House of Evidence(30)

Halldór examined the book. It was dog-eared and worn.

“This is a much-read book,” he said.

Matthías took it and looked at the title. “Yes, my brother Jacob was fond of quoting Werther. A wise man once said that if a book was not worth reading twice it was not worth reading once.”

Halldór opened the closet. The clothes were somewhat shabby, though they had been neatly hung up or arranged on shelves.

As they walked back along the corridor, Halldór pointed at a trapdoor in the ceiling.

“What is up there?” he asked.

“A storage loft; among other things, it contains odds and ends from when the children were young. Nothing was ever thrown away in this house.”

“How do you get up there?”

“There is a ladder attached to the trapdoor that slides down when the trap is opened. You can also get out onto the roof through a skylight up there.”

They went back down to the ground floor. By now, Jóhann had left, and the two men found themselves alone in the house. A green sheet covered the largest bloodstain on the floor. Halldór could see that Matthías was not comfortable here in the parlor: he wrung his hands repeatedly and didn’t seem to know where to turn.

“This is an unusually large parlor,” Halldór said.

“Yes, it is spacious. My parents often invited guests here to listen to music. They would move in the chairs from the dining room, though the men usually remained standing. I can remember around eighty people attending a concert here. As I progressed with my music studies, I would sometimes play at these concerts, but otherwise the performers would be the very best instrumentalists or singers the town could offer.”

“Who is this woman?” Halldór asked, pointing at the painting on the wall to the side of the fireplace.

“That is my sister-in-law, Elizabeth Chatfield Kieler. The picture was painted at her home when she was in her late teens.”

It was undeniably a fine painting, and the sitter clearly exuded considerable character in spite of her tender years, Halldór mused.

“Can you describe her to me?” Halldór asked.

“Elizabeth was a grand woman. She was exceedingly intelligent and well educated, as well as being very determined and strong willed. She proved a very good wife to my brother and the best possible mother to the children.” Matthías moved closer to the painting and continued, “I remember very well the first time I saw Elizabeth. She and my brother arrived here in Iceland on board the Gullfoss, and my father and I went down to the quay to meet them.

“I had only just turned sixteen, and I hadn’t seen my older brother for ten years. He had written numerous letters to me, but when it came right down to it, I had no idea how to behave toward this sophisticated man. I was even less sure about how to greet his foreign wife, and when Jacob Senior and Elizabeth came down the gangway toward us, the words froze in my mouth; but to my great joy Elizabeth shook my hand and greeted me in Icelandic. Jacob Senior had taught her that on board the ship.

“Though the words were correct, the pronunciation was, of course, not perfect. Two daughters of a friend of my father’s, teenage girls, had joined us on the quayside while we waited, and when they heard what Elizabeth said they started giggling like idiots. I caught a flash of anger in my sister-in-law’s eyes, and she never again spoke a single word of Icelandic. She learned very quickly to understand the language, and she enjoyed reading books in Icelandic, but she never again tried to speak it. Elizabeth was not a person you mocked.”

Halldór led the way into the office. There was gray fingerprint powder on the desk and on the stamp frames.

“I do apologize for this mess,” Halldór said, as he examined the stamps. “These must be worth quite a bit.”

“I don’t think they’re worth a fortune, but they are attractive and neatly displayed. Jacob Junior inherited a large stamp collection from his father, but I gather he had sold everything apart from these here.”

Halldór selected the latest diary from the bookshelf. “I assume that Jacob Senior continued to keep a diary after he completed this one at the beginning of 1932.”

“That’s right. He kept a diary until his death.”

“Do you know where the more recent books are?”

“No.”

Halldór turned to the gun cabinet. It seemed quite sturdy, with the guns securely locked behind an iron grill. There were two shotguns, three rifles of various sizes, and one pistol, all clean and shiny—it looked as if they had recently been polished.

“Who owned these weapons?” Halldór asked.