My Soul to Take

CHAPTER 13

Sitting behind the reception desk, Vigdís watched Thóra and Matthew heading for Jónas’s office. She wondered whether to tell them Jónas was out, but decided not to. They’d find out soon enough. She turned back to the online news site she was reading. You couldn’t really describe the articles she liked to read as “news,” but Vigdís had long ago lost interest in the Middle East, politics, the economy, and all the other stuff journalists were constantly going on about. That kind of news went around in never-ending circles, but the stories Vigdís read were easy to follow and had a beginning, a middle, and an ending. It was always obvious who were the good guys and the bad guys, and they were always illustrated with glamorous photographs. This was celebrity gossip—stories of the rich and famous. She scrolled down excitedly—she now had irrefutable proof that both Nicole Ritchie and Keira Knightley were anorexic. She scrutinized a close-up of the latter’s ribs, protruding through a slash in the side of her dress. Vigdís shook her head sadly.

“Excuse me,” a voice said, momentarily distracting her from her concern for the young actress’s well-being. Vigdís looked up. “Do you know where Jónas is?” asked Thóra.

Vigdís closed the window on her computer so that the reservations screen showed. “Jónas popped down to Reykjavík. He’ll be back this afternoon.” She smiled professionally. “Can I help?”

Thóra looked at Matthew, then back at Vigdís. “We were just wondering which guests were in. We’d like to meet anyone who may have known Birna. The canoeist, for example.”

“Thröstur Laufeyjarson?” said Vigdís, who was good with names— a talent that had proved useful in her job; in fact, it was one of the main reasons Jónas employed her. Vigdís also had such a command of the computer system that he completely ignored any other skills she might have.

“Yes, that’s him,” Thóra replied. “Is he in?”

“No, he’s always out training at the crack of dawn. Actually, I saw his canoe on the beach yesterday evening. Maybe he’s out in it. If it isn’t at the little jetty down below, then he’ll be at sea. He always leaves it there.”

Thóra interpreted this into German for Matthew and they decided to go down to the shore in the hope of seeing Thröstur. Before they left, Thóra turned back to Vigdís. “What about Magnús Baldvinsson? Is he in?”

Vigdís shrugged. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him today. He’s probably still sleeping or on one of his walks. I take extended breaks during the quiet periods of the day, which includes both the time between breakfast and lunch and then the early afternoon, so he could well have slipped by me. If he’s not in his room then he could be wandering around outside. Generally he doesn’t go far, just short excursions, never for more than an hour. He’s pretty old.”

“Is he a widower?” asked Thóra. “Jónas said he was here on his own.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Vigdís replied. “His wife has phoned him here several times.”

“Strange that she isn’t with him.”

“Maybe she’s ill,” suggested Vigdís. “Housebound or something.”

“Perhaps we’ll have a look for him later,” said Thóra.

Vigdís nodded emphatically. “Yes, you really should.”

“Should we?” said Thóra. “Why?”

“Well, because he knew Birna,” Vigdís answered. She paused, then added, “At least, I think he did. He made a point of asking after her when he checked in.”

“Really?” Thóra was surprised. Jónas had not mentioned any connection between Magnús and Birna. “Do you know how they knew each other?”

Vigdís shook her head. “No idea. I don’t really know any more than that. He asked after her and I answered his question. I never saw them together. He didn’t ask where he could find her, and she never mentioned him.”

Thröstur Laufeyjarson laid the paddle across his canoe and looked at the stopwatch on his wrist. In spite of all his training, he seemed to be doing worse than before. The canoe rocked gently in the sea as he pondered how to improve his training schedule, which seemed to be making no difference. He took a deep breath and exhaled with a groan. The problem was obvious, really: it must be because he wasn’t working out enough. The small gym at the hotel was not well equipped, making it difficult to maintain a reasonable muscle mass, let alone increase it. Thröstur rotated his shoulders three times to release the tension and felt a drop of sweat drip down his spine inside his wet suit. The prospect of a hot shower, perhaps followed by a massage, incited him to turn the canoe slowly landward. That was enough for the time being. He would go out again after lunch, and paddle harder.

When the prow of the boat was pointing toward the hotel, he hesitated, eased his tight grip on the paddle, and squinted at the shoreline. Who were those people on the beach? It looked like they were waving at him. He groaned. Was there anything more boring than tourists and their stupid questions? “Do you hunt whales in that thing?” “Have you ever paddled to Greenland?” He considered his options. Should he resign himself to meeting these idiots or paddle away and go ashore elsewhere? That way, he would be left in peace, but he’d end up much farther from the hotel. Licking his dry lips, he tasted the tang of salt. The people were waving even harder now, and Thröstur thought he recognized the woman as a recent arrival at the hotel. It looked like that woman who was asking about the architect when he walked through reception the day before. He had no intention of talking to her. Who knew what she might ask? Calmly, he turned the canoe back around. Before setting off, he looked instinctively at the paddle, half expecting still to see blood on it. Of course it was gone. He had washed it off himself, and whatever he did, he was always thorough. He paddled away.

“What’s going on? ” shouted Thóra when the canoe started moving away from them. She had been waving madly to attract the canoeist’s attention, but now lowered her arms. “He definitely saw us. What’s wrong with him?”

Matthew put one hand to his forehead as he watched the man paddle determinedly westward, away from the beach. “Yes, he definitely saw us. Either he’s busy or he’s avoiding us.” The boat moved out of sight behind some rocks. “I think he didn’t want to talk to us. Maybe he’s shy.”

“Shouldn’t we wait here a while?” asked Thóra, who was eager to meet the unfriendly canoeist as soon as possible. Whatever might be said of Jónas, he was pretty canny, and he’d been suspicious of Thröstur. “I think it’s obvious that he’s hiding something, otherwise he’d talk to us.”

“Not necessarily,” argued Matthew. “Perhaps he’s just tired and can’t be bothered to talk. He doesn’t know what we want to ask him. Why don’t we just go back inside? We’re bound to run into him later. Come on, we can talk to that old Magnús guy instead.”

Thóra had to admit that this was a much more sensible plan than standing on the beach on the off chance Thröstur might return, so they went back inside, where Vigdís told them that she still hadn’t seen Magnús that morning, so he was probably still in his room. They went to the top floor.

“Leave the talking to me,” Thóra whispered as she knocked firmly on the door. They heard movement inside. “He’s so old that I’m not sure he speaks any language except Icelandic, and possibly Danish.”

A crack appeared in the door and Baldvinsson peered out. “Hello, Mr. Baldvinsson. My name’s Thóra. This is Matthew. Could we have a few words with you?”

“Why?” he growled. “Who are you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m a lawyer working for Jónas, the owner of this hotel, and this is my assistant.” Thóra suppressed the urge to stick her foot in the door and force it open. “This won’t take a moment. I’m hoping you can help us.”

The gap in the door narrowed slightly. Then Magnús opened it all the way. “Please, come in.”

“Thank you,” said Thóra as she took a seat. “We promise not to keep you for long.”

Magnús glared at her. “I’m not busy, so you needn’t worry about that. I’ve learned from experience that time is only precious when you’re young. You’ll find that out one day.”

“I’m not sure I agree,” said Thóra politely. “But we’d like to talk to you about Birna, the architect who was found dead on the beach.” She observed Magnús’s reactions closely.

“Yes, I heard about that. Terrible business,” he said, displaying little emotion. “I heard they think it was murder, which makes it sadder still.”

“That’s what they’re saying,” she agreed, smiling at him. “We’re trying to find out who might conceivably have wanted her dead.”

“And you include me in that category?” Magnús asked dryly.

“No, not at all,” Thóra replied hastily. “We understand that you knew her and we were hoping you might know something useful.”

“Knew her?” he snapped, startled and unable to conceal his irritation. “Who said I knew her? That’s simply not true.”

“ ‘Knew’ may be an overstatement,” she said. “I heard you were asking after her at reception, so I just assumed you must have been acquainted with her.”

The old man hesitated. “I don’t remember that, but my memory’s not so good these days. If I did inquire about her, I must have seen her name somewhere, maybe on a list on the desk. My wife and I are looking for an architect, and her name may well have rung a bell. I seem to recall something of the sort, but I can’t be sure. Are you sure that the receptionist meant me?”

Thóra could tell he was lying. She wondered how old he actually was—he didn’t look a day younger than eighty. Why would a couple in their eighties need an architect? Her parents had just turned sixty and they balked at the idea of buying a new car, let alone major construction work. “Are you having a house built?” she asked.

“What? Oh, no,” Magnús said slowly. “We have an old summer house by Lake Thingvallavatn that we want to convert for year-round habitation. We need to consult an architect about the plans.” His face was blank and guileless. “It’s been impossible to find one. The economy’s booming at the moment and despite signs on the horizon, the construction industry shows no sign of slowing down.”

“Surely you didn’t come here in the hope of finding an architect?” she asked, determined not to let the old man off the hook so easily.

Magnús glowered at her. “No, of course I didn’t. The reason I came here is none of your business, and I would prefer to end this conversation here and now.” He stopped, waiting for them to react. They both sat in silence, Matthew because he couldn’t understand a word and Thóra because she didn’t want to anger him further. When it became obvious that they didn’t intend to say anything, the old man resumed talking. He seemed less angry now. “I suppose I can tell you why I’m here. Maybe then you’ll leave me in peace. You seem to think I have something to hide, but nothing could be further from the truth.”

“No we don’t,” Thóra assured him. “We’re simply trying to get to the bottom of what happened. Nothing else.” She smiled. “Please excuse us if we sounded aggressive or accusatory; that wasn’t our intention.”

“If you say so,” Magnús answered warily. “The fact is, I’ve been ill and I wanted a little rest. Experience has taught me that solitude is the best nourishment for the body, to say nothing of the soul. It’s just not that easy to find these days in all the hustle and bustle of modern life.”

“So why did you choose this hotel? It specializes in homeopathy and spiritualism, and I hope you don’t take it as an insult if I say that neither are likely to appeal to your generation.”

He smiled for the first time since he’d opened the door. “You’re quite right: I don’t believe in that nonsense. I came here because I grew up in this part of the country. I was raised on a farm not far from here. ‘Strong is the bond that draws men back to the soil their fathers ploughed,’ as the poem says.”

Thóra’s eyes widened. “Really? You know the people from the farm?”

Magnús was baffled. “Yes, actually, I did. Does that matter?”

“Probably not. I just know that Birna was very interested in the history of the farm, and I have a hunch that it’s somehow connected with her death, but I have nothing to back it up.”

Magnús’s face had gone pale. “Isn’t that a bit of a long shot?” His voice quavered slightly.

Studiedly casual, Thóra said, “Yes, I’m sure it is. But it’s great that you’re familiar with this place. Maybe you could tell us a little about the local history, or any ghost stories you might know?”

Magnús seemed lost for words. He cleared his throat and appeared to recover his composure. “I don’t believe in ghosts, and haven’t listened to that kind of talk since I was a child. Those stories have been going around here for a long time, but you’ll have to ask someone else.” Magnús had slumped a little in his chair, but he straightened up before continuing. “I’m no historian, and at the time I didn’t have enough interest in my family tree to bother digging up details of what went on here in the old days, so I won’t be much use to you.”

“But you knew the farmers who lived here, didn’t you? That man … what was his name again … ?” Thóra tried to remember what had been written on the backs of the photographs. “Björn something?”

Magnús sat frozen, as if rooted to his seat. “Bjarni, Bjarni Thórólfsson, from Kirkjustétt.”

“That’s right!” exclaimed Thóra. “Didn’t his brother live on the farm next door?”

“Yes, Grímur from Kreppa was Bjarni’s brother.” Magnús grimaced. “Grímur qualified as a doctor. He was older than Bjarni. A terrible tragedy, the whole business with those two. But fate and fortune do not always go hand in hand, as the sagas say.”

“Really?” Thóra was curious. She’d had a bad feeling about the photographs at the time, but she’d assumed that was because everyone in them had died and been forgotten. It had made her uncomfortable to have evidence in black-and-white of how quickly lives pass into oblivion, but perhaps something else lay behind her uneasy feeling. “How come?”

Magnús groaned. “Their father was one of the main operators of fishing schooners out here on the peninsula. He also ran two fishing stations with rowing boats and became very wealthy. Maybe nothing like cod traders or bankers these days, but by the standards of the time he was very well-off. I can’t remember how many schooners he owned, but it was quite a few. He was based in Stykkishólmur.”

“Did the brothers run the business with him?” asked Thóra.

“No,” replied the old man. “Before they came of age, he’d got rid of the fishing operation and invested the money in land. He bought a large proportion of the farming land on the southern side of the peninsula. It was a very smart move, because the fisheries took a dive soon afterward. The trawlers took over and most, if not all, of the old schooner companies went bankrupt.”

“So did he know that was about to happen?”

“No, he wasn’t psychic, if that’s what you mean. He just didn’t want his sons to go to sea. He’d seen too many young men drowned or injured to want his sons to go the same way. He sent them to Reykjavík to be educated when they were still young. Grímur was a brilliant scholar and became a doctor, as I said, but Bjarni was less bookish. He was always good fun, sociable, a bit of a practical joker. Nowhere near as serious as his elder brother. It would be hard to find two more different brothers. You should bear in mind that this isn’t a firsthand account; I heard it from my father, but he was a truthful man and not given to embellishing his stories.”

“So was Grímur the local doctor here?” Thóra asked.

“Yes, he moved back and had the farm called Kreppa built. He did some farming alongside his medical duties, because he couldn’t earn a living as a doctor here. He tried to make farming his main occupation, but he wasn’t very successful. When Bjarni devoted himself to farming, on the other hand, he flourished. Later he made a lot of money from investments.”

“So where’s the tragedy?” pressed Thóra. It all sounded pretty positive so far.

“Tragedy, ah, yes,” Magnús said gravely. “Love was to blame, as is often the case. Bjarni was married very young, to an exceptionally fine woman. Her name was Adalheidur.” The old man’s expression was almost wistful. “I was just a lad, but I’ll never forget her. She stood out from everyone around her. She was the most beautiful woman in the area, and friendly too. She worked hard. Bjarni met her in Reykjavík, and when they moved here, she knew absolutely nothing about farming. She always dressed as if she were on her way to a party, you know the type. Understandably, the locals didn’t have much faith in her as a farmer’s wife, but she proved them wrong. Made an effort to learn how it all worked. It took a lot of grit and hard work, but she soon silenced her detractors, I can tell you.

“Kristrún, Grímur’s wife, was completely different. She was from these parts, hardworking like Adalheidur but not in the same way. She slogged away very reliably, but Adalheidur always had a smile on her face and laughed if anything went wrong. They were good matches for their husbands, that’s for sure. Bjarni was very jolly, but Grímur always had a face like thunder.”

“Did Adalheidur die young?” asked Thóra suddenly, remembering the woman’s disappearance from the photographs.

“Yes.” Magnús sighed. “They had a child, a little girl called Gudný. A beautiful girl, the spitting image of her mother. Not long before, Grímur and his wife had had a daughter too. Her name was Edda, but she died around the time Gudný was born and that caused friction between the two women. Grímur’s wife accused Adalheidur of poisoning her daughter, which was preposterous, but the woman was beside herself with grief and probably not in her right mind when she said it.

The brothers’ friendship cooled, so much so that they weren’t on speaking terms any longer by the time disaster struck.”

“Disaster?” echoed Thóra.

“Yes, Adalheidur died of blood poisoning and they say Grímur’s wife went crazy. Nobody saw her for years, so the two brothers were left behind: one a young widower with a baby daughter, and the other with a mentally ill wife but no children. Their pride prevented them from rebuilding their friendship, so each of them battled his private demons alone. Then Grímur and Kristrún had another daughter much later. Her name was Málfrídur; she was born just before the war. The wife supposedly died in childbirth, although there was a rumor that she committed suicide and Grímur fiddled the death certificate. He wrote it himself. But I don’t think there are any grounds for believing that: by that time Kristrún was getting on a bit, and childbirth is more difficult for a woman as she gets older, as you know.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Thóra. “And were the brothers never reconciled?”

“No, but there was a little contact between the two households when Bjarni fell ill.”

“Wasn’t it tuberculosis?” Thóra asked, remembering what young Sóldís had told her.

“Yes,” replied Magnús. “He shut himself away and refused to go to a sanatarium in Reykjavík. He died a few years later.” He took a deep breath. “But not before he’d infected Gudný, his daughter, who was taking care of him. It wasn’t long before she went too. His brother kept the farm going while they were ill, but it would have turned out differently if Bjarni had just gone to Reykjavík to be looked after.” Magnús shook his gray head sorrowfully. “Shortly after that, Grímur moved to Reykjavík with his daughter, Málfrídur. He inherited his brother’s whole estate, so he didn’t need to sell the farms or other property here on the peninsula. He didn’t live long either, though—in fact, he died about ten years after they moved away. He had serious mental problems, a bit like his wife.”

“And what about Kristín?” asked Thóra. “Who was she?” Magnús stiffened. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again. “Was there anyone by the name of Kristín at either of the farms?”

Magnús’s face was stony. “No. There was no Kristín here.” He coughed. “I think that will do.”

“One last thing—do you know anyone who could have been connected with a Nazi organization in this area?” she asked quickly, before he could show them the door.

“I have nothing more to say,” said Magnús, standing up. He swayed a little and Thóra feared for a moment that he might faint, but he regained his balance and gestured at the door. “Goodbye.”

Thóra saw that it was futile to grill the man any further. But what did Nazis have to do with the fate of the farm? Or Kristín? And who was she, anyway?