House of Evidence (7 page)

M
arteinn was in the outer lobby when Erlendur entered with his new companion.

“Good morning to you,” the man in the black overcoat said to Marteinn, taking off his hat and offering him his hand. “My name is Matthías Kieler.”

“Um…Marteinn Karlsson,” the young detective replied, removing the rubber glove he was wearing and taking the man’s outstretched hand.

“You would perhaps be so kind as to hang this up for me,” Matthías said, handing his hat and walking stick to the young man. Marteinn cast a surprised look at Erlendur, who just nodded discreetly.

“Yes, of course,” Marteinn said, taking the hat and walking stick.

Halldór, observing this exchange from the inner lobby, imagined that Matthías was probably around seventy. He was rather portly and sported a substantial double chin. The old gentleman removed his hat, revealing a bald head fringed round with white hair, combed straight back. He was clean-shaven and very neatly dressed.

“It was not necessary for you to come here, sir,” Halldór said, striding toward Matthías and introducing himself.

Matthías’s hand was thick and soft, yet the handshake was firm. “I preferred it. I hope I do not disturb,” he replied solemnly.

“No, not at all,” Halldór reassured him.

Matthías entered the inner lobby and approached the body, now lying next to the doorway to the parlor and covered with a green sheet. He bent down with some difficulty and lifted the sheet from the face; then he stood up again and looked down in silence. No one said a word.

Halldór watched as Matthías’s face turned grave and seemed to age by many years as he gazed at the snow-white, lifeless face of his nephew. It was impossible to work out what he was thinking, but this sight clearly affected him. He finally bent down again, made a small sign of the cross with his hand over the body, and covered it gently with the sheet.

“Have you found any clues yet?” he asked Halldór.

Halldór shook his head. “Not so far.”

“You will keep me informed of the progress of the investigation,” Matthías said.

Halldór was not sure whether this was a question or a statement, and decided not to reply, asking instead, “Do you feel able to answer a few questions at this stage, sir?”

“Yes, but I should prefer to sit down. Perhaps you would have someone bring me a glass of water…with a little lemon.”

“I’ll do that,” Erlendur offered.

“My investigators have not finished checking the main rooms. Is there somewhere upstairs where we can sit down?” Halldór asked.

“Yes, there is a small sitting room,” Matthías replied.

Halldór followed Matthías upstairs to a wide, white-painted corridor that stretched the length of the house. A dormer window at each end made the space reasonably bright. There were three doors on each side of the corridor, and beautifully framed, colored drawings of old steam locomotives adorned the walls between.

At the far end of the corridor on the left-hand side was a small parlor, containing modest but comfortable contemporary furniture and a television set. The room was under the slope of the roof, with a large dormer window. A small writing desk stood by the inner wall, and above it were family photographs in frames of all types and sizes. Above the television hung a sizable painting of a small white house with a red roof in an Icelandic landscape, a lake in the foreground; the painting was neat but rather amateurish.

This room is obviously not part of the museum, thought Halldór. He looked around, but saw nothing to suggest there might be clues here that would be compromised if they sat down.

“Jacob and his mother used this room as a day parlor,” Matthías explained. He noticed Halldór examining the painting and added, “That picture was painted by my niece Kirsten in her youth. It shows a summerhouse at Lake Hafravatn that belonged to the family”

They sat down, and Halldór asked, “Are there any valuables here in the house that thieves might be interested in?”

“No more so than in any other house,” Matthías replied. “The contents of the library are, of course, of value, as is the furniture, but there is no one specific item here that is particularly precious. I understand that the stamp collection has been returned from the exhibition; it might be worth something.”

“There are a few frames of old stamps on the desk downstairs,” Halldór said, taking out his notebook and a pen.

“If they are untouched, then the motive for this atrocious act can hardly have been robbery,” Matthías concluded.

Erlendur arrived with the glass of water, handed it to Matthías, and perched himself on the edge of the little desk.

“This is a quaint home,” Halldór remarked, deciding to change the subject a bit. “Some sort of a museum, isn’t it?”

“Yes, this house and its furnishings have been preserved in the condition they were at the end of the war, and most of the pieces of furniture are quite a bit older; some date from the previous century. My brother’s family attempted to keep it that way.” Matthías took a sip from the water.

“Why did they do that?” Halldór asked.

“My late sister-in-law was very sensitive about my brother Jacob’s memory, and wanted to keep everything as it had been while he lived. Jacob Junior followed suit, continuing the tradition. Perhaps he took it too seriously, though; it became a bit of an obsession with him in later years.”

“Who owns the house?”

Matthías hesitated briefly, then said, “Jacob Junior was considered the owner of the house.”

“Was it an inheritance?” Halldór asked.

“No, he purchased shares belonging to other heirs a few weeks ago.”

“Who were they?”

“Half of the house belonged to me, inherited from my father. Jacob Junior and his sister Kirsten owned a quarter each, inherited from their parents.”

“So Jacob Junior bought your share and that of his sister?”

“Yes, contracts were exchanged, and he paid the deposit.”

“When was this sale arranged?” Halldór asked.

“After Elizabeth died, two years ago,” Matthías replied, using the English pronunciation of his sister-in-law’s name. “At that point Kirsten and I felt it was time to put the house on the market.”

“Was Jacob Junior unhappy about this decision?”

“Understandably he was not keen on it. This was his childhood home and he had been assiduous in maintaining it,” Matthías replied.

“So the decision to sell the house was made two years ago.”

“Yes, discussions regarding the sale began two years ago.”

“Was the delay at that time due to Jacob Junior’s resistance?” Halldór asked.

“You could say that. He was looking for ways to avoid selling the house,” Matthías replied.

“When did he decide to buy the house himself?”

“I arrived here in Iceland from Austria just under two months ago with the intention of finalizing this matter, and I have since pursued that aim in collaboration with Kirsten and our lawyer. Jacob Junior finally realized that neither I nor his sister wished to retain our shares, and as a result began to look at the possibility of acquiring sole ownership of the house.”

“How was the purchase price agreed upon?” Halldór asked.

“The house and its furnishings were assessed by experienced appraisers. He agreed to pay the price thus determined.”

“Do you know how Jacob was planning to finance this purchase?”

“He obtained a mortgage for part of the sum. But it was nothing to do with me. It is my understanding, however, that he had plans in place to raise the rest of the money,” Matthías replied.

“Do you think that he already had this money?”

“I have no idea,” Matthías said wearily. “I only know what Kirsten has told me, that when their mother died and her estate was settled, she was as good as penniless apart from her share of the house. So there was certainly no cash for him to inherit.”

“You are telling me, sir, that half of the house has belonged to you since your father died. Why wasn’t the estate divided earlier?” Halldór asked.

“Alfred, my father, died in the fall of 1930 when I was studying in Berlin, and at that time my brother Jacob Senior agreed to look after my affairs. My brother and I had a close relationship, and he looked after me very well. We agreed that he would carry on living in the house for the foreseeable future, but that I always had a home here.”

Matthías paused briefly, glancing down thoughtfully.

“When Jacob Senior died I had already decided to live abroad and practice my art,” he continued. “I knew how important this home was to Elizabeth, and I promised her that as far as I was concerned she could live in the house for the rest of her life.”

There was another silence, before Matthías added, “I felt this was a good offer and I was not expecting the division of the estate to be delayed after her death.”

Halldór decided to change the subject. “Are there many visitors here?” he asked.

“No, not at all,” Matthías replied. “Jacob Junior has always led a very quiet life. Only his family and a few friends ever visit as far as I know.”

“So Jacob Junior has never married?”

“No. We in the family were expecting him to start looking around after his mother died, but that did not happen.”

“After his mother died. But then he must have been…” Halldór did some mental calculations, “forty-six years old?”

“Yes?” It didn’t sound as if Matthías considered that an odd age to be getting married for the first time.

Halldór turned to a fresh page in his notebook and asked about Jacob Junior’s friends.

“It’s mainly a few men who are fellow members of some Christian society.”

“Was he a great believer?” Halldór asked.

“Nothing more than the usual. But it provided good companionship, and that’s what he sought more than the praying, I think. His childhood friend, Reverend Ingimar, is chairman of the society. You will, of course, speak with him.”

“Who inherits from Jacob Junior?” Halldór asked, returning to the previous line of questioning.

“I am not familiar with the contents of the will,” replied Matthías. “His sister Kirsten would be the principal heir, and I suspect that young Elísabet will inherit something. She is the only descendant of the family. Sveinborg the housekeeper also deserves to be remembered. She has probably not been paid much in recent years, poor woman.”

Halldór leafed back through his notebook and examined the notes he had made.

“You say you live in Austria, sir,” he said.

“Yes,” Matthías replied. “I have been a member of a string quartet in Salzburg for many years. I retired this fall as I have not been very well, and am, consequently, sorting out my financial affairs.”

“Are you planning to live here in Iceland?” Halldór asked.

“No. I rented a furnished apartment for a few weeks while these matters are being settled. Then I shall return home. I have lived in Europe since I was twenty-five years old and the climate here does not suit me.”

Halldór pondered how to proceed. There was an awkward silence, and then Erlendur, still sitting on the little desk, cleared his throat and said, “I happen to be going to Austria this Saturday, on a ski trip with the family.”

“Where will you be going?” Matthías asked.

“A place called Zell am See.”

“A lovely town. Admittedly I have only been there in summer, but I understand that the valley and the lake are just as beautiful in winter. I know nothing about skiing, however. You should try and spend a day in Salzburg; it’s not far from there.”

Jóhann stuck his head in the door. “Halldór,” he said, interrupting them, “it’s Hrefna on the phone for you. She wants to speak to you. It’s important.”

Halldór stood up and joined Jóhann in the corridor, leaving Erlendur alone with Matthías. Halldór had the feeling Erlendur would use this opportunity to find out more about Salzburg and Austria.

Diary II

January 27, 1913. Went by myself to Thorvaldsens Museum, where I remained the best part of the day. In my life’s work I must remember that structures should above all enhance the environment and reflect favorably on the designer. It is not enough to build robustly if the result offends one’s fellow citizens’ sense of beauty. Studying such works of art as are here on display must increase one’s feeling for the form and balance of objects, small and large…

March 5, 1913. Had a letter from Elizabeth to which I shall reply immediately. Mrs. Heger does not approve of this correspondence; she maintains that the English will muddle my German…

March 21, 1913. Had a letter from my father. He says a railway is being laid in connection with the building of the harbor in Reykjavik, to transport stone from Öskjuhlíd down to the shore. I am writing back to ask him for further information on this railway and the locomotives…

April 2, 1913. Went with Helgi to the pawn shop to redeem his best trousers for him. He promises to pay me back when the residence grant is paid out…

May 17, 1913. Elizabeth writes and welcomes my idea of visiting her in my summer vacation…

June 5, 1913. A letter arrives from my father with information on the railway in Reykjavik. There are two locomotives: Pionér, built by Arnold Jung in Germany in 1892; and Minør, built by Jungenthal in Bei Kirchen in Germany the same year. The gauge is 90 cm…