Viktor Ingolfsson - The Flatey Enigma

“Why did you throw him out?”

“He turned out to be such a darned scoundrel. We all went to bed at around midnight, and he was supposed to do the same. But there was something restless about him, and in the middle of the night he sneaked into my daughter’s bedroom stark naked and tried to slip into her bed. He wanted to seduce her, the bloody lech!”

“What happened then?”

“Well, her granny sleeps in the next bed and had her wits about her. She caught him at the side of the bed and shooed him away. I think she emptied her potty over him. In any case, he was all wet on top when I found him in the corridor and kicked him out. Then I grabbed all his stuff and dumped it on the steps.”

“Didn’t you see him again?”

“No, and I didn’t go looking for him either. It didn’t surprise me that the man was doomed.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. When I looked into his bag to see if he’d stolen anything from the house, I found sheets from the Flatey enigma that are meant to be kept in the library and not taken away. He’d stolen them the bloody night before. I went straight to Hallbjorg in Innstibaer and got the library key from her to be able to put the sheets back where they belonged. She told me the magistrate’s assistant had been the last one to go to the library and that he’d probably forgotten to lock it. They don’t know how to handle these precious things, those cultivated people from Reykjavik.”

“Is that the only key to the library?”

“Yeah, apart from the key that the late Bjorn Snorri got a loan of. He went to the library so often.”

“You’re sure you didn’t meet Bryngeir again on Sunday evening?”

“Yes, of course I didn’t meet him again,” Sigurbjorn snapped angrily. “Do you think I’m lying? Do you really think I dragged that scoundrel up to the churchyard, placed him on a grave, and carved a blood eagle out of his back just because he’d abused my hospitality?”

“Carved a blood eagle out of his back?” Thorolfur asked.

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s perfectly obvious. Someone carved a blood eagle out of his back. Haven’t you read the Flatey Book?”

“No.”

Sigurbjorn shook his head and said, “Don’t they require you to have any education to join the police force these days?”

“The Flatey Book isn’t exactly on the police syllabus,” Thorolfur answered sourly.

Sigurbjorn grinned. “Isn’t it now? Well it should be. I’ll try to remember it for you. Sigurdur, Fafnir’s killer, fought Lyngvi Hundingsson in Friesland and captured him. Then they had a discussion about how Lyngvi should die. Regin suggested they carve a blood eagle on his back, and that’s what they did. Regin cut through Lyngvi’s back with his sword, broke his ribs to make them look like wings, and then he pulled out his lungs. So Lyngvi died with great valor. There are also accounts of blood eagles in the Orkneys saga and in the tale of Ormur Storolfsson, if I remember correctly. If you ask me, that’s exactly what was done to that wretch in the churchyard.”

The policemen glanced at each other, but Sigurbjorn continued: “And then there’s that Danish fellow. You can find parallels with his fate in the Flatey Book, too, but I guess you don’t know that story either, do you?”

Thorolfur shook his head. “How did that one go?” he asked.

“It’s in the saga of Olaf Tryggvason. Eyvindur Kelda went to Ogvaldsnes with the intention of killing King Olaf. Using magic he summoned a dark mist so that the king wouldn’t be able to see them, but it blinded them, too, and made them walk around in circles. The king’s protectors spotted the men and arrested them. The king then invited them to abandon their evil ways and to believe in the true God. But when Eyvindur and his men categorically refused to do so, they were taken to a skerry in the sea and left there to die of exposure. Since then it’s been called the Devil’s Skerry. That’s how it went. I think you’ll have to start reading the Flatey Book before you try solving the Breidafjordur mysteries.”

“Is it long, this book?” Thorolfur asked.

“Not really. Thormodur Krakur has an edition that came out straight after the war. It’s four volumes of about six hundred pages each. You could finish reading it by the fall if you really put your head down.”

Thorolfur looked at Grimur. “Can you get us a copy of this work?”

Question twenty-seven: The most cunning chieftain. Second letter. The Norsemen who were on the rampage in Constantinople were known as the Varangians. Their chieftain was Harald, who was called Nordbrigt…They besieged another town that was both bigger and harder to overtake. There were lush and open fields close to the town with beautiful trees in blossom. The birds always flew there from the town during the day and then flew back to their nests on the rooftops of the houses in the evening. Nordbrigt addressed his men: “There is some clay here just outside the town, which we shall collect and knead until it turns into a kind of mortar. Then we will rub this wet mortar on the trees outside the town.” The birds then stuck to the trees when they came looking for food, and many small birds were caught in this manner. Then Nordbrigt said, “Now let’s collect dry and highly flammable wood and ignite a little fire in it by adding sulfur and enveloping it with wax. Then we will attach this load to each of the birds’ backs so that they can fly with it. When night falls we will release them all together, and my guess is that they will fly back to their nests in the town, as is their habit.” This was done, and the birds flew back to their nests and young ones. All the houses on which the birds had made their nests were thatched, and it did not take long for the birds’ feathers to catch fire and then the rooftops, with one thing igniting another. At the same time, the besiegers armed themselves and attacked the town. The townspeople then had to fend off both the fire and the fierce attack, and they were unable to cope with both. The answer is “Harald,” and the second letter is a.

Kjartan said, “Here Lund wrote the name ‘Nordbrigt.’”

“Then the answer is either a or o.”

Hogni went off to collect Thormodur Krakur, who, as was to be expected, arrived for the questioning in his Sunday suit, and with his walking stick and medal of honor pinned to his chest. His clothes were still damp after the night, although he had made a worthy attempt at drying them over the stove that morning. He had brought along his copies of the printed version of the Flatey Book, at Grimur’s request, and clutched them firmly in his arms.

Thorolfur contemplated the deacon at length from head to toe before starting the interrogation.

“Did you meet the deceased Bryngeir on Sunday?” he asked.

“Bryngeir came to my cowshed at around dinnertime on Sunday,” Thormodur Krakur haughtily replied. “He offered me a sip of rum, and I gave him a cup of milk and some dried fish instead. I sometimes have some stockfish hanging in the corner of the barn to nibble at between meals, and it came in handy that evening. Then we sat there and chatted a little.”

“What did you chat about?”

“We spoke about dreams and the extrasensory powers of some thinking beings. The late Bryngeir was knowledgeable on the subject, and it then transpired that he was very apt at deciphering unusual dreams. He’d also studied spiritism at night school with some famous medium in Reykjavik. Unfortunately, one doesn’t often meet evolved souls of this kind on the island. He was slightly psychic when he was sober. That’s why he drank so much, he told me. Some people can’t handle the power and try to suppress their talents. They need help. But he was willing and capable of reading dreams. He was able to solve the calf dream I’d been grappling with for so long. The dream is as follows: I sense I’m inside this church and then…”