Hrefna took a taxi to Matthías Kieler’s home that evening, wondering on the way what she should say to him. There was just no casual way to broach the subject. So, do you feel we should have a king? Then again, maybe it looked different to the generation that took part in the establishment of the republic. It was possible that people had been of two minds then; she had never thought about it before.
Hrefna found Matthías’s apartment on the second floor of a tidy house in Thingholt. She knocked gently on the front door, which was promptly opened by a short, slightly plump man in his sixties, dressed in a dark gray vest and trousers, with a crisply ironed white shirt and a black bow tie. He wore a short, green apron.
“Yes?” he said quietly.
“Matthías Kieler lives here, doesn’t he?” Hrefna asked.
“Yes, he lives here.”
“My name is Hrefna; I’m from the police. I need to trouble him with a few questions regarding his nephew Jacob’s death.”
“Please, come in.”
Hrefna studied the man as she passed him. So this was the manservant Klemenz. He had large, slightly protruding, dark brown eyes, round cheeks, and a handsome mouth. Prodigious crow’s-feet around his eyes gave his face an amused expression, and his hair was jet-black and combed straight back, held firmly in place by some sort of hair product. Hrefna detected a faint but agreeable scent on him, and he smiled kindly when she looked him in the eye. A cute old guy, she decided.
The sound of a string instrument came wafting through the apartment. “Mr. Kieler is practicing,” Klemenz explained. “Perhaps you would care to take a seat and wait while he finishes the piece?”
“Yes, please,” she said.
The manservant showed her into the room where Matthías sat by the window, playing the cello. Hrefna sat down, and Klemenz disappeared into the next room. She withdrew the magazine article about the business with the king from her bag, intending to read it again while she waited, but she couldn’t concentrate, and just listened to the music instead. It was a lovely piece, beautifully played. Matthías guided the bow expertly across the strings, his eyes closed in deep concentration; he showed no awareness of her presence. Hrefna leaned back in the chair, realizing how tired she was.
She had never heard this piece before, nor had she ever heard a solo cello. She had actually never been particularly interested in classical music, but this piece took hold of her. She nearly forgot the purpose of her visit, allowing the music to wash over her. She felt more relaxed than she had in a long time.
The atmosphere in the room was extremely pleasant. It was airy and clean. Candles had been lit, and the light was just right.
As the final note died away, Hrefna wanted to applaud but sensed that it was not appropriate given the circumstances.
Klemenz reentered and waited for Matthías to look up.
“There is a young woman here from the detective division who would like to speak with you, sir,” he said.
Matthías gave Hrefna a friendly smile.
“That was ‘Berceuse de Jocelyn,’ by Godard. Perhaps you are familiar with it?” he said.
“No, I’ve never heard it before. It’s very beautiful.”
“Yes, you think so? That pleases me. I myself made this arrangement for solo cello—it is quite a bit longer than the original. I want to play it at my nephew’s funeral.”
“He is the reason I am here.”
“I suspected as much.”
“Have you seen this, sir?” Hrefna asked, handing Matthías the newspaper clip; he held it at a slight distance as he read a few lines. Farsighted, Hrefna thought.
“Yes, I have seen this,” he said, handing the paper back to her.
“Are these claims true?” Hrefna asked.
“No, they are not. This piece is pure fantasy from beginning to end.”
“Do you know the author?”
“By reputation. This self-styled ‘historian’ has been relentless over a period of many years as far as my family is concerned. All respectable academics regard this charlatan as a disgrace.”
“What about the paper the royal candidate wrote? Does it exist in Germany?”
“Yes, I understand that it actually does, but this man was a mentally confused eccentric, subject to ridicule by everybody. He must have found the names of me and my brother in some documents dating back from when my brother had some business dealings in Berlin, and then incorporated them in these fantasies of his. He says somewhere else in his paper that the Third Reich’s propaganda minister had offered to accompany him to Iceland and enter his service here. None of it made an ounce of sense, and it is unfathomable that the poor man’s relations didn’t destroy those documents after he died.”