House of Evidence(18)

“Yes, of course,” Marteinn said, taking the hat and walking stick.

Halldór, observing this exchange from the inner lobby, imagined that Matthías was probably around seventy. He was rather portly and sported a substantial double chin. The old gentleman removed his hat, revealing a bald head fringed round with white hair, combed straight back. He was clean-shaven and very neatly dressed.

“It was not necessary for you to come here, sir,” Halldór said, striding toward Matthías and introducing himself.

Matthías’s hand was thick and soft, yet the handshake was firm. “I preferred it. I hope I do not disturb,” he replied solemnly.

“No, not at all,” Halldór reassured him.

Matthías entered the inner lobby and approached the body, now lying next to the doorway to the parlor and covered with a green sheet. He bent down with some difficulty and lifted the sheet from the face; then he stood up again and looked down in silence. No one said a word.

Halldór watched as Matthías’s face turned grave and seemed to age by many years as he gazed at the snow-white, lifeless face of his nephew. It was impossible to work out what he was thinking, but this sight clearly affected him. He finally bent down again, made a small sign of the cross with his hand over the body, and covered it gently with the sheet.

“Have you found any clues yet?” he asked Halldór.

Halldór shook his head. “Not so far.”

“You will keep me informed of the progress of the investigation,” Matthías said.

Halldór was not sure whether this was a question or a statement, and decided not to reply, asking instead, “Do you feel able to answer a few questions at this stage, sir?”

“Yes, but I should prefer to sit down. Perhaps you would have someone bring me a glass of water…with a little lemon.”

“I’ll do that,” Erlendur offered.

“My investigators have not finished checking the main rooms. Is there somewhere upstairs where we can sit down?” Halldór asked.

“Yes, there is a small sitting room,” Matthías replied.

Halldór followed Matthías upstairs to a wide, white-painted corridor that stretched the length of the house. A dormer window at each end made the space reasonably bright. There were three doors on each side of the corridor, and beautifully framed, colored drawings of old steam locomotives adorned the walls between.

At the far end of the corridor on the left-hand side was a small parlor, containing modest but comfortable contemporary furniture and a television set. The room was under the slope of the roof, with a large dormer window. A small writing desk stood by the inner wall, and above it were family photographs in frames of all types and sizes. Above the television hung a sizable painting of a small white house with a red roof in an Icelandic landscape, a lake in the foreground; the painting was neat but rather amateurish.

This room is obviously not part of the museum, thought Halldór. He looked around, but saw nothing to suggest there might be clues here that would be compromised if they sat down.

“Jacob and his mother used this room as a day parlor,” Matthías explained. He noticed Halldór examining the painting and added, “That picture was painted by my niece Kirsten in her youth. It shows a summerhouse at Lake Hafravatn that belonged to the family”

They sat down, and Halldór asked, “Are there any valuables here in the house that thieves might be interested in?”

“No more so than in any other house,” Matthías replied. “The contents of the library are, of course, of value, as is the furniture, but there is no one specific item here that is particularly precious. I understand that the stamp collection has been returned from the exhibition; it might be worth something.”

“There are a few frames of old stamps on the desk downstairs,” Halldór said, taking out his notebook and a pen.

“If they are untouched, then the motive for this atrocious act can hardly have been robbery,” Matthías concluded.

Erlendur arrived with the glass of water, handed it to Matthías, and perched himself on the edge of the little desk.

“This is a quaint home,” Halldór remarked, deciding to change the subject a bit. “Some sort of a museum, isn’t it?”

“Yes, this house and its furnishings have been preserved in the condition they were at the end of the war, and most of the pieces of furniture are quite a bit older; some date from the previous century. My brother’s family attempted to keep it that way.” Matthías took a sip from the water.

“Why did they do that?” Halldór asked.