Free The Flatey Enigma by Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson Page A

ridge of the shore when Kjartan walked over to them. Then they carried two more pups. They were heavy carcasses, and the men had trouble standing on the wet, slippery seaweed that covered the rocks.
    “They sure weigh a ton,” said Högni as they dumped the last one on the gravel.
    “They’re still smaller than I expected,” said Kjartan.
    “These pups are just a few weeks old,” Grímur answered.
    “But they’re in good shape, fat and beautiful.”
    Grímur snorted some snuff and lifted one of the pups onto a wooden rack.
    “The magistrate wants me to find out if anyone knows who the dead man was,” said Kjartan. “He expects you to help me.”
    “We can pay a few visits after work today,” said Grímur, sharpening a small knife. “But there’s no point in us starting until the locals have read our notice.”
    He brandished his knife and pierced the skin around the pup’s head, exposing the fiery red ruff of its collar beneath the black fur.
    “I think there’ll be some news this evening,” Grímur said before he cut around the front flippers and then over the hind flippers and scut. These cuts didn’t bleed, but exposed the white fat and blood-red meat.
    “What makes you think that?” Kjartan asked.
    “Two porpoises followed us for most of the way from the seal skerries. It’s often turned out to be an omen when whales follow in our wake like that.”
    Grímur drew the knife and in one movement sliced the length of the abdomen from the throat down to the tail. He then started to skin the seal so that it included a thick layer of fat.
    “Do you believe in that stuff?” Kjartan asked.
    Grímur looked up from his work and grinned. “There are other signs, too,” he said, pointing his bloody knife at the village. “Do you see the vicarage on the other side of the cove? I saw little Svenni running out of there and sprinting up the road. Then he vanished for a while, but I can see him dashing down the embankment now as if the devil were on his heels.” Grímur pointed at a little boy who came running toward them. “Reverend Hannes has sent him down with a message for me and told him to hurry.”
    Grímur carried on flaying the seal and didn’t look up when the boy stood beside them. “Officer Grímur, Officer Grímur,” he exclaimed breathlessly and wheezily. “Reverend Hannes really needs to talk to you.”
    “Did he give you some candy to come and fetch me?” Grímur asked.
    “Yeah.” The boy dug his hand into a pocket to produce the candy and stuck some into his mouth.
    “How many pieces?”
    “Three big ones.”
    “Oh, it must be important then. OK, I’ll pop up to him as soon as I’ve finished skinning the seals.”
    “Shouldn’t we go straightaway?” Kjartan asked. Grímur looked at Kjartan and pondered a moment.
    “You go ahead,” he then said. “I’ll be up after you. I imagine he needs to talk to you just as much as he does to me. And you can deliver something to him from me.”
     
     
    “…It is not known how ink was made in Iceland in the Middle Ages. Early sources describe ink made out of bearberry, soil pigments, and willow. It may well be that these methods were known and used in the making of manuscripts. It is also possible that the ink may have been imported or made out of foreign raw materials that were not available in Iceland. Swan feathers were probably used as quills. They were considered better if they were from the left wing because the feathers curve out to the right, away from the hand holding the pen. Before the writing started, the columns and lines were marked on the vellum with a sharp edge…”

CHAPTER 11
     
    R everend Hannes stood by the living room window of the vicarage observing the movement of people beyond the cove. The boy he had sent down with the message had vanished from sight some time ago, and there was no sign of his request having been met.
    “Maybe I should just go down and talk to Grímur myself,” the priest said uneasily to