Hannah Kent - Burial Rites

‘Fridrik told me that Natan then woke, and thought, in what was likely a stupor of pain, that he was at Geitaskard and that it was his friend Worm before him.

‘He said: “Natan saw Agnes and me in the room and he started begging for us to stop, but we continued until he was dead.” Note his words, Reverend. “Agnes and me.” Fridrik said that Natan was killed with the knife.’

‘Agnes did not kill them, then.’

‘That she was in the room cannot be disputed, Reverend.’

‘But she did not handle the weapon.’

Blöndal settled back in his chair and placed his fingertips together. He smiled. ‘When Fridrik confessed to the murders, he was unrepentant, Reverend. He thought he had done the will of God. He thought it was justice for past wrongs committed by Natan, and claimed both murders as his own. I am of the opinion that it was not quite as he said.’

‘You think Agnes killed Natan.’

‘She had incentive to, Reverend. More incentives than Fridrik.’ Blöndal daubed his finger against the crumbs remaining on his plate. ‘I believe Fridrik killed Pétur. The man was killed with one blow, and a hammer is a heavy tool to wield.

‘Fridrik said Natan woke and saw what it was they were doing to him. I believe that he lost his nerve, Reverend. How easy it is to forget that Fridrik was only seventeen on this night. A boy. A thug, certainly — it is well established that he and Natan were enemies of a kind. But think, Reverend…’ Blöndal leaned closer. ‘Think of how it must be to kill a man for his money. Imagine if he begged you for his life? If he promised to pay you whatever ransom asked, no authorities notified, if you would only let him live?’

Tóti’s throat was dry. ‘I cannot imagine such a thing.’

‘I must,’ Blöndal said. ‘And I have. I am of the opinion that, on seeing Natan wake and beg for his life, Fridrik lost his nerve and faltered. He wanted money, and it would undoubtedly have been offered to him in those moments.’ His voice was low. ‘I am of the opinion that Agnes picked up the knife and killed Natan.’

‘But Fridrik did not say that.’

‘Natan was stabbed to death. Fridrik was a farmer’s son; he knew how to kill animals with a knife. The throat is slit.’ Blöndal reached over his desk and jabbed a finger in Tóti’s throat. ‘From here…’ He dragged the nail across Tóti’s skin. ‘To here. Natan did not have his throat cut. He was stabbed in the belly. This indicates motives more sordid than theft.’

‘Why not Sigga?’ Tóti asked in a small voice.

Blöndal shook his head. ‘The maid of sixteen who burst into tears as soon as I summoned her? Sigga didn’t even attempt to lie — she is too simple-minded, too young to know how. She told me everything. How Agnes hated Natan, how Agnes was jealous of his attentions to her. Sigga is not bright, but she saw that much.’

‘But women may be jealous and not murder, District Commissioner.’

‘Murder is unusual, I’ll concede that, Reverend. But Agnes was twice the age of Sigga. She had travelled to Illugastadir from this valley — a not inconsiderable distance — where she had spent all her life. Why? Surely not just for employment — she had sufficient opportunities here. There was something else, surely, that made her go to work for Natan Ketilsson.’

‘I’m sure I don’t understand, District Commissioner,’ Tóti said.

Blöndal sniffed. ‘Excuse me for speaking plainly, Reverend — Agnes believed that she deserved more. A hand in marriage, I would expect. Natan was an indiscreet man — his bastards litter this valley.’

‘And he broke his promise?’

Blöndal shrugged. ‘Who said he promised her anything? As far as I can see, Agnes was under the impression that she had successfully seduced him. But Sigga testified that Natan preferred her… attentions.’

‘This was spoken of in the trial?’

‘A coarse matter. But murder trials are composed of coarse matters.’

‘You believe Agnes planned to kill Natan because she was spurned.’

‘Reverend. We have a seventeen-year-old common thief armed with a hammer, a sixteen-year-old maid afraid for her life, and a spinster woman whose unrequited affections erupted into bitter hatred. One of them plunged a knife into Natan Ketilsson.’

Tóti’s head spun. He focused on the white feather resting on the edge of the desk before him.

‘I cannot believe it,’ he said, finally.

Blöndal sighed. ‘You will not find proof of innocence in Agnes’s stories of her life, Reverend. She is a woman loose with her emotions, and looser with her morals. Like many older servant women she is practised in deception, and I do not doubt that she has manufactured a life story in such a way so as to prick your sympathy. I would not believe a word she says. She lied to my face in this very room.’

‘She seems sincere,’ Tóti said.

‘I can tell you that she is not. You must apply the Lord’s word to her as a whip to a hard-mouthed horse. You will not get anywhere otherwise.’

Tóti swallowed. He thought of Agnes, her thin pale body in the shadowy corners of Kornsá, describing the death of her foster-mother.

‘I will invest all my energies into her redemption, District Commissioner.’

‘Allow me to redirect you, Reverend. Let me tell you of the work Reverend Jóhann Tómasson has done upon Fridrik.’

‘The priest from Tjörn.’

‘Yes. I first met Fridrik Sigurdsson in person on the day I went to arrest him. This was in March of last year, shortly after I heard news of the fire at Illugastadir and saw for myself the remains of Natan and Pétur.

‘I rode to his family’s home, Katadalur, with a few of my men, and we went to the back of the cottage so as to surprise him. When I knocked on the farm door, Fridrik himself opened the hatch and I immediately set my men upon him. They put him in irons. That young man was furious, exhibiting behaviour and language of the most foul and degenerate variety. He struggled with my men, and when I warned him not to attempt escape, he shouted, plain enough for all to hear, that he regretted not having brought his gun outside with him, for it would become me to have a bullet through my forehead.

‘I had my men bring Fridrik here, to Hvammur, and I proceeded to question him, as I had done previously with Agnes and Sigrídur, who told me of his involvement. He was stubborn, and remained silent. It was not until I arranged for Reverend Jóhann Tómasson to speak with him that he confessed to having, with the aid of the two women, murdered the men. Fridrik was not repentant or remorseful as a man accused of killing in a passionate state might be. He repeatedly uttered his conviction that what he had done to Natan was necessary and just. Reverend Jóhann suggested to me that his criminal behaviour was a direct consequence of his having been badly brought up, and indeed, after seeing Fridrik’s mother’s hysterics when we arrested her son, I have come to share his opinion. What other factor could incite a mere boy of seventeen winters to thrash a man to death with a hammer?

‘Fridrik Sigurdsson was a boy raised in a household careless with morality and Christian teaching, Reverend. Slothfulness, greed, and rude, callow inclinations bred in him a weak spirit, and a longing for worldy gain. After recording his confession, I was of the unwavering opinion that his was an intransigent character. His appearance excited in me strong suspicions of that order — he is freckle-faced and — I beg your pardon, Reverend — red-headed, a sign of a treacherous nature. When I set him in custody with Birni Olsen at Thingeyrar I had little hope for his reformation. However, Reverend Jóhann and Olsen fortunately possessed more hope for the boy than I entertained, and set to work upon his soul with the religious fervour that makes both men so necessary to this community. Reverend Jóhann confided to me that, through the combination of prayer, daily religious reprehension, and the good, moral example set by Olsen and his family, Fridrik has come to repent of his crime and see the error of his ways. He talks openly and honestly of his misdeeds and acknowledges that his impending execution is right given the horrific nature of the crime committed by his hands. He recognises it as “God’s justice”. Now, what do you say to this?’