Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

Thóra blushed, but pretended not to understand. “Come on, let’s get a move on. As you said, I have to make the most of the time I’ve got.” Eiríkur stared at the tarot cards he’d laid out. King of Pentacles—good. Death—bad. He ran his index finger along the edge of the card showing Death and let his mind wander. Exactly the same cards had turned up twice, and although he was no expert in the tarot, he knew that the probability of this was extremely slight. What were the cards telling him? He wondered whether to find someone who knew more about the tarot, but decided that was too much trouble. He would have to go into the hotel and leave the cozy staff cottage, and he simply couldn’t be bothered. There was no landline, and he knew what the mobile reception here was like. Besides, Eiríkur never used a mobile. As an aura reader, he knew that the waves they emitted could have a bad effect, to put it mildly. He would rather walk to the nearest landline than babble into a mobile, knowing that his aura grew dimmer with every word. No, he must surely be able to interpret this himself. He lowered his forehead onto his palm and stared at the cards, concentrating. King of Pentacles. Death.

Eiríkur sat up. Might Death not represent his own death at all, or even that of someone close to him, but simply the death of the architect? He nodded to himself. Of course. It foretold that her death would have a great impact on his life. That was why the card appeared repeatedly. But what about the King of Pentacles? Eiríkur had a little knowledge of the tarot and seemed to recall that the King of Pentacles signified money. How was that connected? Could he be about to grow wealthy by her death? He had warned her. Her aura had been black as a thundercloud, which never boded well. Might he be able to somehow use this prophecy to advertise his service? Damn shame he hadn’t told anyone but her about it beforehand. Now he was the only one left to tell the tale and people would think he was making it up.

Eiríkur groaned as he tried to suppress the urge for a cigarette. Jónas frowned upon smoking among his staff and Eiríkur couldn’t stand having to sneak around like a teenager. He was too old for that. Huddling up behind a wall, hoping no one would see. It was pathetic. Perhaps it made sense to ban the nutritionist and personal trainer from smoking, but what guest in their right mind would complain about an aura reader lighting up a cigarette? None, of course. Eiríkur gave a start—his reflections on smoking had stirred something in the back of his mind. What was it that Vigdís had said? The body had been found on Friday, and no one had seen Birna since Thursday evening—the evening he’d slipped out of the séance to have a sneaky cigarette. Suddenly he understood what he hadn’t realized at the time—what that person had been up to. Of course—he had seen the murderer. And they say no good can come of smoking, he thought smugly to himself.

Eiríkur gathered up the cards and smiled. Now he realized how the King of Pentacles was connected with the murder, as represented by Death. The money was for him, because where there was muck, there was brass, as the proverb went. The amount would need to be negotiated—surely confidentiality was priceless? But he was a fair man, and was not overly concerned about the small print. He just needed to nip over to the hotel to use the telephone, and he also had a few choice words to say to his employer, Jónas. It would be fun to talk to him without having to make nice to keep his job. Long-awaited financial independence was in sight, and there was no need to suck up to the boss anymore.

He put the cards back in the pack, stood up and went outside. There was no time to lose; he needed to begin negotiations. He was in such a hurry that for once he didn’t stop to admire himself in the little mirror hanging beside the coat rack by the door. If he had, he would have seen that his aura was heavy and dark. Almost black.

Thóra sighed. “So everyone’s out? ”

Vigdís regarded her dispassionately. “Well, I wouldn’t say that, but most people do some sightseeing or other activity while they’re here. We have very few guests who check in and then just hang around in their rooms waiting to meet you.”

Matthew flashed a sweet smile at Vigdís, not having understood a word she said. “Lovely day,” he interjected in English.

“Very nice,” agreed Vigdís. “That may be why there are so few people inside.” She turned back to Thóra. “I’m not being rude, but I just can’t help you. People start getting back around dinnertime. New guests come earlier to check in, of course, but I don’t think anyone has arrived yet today.”

“Damn,” said Thóra. “And there are no free staff who wouldn’t mind a quick chat?”

Vigdís shook her head. “There aren’t many staff in, and they’re all very busy. It calms down for them after dinner.” She eyed them suspiciously. “What are you after, anyway?”

“Nothing special,” Thóra said. “We just wanted to find out a bit more about Birna—what she did, who she hung out with. Someone may have information that explains her death.”

“Her murder, you mean,” Vigdís corrected her. “If you’re completely stuck, you could always go up to the church. I know Birna went there sometimes, because I lent her the key.”

“Church?” asked Thóra. “What church?”

“The little church near here. It isn’t part of this estate, actually, but we keep the keys. Coaches come there sightseeing sometimes. Foreigners think it’s charming.” Vigdís reached under the reception desk and handed over an old key. “You have to shove the door a bit when you turn the key.”

Matthew took the key and Vigdís gave them directions. “Although the church dates from 1864, it still serves the local farms, so don’t make a mess.” Vigdís yawned. “I remember Birna was terribly excited about the cemetery. I think she was looking for a gravestone.”

He’d turned the room upside down. He’d torn everything apart but found nothing. What had the stupid woman done with it? He sighed, frustrated, but made sure to keep very quiet. If he could just find it, this whole sorry story would finally end. He put an ear to the door and listened. All seemed to be quiet out in the corridor. He turned back to the room. Should he go on searching, or accept that it wasn’t here? Further investigation seemed futile. He went to the door leading into the garden and peeked cautiously through the curtains. No one about. He carefully opened the door and crept outside into the fresh air. Then he pushed the door to and left, slipping off his gloves and putting them in his pocket. So where was it?

The church was on an area of grass not far from the beach. It stood at the top of a little hill; tiny, built from jet-black timber, it reminded Thóra of the churches she had drawn at primary school—little buildings with a small tower and a cross on the top. Hers had been much more cheerfully colored, in fact, but she had to admit that black suited this church. The white-painted windows and door set it off nicely, and overall it looked as though the local people had built as impressive a church as their finances allowed. Thóra couldn’t recall ever having seen a church this color before, and wondered whether it was an attempt to replicate the building’s original appearance. Scant though her knowledge of architectural history was, she thought the walls had been tarred, which was presumably done instead of painting in the old days. After deciding to herself that this was the explanation, she fed it to Matthew as cold, hard fact. He swallowed it.

The broad stone wall enclosing the churchyard was almost entirely covered with grass and moss, revealing only the occasional flash of gray. Directly in front of the church door was a high iron gate leading into the churchyard. They opened the gate, which gave a mighty creak, and walked through.