Free The Flatey Enigma by Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson Page B

his wife, Frída, who sat in a comfortable armchair behind him, embroidering a white tablecloth. She looked up from her sewing, peering over her glasses, and sternly shook her head.
    Reverend Hannes shuffled on his feet. “I think the authorities should know about this as soon as possible,” he said anxiously.
    “No, you’re not going anywhere,” the priest’s wife snapped sullenly. “There’s no way you’re going down to Grímur’s filthy landing,” she added.
    “It’s not so bad on the shore when it’s not raining. I can go in my old galoshes,” said the priest.
    “Don’t you remember when you slipped on that whale oil and ruined your pants?”
    Reverend Hannes remembered and gave up. He could also now see that the man from the district magistrate’s office was heading up the embankment beyond the cove with a heavy bucket in his hand and little Svenni following him at a short distance behind.
    “Here comes that fellow from the magistrate’s office. I just hope he’s coming here, but I can’t see the district officer anywhere. He must have been busy.”
    Frída shook her head again and muttered, “I think you’re better off telling the magistrate’s man about this. He’s of a higher rank. Besides, you can’t let Grímur into this house in his filthy working clothes. It’s indecent for an official like the district administrative officer to be walking around looking like that.”
    Reverend Hannes decided not to comment. The woman was born and bred in Reykjavik and seemed to refuse to come to terms with the fact that on these islands men had to be jacks of all trades, and that they didn’t wash until the end of the day when they’d produced enough food for their families. Personally, he happened to like Grímur and Högni, the teacher, and he tried to meet up with them as often as possible. There was always the hope of a good story or some fun conversation. Of course, the men sometimes gave off a bit of a smell after a day’s work, but that was just the way things were out on the islands. Reverend Hannes had been brought up in the Dalir district but had never had the guts to tell his wife that he actually quite liked that cowshed smell.
    “Yes, you’re probably right,” he finally said. “The magistrate’s representative seems to be a responsible and well-educated man. He’ll probably know what the best thing to do is. This is a deadly serious matter.”
    The priest stepped outside and waited for Kjartan to arrive under the gable of his house.
    “I hope you’re here to see me,” said Reverend Hannes.
    “Yes, the district officer sent me up and asked me to bring some fresh bits of seal to your wife while I was at it,” said Kjartan, handing him an old white iron bucket full of raw meat.
    “Bless you for that, and God be praised for the food that He and the sea provide to man,” said Reverend Hannes, taking the bucket. He then invited Kjartan to step into the small room he reserved for receiving parishioners, but he deposited the bucket in a little pantry off the hall.
    “I’ve just had quite a shock, yes, quite a shock.” Reverend Hannes poured coffee out of a thermos into two ready cups on the desk.
    “Oh?” said Kjartan, picking up one of the cups.
    “Yes, I walked down to the co-op earlier and saw the notice from your office when I was checking to make sure my mass notice was in its right place.”
    “Yes?” said Kjartan.
    “Yes and ahem…I think I know who the deceased is.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes, it just has to be Professor Gaston Lund from Copenhagen.”
    “How do you know that?”
    “It’s a bit of a long story. The professor came here from Reykhólar at the beginning of September of last year with some of the women who had been to the mainland to pick berries. He sent me Reverend Veigar in Reykhólar’s regards and asked me if we could put him up for two nights, which, of course, was fine. He was obviously quite a distinguished man.”
    The priest took the lid