Free House of Evidence by Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson

always a bit of dust. The stamp collection came back from the exhibition over the weekend, and the frames were very smudgy, so I gave them a good polish. Jacob was going to put them into the safe.”
    “There’s a safe in the home?”
    “Yes.” Sveinborg thought for a bit, and then whispered, “It’s under the desk in the office.”
    “Do you know what is in it?”
    “Jacob keeps his stamps in it, and some of the diaries are kept there.”
    “What diaries?”
    “Jacob Senior’s diaries. He kept a diary throughout his entire adult life.”
    “Do you know where the key to this safe is kept?”
    “No, I didn’t need to. I would never open the safe.”
    Hrefna didn’t doubt her. She dropped the subject of the safe, and asked to hear more about her routine yesterday.
    “I always putter about in the kitchen while the afternoon serial is on the radio; they are reading Jón Gerreksson’s biography right now. The serial finishes at three o’clock, and after that I went out shopping, as I usually do on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I always go to the same neighborhood store; Jacob has an account there that he settles every month. An old friend of mine lives next door to it, and I always visit her; she is now in terribly poor health, so I also do some shopping for her as well.
    “When did you get back to Birkihlíd?”
    “Before five o’clock.”
    “What did you do then?”
    “I’d finished in the main rooms, so I stayed in the kitchen. I cleaned the floor and put potatoes on to boil. I was going to cook haddock fillet; it’s usually fish on Wednesdays.”
    “When did Jacob get home?”
    “It must have been after six. He went straight to his study upstairs. He usually worked there until I told him supper was ready.”
    “When did you go home?”
    “As soon as I had cleared up after dinner.”
    “What time was it then?”
    “Sometime after eight, I think. I don’t know the exact time; I don’t wear a watch. I just hear on the radio what time it is,” Sveinborg said apologetically.
    Hrefna smiled. “Approximately is good enough for me. Was Jacob at home when you left?”
    “Yes, he rarely went out in the evening.” Sveinborg thought it over. “He usually watched the news on the television after supper, but when I went into the television room to say good-bye, he wasn’t there. I found him downstairs in the office. I thought perhaps he was putting his stamps away.”
    “What did you say to him?”
    “I just sort of said good-bye. I told him that there were milk and cookies if he wanted a snack later in the evening, and that everything was ready for breakfast.”
    “What was his reply?”
    “He just said thank you.”
    “Did you know if he was expecting visitors that evening?”
    “No, if so, I would, of course, have stayed longer and served coffee to the guests.”
    Hrefna looked at the cup in front of her. This seemed to be Sveinborg’s favorite occupation, supplying people with good, strong coffee.
    “Er…” Sveinborg suddenly began, hesitantly, “do you think that Jacob Junior was…shot with a gun?”
    Hrefna put away her pen and looked at the older woman. “Yes, that is what it looks like.”
    Sveinborg shook her head. “This is a dreadful notion,” she said.
    “Yes?” Hrefna waited for further explanation.
    “Yes, well, it’s like this,” Sveinborg replied. “Jacob Senior also died in the parlor in Birkihlíd, almost thirty years ago. He was also shot with a gun. Thank goodness the mistress did not have to relive this.”
    “Who shot him?” asked Hrefna.
    “Nobody knows; they never found him.”

    Diary II
    July 10, 1913. Elizabeth and her friend Miss Annie Barker met me at the quay in London. They have organized a ten-day hike round northern England with three of their friends…
    July 20, 1913. We struck camp and set off on the last leg of our journey at dawn. We walked all day. We are now proceeding along the Scottish border. We men carry the best part of the burden