“Were there signs of a break-in?”
“Yes, a pane in the front door had been broken and it was possible to reach the lock through the broken pane. The police assumed that the burglar had watched the family set off on their trip and had not expected Jacob Senior to return to Reykjavik so soon.”
“Was nobody arrested?”
“There was actually a man in custody for some weeks, but I cannot recollect on what grounds. There were all manner of speculations flying around; my late sister-in-law was, for instance, always convinced that the murder was a communist conspiracy,” Matthías said, smiling sadly.
“Did she have any reason to believe that?”
“No, it was all in her imagination. She was a good person but very conservative, and saw communists in every corner. I expect that her upbringing is to blame for that; her father was an industrialist in England.”
“Did you have an opinion about who might have murdered your brother?”
“As I said, the police assumed it was a burglary that had gone wrong. There were a number of firearms in circulation in town after the wartime occupation, so I think it was a reasonable assumption.”
Halldór had been jotting all this down in his notebook, and now there was a short silence while he finished writing. “Why did the widow not move back to England?”
“That never seemed to be in the cards,” Matthías replied. “Birkihlíd was her home. My brother had taken out a life insurance policy with an English company, as her family had made that a condition of their marriage. The policy proceeds she received after his death were considerable, and she was able to keep her home without any other financial help; but she had no pension, so there was not much left of the money when she died.”
“What was your brother’s profession when he was alive?” Halldór asked.
“He studied railway engineering, and his intention was to pursue that profession here in Iceland. That type of operation never took off here, but he carried out a number of different research projects in the field, both for the public sector and for his own company.”
“What company was this?”
“When my brother realized that political agreement to build a national railway would never be reached, he took things into his own hands and set up business with a group of Icelandic and foreign backers. It was called the Iceland Railroad Company.”
“Did it carry out any business operations?”
“No, but it invested a good deal in research and design. Jacob Senior did not manage to acquire sufficient capital stock to go into production until it was too late, due to the war.”
“So the investments were written off?”
“Yes. Jacob Senior had considerable income during the war years, when he worked for the British and American forces, and that went a long way to pay off the company’s debts. After he died, the widow used a part of the insurance proceeds to put the company into liquidation and close it down.”
Halldór got up and went over to the writing desk, which was small and neat, with a number of little drawers. There was nothing on it apart from a few papers, marked at the top with the name “Elizabeth Chatfield Kieler” in gold lettering.
“Was this where the lady of the house worked?” he asked.
“Yes.” Matthías got up. “She often sat here and wrote. She kept up a lively correspondence with her relatives and friends in England.”
Halldór examined the photographs on the wall.
“The family, I assume,” he said.
Matthías came closer and examined the photos in question. “Yes, she has arranged them so that the Icelandic half of the family is to the left on the wall and the English half to the right. The largest picture is of my brother.”
Halldór examined this photograph. It showed a good-looking man in middle age, with a high forehead and dark, wavy hair, combed back. His eyes were dark and intelligent, the nose straight and delicate, his well-shaped mouth lightly smiling.
“My brother was a handsome man. Here is a picture of him and his wife on their wedding day,” said Matthías, pointing to a picture of a young couple posing by a church door. Elizabeth was wearing a white wedding gown with a long train, artistically arranged at her feet, and Jacob was in a morning coat and striped trousers, holding a top hat under his arm.
“They were married in her hometown in England.” He pointed at another picture. “These are the children, Jacob Junior and Kirsten. This was taken at a photographic studio in England when they all went to visit her family, in 1934. Jacob Junior was nine years old at the time and Kirsten four.”