Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

This seemed a strange kind of logic to Thóra. She made herself more comfortable on the sofa. “Tell me, do you know anything about your great-uncle Bjarni, who originally lived at Kirkjustétt?”

“He died young from TB,” said Börkur quickly, clearly pleased at getting his answer in first. “He lost his wife young too, so the brothers’ lives followed a similar pattern. They were both young widowers, each with a daughter.”

“She died too,” Thóra said. “I mean his daughter, Gudný. TB, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Elín firmly. Judging from her expression, she didn’t like losing control of the conversation to her brother. “They both fell ill and refused to go to Reykjavík and stay in a sanatarium, as they used to call TB clinics in those days. I don’t know if it would have changed anything. I know precious little about tuberculosis—nothing, really—but I know that Grandfather looked after them as best he could; he was a doctor. That wasn’t enough, unfortunately.”

Thóra leaned forward. “I have to ask you something now, and I’m aware you might find it uncomfortable.” She paused. The brother and sister sat and waited, as if paralyzed. “I’ve heard stories about incest on the farm. They say Bjarni abused his daughter. Could that be right?”

“No!” snapped Elín. “That’s rubbish. It just goes to show that back then people had nothing better to do than invent filthy stories about respectable folk who had died and couldn’t defend themselves against gossip.” She fell silent, her face bright red. It clearly wasn’t the first time she’d heard this.

“How can you be sure?” Thóra asked cautiously. “Your mother might not have known about it because she was so young, and—as you said yourself—you didn’t know your grandfather, so you can’t have heard his side of the story.”

Elín glared wrathfully at Thóra. “I’ve heard my mother deny it so passionately that for me there’s not a shred of doubt. It’s pure fabrication.” She frowned. “To tell the truth, I don’t see any point continuing this conversation. If you don’t have any more intelligent questions, I think we ought to call it a day.”

“I’m sorry,” Thóra said humbly. “Consider the subject closed.” In desperation she tried to broach another subject to avoid being thrown out. “Do you happen to know why your grandfather and his brother quarreled?” she asked hurriedly. “I understand they didn’t speak for years.”

Elín was still too angry to answer, so Börkur replied. “It was more to do with their wives. The women fell out, and their husbands followed suit. I don’t think anyone knows exactly what the dispute was between Grandmother and her sister-in-law, but it was serious enough that the brothers were never the same with each other, even when both women were dead. Stubbornness and grudges run in the family.”

Elín interrupted. “Mother told me that our grandmother Kristrún lost a baby, and in her confusion she blamed her sister-in-law for killing it. The accusation was completely unfounded; the child had been ill, but Grandmother’s mental state was starting to deteriorate at the time. Bjarni was insulted by her accusations against his wife and he and Grandfather had a furious argument, but they had made up by the time Bjarni died—I understand Grandfather treated him well, looked after him during his illness when no one else would go near him for fear of infection.”

Thóra nodded. “Do you know if there was ever a fire at either of the farms?” she asked, visualizing the drawing of the burning house she’d seen on the child’s desk at Kreppa.

“A fire?” they said in unison.

Elín shook her head. “No, I’ve never heard that. Both farmhouses are in their original state.”

Thóra nodded again. “And do you recognize the name Kristín in connection with the farms?”

“Not that I can recall,” said Börkur, seeming unfazed by her change of topic. “There must have been a few Kristíns in the area, but I don’t remember having heard of any.” Elín shook her head. Both seemed sincere.

Thóra carefully formulated her next question, which she expected to be her last. “Do you know whether either or both of the brothers were sympathetic to the nationalists during the war?”

“Nationalists?” Börkur echoed, reddening. “You mean Nazis?”

“Yes,” said Thóra.

“This is quite enough,” Elín said, slamming her hands on the arms of her chair and standing up. “I refuse to waste any more time on this nonsense.”

Thóra also stood up. “One final question, on a different subject. You have presumably heard about the woman who was murdered last week. Now another murder has been committed, in all probability last night. Did you happen to be around here on the evenings in question?”

In anger, the brother and sister looked uncannily alike. The expression of fury that appeared almost simultaneously on their faces made them suddenly almost identical. “The only polite answer I can think of to your unpleasant insinuation is no—neither of us is in any way connected with these murders. You should leave now,” spat Elín. “Ghosts, incest, Nazis, and now murder. I won’t put up with this crap any longer.”

Matthew was leaning casually against a lamppost outside, but stood up straight when Thóra appeared. The door slammed loudly behind her as soon as she stepped on to the porch, and he smiled mischievously. “Did you ask about the young man with the burns?” he said.

“No,” said Thóra grumpily. “I didn’t get that far.”

Matthew smiled even more broadly. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Come on, I need to show you something.”

What’s the big deal?” asked Thóra, turning away from the little shop window. She didn’t understand Matthew’s glee as he’d shown her the bric-a-brac crowding the dusty white shelves in the window. “It’s just a bunch of old crockery, so what?”

“Look,” he said, rather disappointed, and pointed at a small object sitting between a ceramic puffin and a vase with a faded rose on it.

Peering through the glass, Thóra saw a silver shield engraved with a helmet and two swords. Because it lay flat on the shelf, she had to stand on tiptoe to see it properly. “What is it?” she asked.

“It’s a German medal from World War Two,” said Matthew smugly.

“So?” she replied. “Do you want to buy it?”

He laughed. “No, of course not,” he said as he led her toward the entrance. “But I caught a glimpse of the owner and he looked even older than the stuff he’s selling. I thought we might go inside and ask him about Nazis on Snæfellsnes. He’s bound to know a thing or two. That medal will make a good icebreaker.”

“Ah,” said Thóra. “Now I get it.”

As they entered the shop, the bell on the door chimed loudly. Thóra couldn’t see a need for it, because the shop was so tiny that the shop-keeper couldn’t fail to notice if anyone wandered in. Every square inch was loaded with knickknacks, making the space look even smaller than it was. The crammed shelves on all four walls reached almost to the ceiling. A ladder was propped up against one wall. Everything was lightly coated in dust, which suggested trade was not brisk. At the back of the room, a white-haired old man stood behind an old-fashioned cash register, which Thóra doubted would meet the tax authorities’ exacting standards. After browsing for a while, they squeezed their way toward the counter, navigating the various small items of furniture that littered the tiny floor space.

“Good afternoon.” Thóra smiled at the man when they eventually reached the counter without breaking anything.

“Afternoon,” the man said calmly, not smiling back. “What can I do for you?”