Viktor Ingolfsson - The Flatey Enigma

In addition to Dagbjartur, the district administrative officer in Flatey was working on the case, as well as the magistrate’s representative in the Bardastrond district. This obviously was not the best the police force could offer, but they were to be given a chance before more people were called into the investigation. Whitsunday was looming, and most people were on vacation. More likely than not there was a logical explanation to this whole case, which would soon come to light. Besides, the islanders on Flatey had already surpassed expectations by putting a name of the deceased, even though it wasn’t obvious from the beginning.

Dagbjartur was also unusually fast in getting results from his preliminary enquiries. He had taken a cab straight to Hotel Borg and asked reception to show him the hotel’s reservations book from August to September of last year. The staid, middle-aged male manager at reception took out a book that was marked 1959, placed it in front of the police officer, and opened it to the right place. Dagbjartur started his search from the beginning of August. Conscientiously reading every single name, he didn’t stop until he reached the last guest on September 10. His search had yielded no results. Gaston Lund had not checked into this hotel. Not that Dagbjartur was too bothered. He still had to visit the other hotels in town and then also the guesthouses. If he was in any way lucky, this assignment could drag on for quite some time.

“Ahem, excuse me, but what name are you looking for?” the manager asked, as Dagbjartur was about to close the book.

“Professor Gaston Lund, a Danish national.”

The reception manager nodded. “Yes. Mr. Lund stayed with us last year,” he said.

“Really? Is his name in the book?”

“No, the man chose to register under a pseudonym.”

“And you remember that after all these months?” Dagbjartur asked, surprised.

The manager gave him a faint smile. “Yes, it was certainly an unusual check-in. I remember things like that.”

He turned the guestbook around and skimmed through it with his skilled fingers.

“There, that’s how the professor checked in,” he said, pointing at a line on August 24.

It started off with what looked like a G and an a, but had then been crossed out with two strokes and followed by “Egill Sturluson” in block letters.

“My name also happens to be Egill, so it drew my attention, especially to see it written that way,” said the manager.

“Yes, I can see how this name would have attracted your attention,” said Dagbjartur, nodding. He took out his notebook and scribbled down this information. “Didn’t you have any remarks to make to him about this?” he then asked.

“No, he was a very respectable-looking man and immediately agreed to settle his bill in advance, as well as the deposit. I saw no reason to raise any objections about it. It was obvious that the man was Danish and also a bit of an eccentric. If he didn’t want to use his real name, he must have had his reasons for it.”

“How do you know his right name was Gaston Lund?”

“That’s the name he used when he signed his bill in the restaurant. He obviously forgot himself. I was the one who processed the hotel bill, so I remember it. There was also a man who came here to ask if Professor Lund could possibly be staying here.”

“What did you answer?”

“I told him there was no guest here under that name.”

“Why?”

“Because our guest obviously wanted to keep a low profile and the hotel didn’t want to complicate things for him; it was the least we could do. Besides, he’d already checked out of the hotel by the time the question was asked, so I wasn’t lying.”

“When did he move out?”

Egill examined the guestbook. “He stayed here for two nights and left here on August twenty-sixth. He left a case behind, which I kept in storage for him.”

“Did he then claim the case?”

“I expect so, but not on my watch.”

“Where was the case kept?”

“We have a storage room in the basement.”

“Can I see it?”

“Yes. I’ll take you down in a moment.”

Egill vanished behind a door but swiftly returned, followed by a young man who took his place at the reception desk.

“Follow me please,” he said to Dagbjartur.

They walked down some stairs into a dark corridor. There Egill opened the door to a small cell and turned on the light. A number of cases were stored there on racks.

“You keep a lot of cases in here,” said Dagbjartur.

“This is mostly the lost property that has accumulated. Sometimes guests forget a whole case. Some of these belong to guests who’ve run away without settling their bills. I don’t expect they’ll ever be recovered.”

“Can you see the Danish guest’s case here anywhere?”

“I can’t remember what it looks like. It was probably a quality case, though. He was a pretty refined kind of guest.” Egill perused the cases, took several out, and opened them. One of them was considerably heavier than the others and turned out to contain folders of files when it was opened. Also some clothes.

Dagbjartur took one of the folders and browsed through the contents. It was full of pages crammed with text written in Danish, and there were a few Norwegian postcards at the back. Finally he found a tab that was stapled to the very last page: G. Lund was written on it.

“That’s probably it,” said Dagbjartur.

The manager seemed very taken aback. “That surprises me,” he said. “I’d always assumed the guest had picked up his case as he said he would.”

“I’ll take it with me now,” said Dagbjartur. “Who was it who asked you if he was staying here?”

“I don’t know the man’s name, but I’m sure I’ve seen pictures of him in the papers. He’s obviously well known in his field.”

Dagbjartur smiled amiably. “I hope you’re not too busy these days because we obviously need to go through some old newspapers.”

“…The Flatey Book was based on many sources or older manuscripts, no less than forty. The Thingeyar monastery library was probably the main source since there was an ample selection of books there.

“Scholars have noted that the priests who wrote out the Flatey Book were not great poetry lovers. They copied verse word for word from older manuscripts mainly out of a sense of duty but with many mistakes and showing a poor understanding of poetry…”

The road to the Ystakot croft was a narrow, winding dirt track, and they walked in single file, Grimur first, followed by Hogni and Kjartan behind. Little Nonni was sitting on a mound and spotted them as they approached. Springing to his feet, he dashed down to the farmhouse and vanished inside. The croft was divided into three little gables with turf rooftops and wooden panels in front. The back of the house was mostly built into the side of the slope. A chimney protruded from the gable, heaving black smoke. There was potato patch to the north of the building and beyond that a small hut, presumably a storeroom. In the yard there were a number of wooden frames, seed potatoes, an overturned wheelbarrow, and a large barrel of water with a lid on top.

Valdi appeared in the low doorway and had to stoop to come out to them.

“Hello there,” Grimur greeted him.

Valdi nodded in silence, stuffed tobacco into his pipe, and stared at Kjartan with one inquisitory eye. Grimur got straight to the point. Could he have by any chance written down who was on the mail boat on Saturday September 4 last year?

Valdi pondered this a moment.

“Why do you want to know?” he asked.

“Reverend Hannes thinks he knows the man you found in Ketilsey but said that he was supposed to be traveling on the mail boat to Stykkisholmur that day.”