed before that his gaze was gentle and intelligent, but hadn’t thought anything about it at the time. She had been determined to keep her work colleagues at a suitable distance. Now, however, she had left this job, left it for good.

“Would you mind if I took a shower at your place?” she asked. “Mine isn’t working at the moment.”

Diary XIX

April 25, 1945. We had a telegram from the Swedish Red Cross. My brother Matthías is alive.