Burial Rites (21 page)

‘Hello,’ they called brightly, nodding their heads in Tóti’s direction.

‘You have a pleasant home,’ Tóti said, smiling, walking up to meet Blöndal.

‘Indeed. Welcome, Reverend. I trust your journey was not too arduous. Please, come inside, and mind your step.’

An older servant woman led Tóti through the labyrinth of corridors to a small guest room. Blöndal followed closely behind and watched in the doorway as she sat Tóti down on an upholstered chair and deftly removed his riding hat and coat.

‘Have you been here before?’ Blöndal asked, as he waited. Tóti realised that he had been gaping at his surroundings.

‘Only as a boy,’ Tóti blushed. ‘This is a very fine quarter. I see you have several etchings.’

Blöndal sniffed and removed his plumed hat, brushing the feather absently. ‘Yes,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘We’re very fortunate here to enjoy the luxuries usually only afforded to those on the mainland. Although it is my wish that, within the century, more Icelanders will come to know the benefits of glass windows, wooden panelling, iron stoves, and so forth. I am of the opinion that a drier home allows better circulation of air, and is therefore better for the health.’

‘I am sure you are right,’ Tóti said, looking at the servant busy untying his laces. She glanced at him without smiling.

‘Come, Karitas, leave him alone now,’ Blöndal said. ‘Reverend Thorvardur, if you will follow me to my office.’

‘Thank you, Karitas.’

The servant stood up, holding his shoes, and looked at him as though she was about to say something.

‘Karitas. Leave.’

Blöndal waited until the woman had stepped out of the room, before gesturing for Tóti to follow him. ‘Down this way, if you please, Reverend. My rooms are in a remote quarter of the building. It keeps the roar of the servants from becoming more than a mild disturbance.’

Tóti followed Blöndal down a long corridor, over which more servants and children ran, going into other rooms. Tóti marvelled at the size of the house – it was like no other he had seen.

‘In here please, Reverend.’

Blöndal pushed open a door to a light-filled study. The pale blue walls were lined with two solid bookshelves, filled with leather-bound spines. A large writing desk sat in the middle of the room, its surface gleaming in the sunlight that entered through a tiny curtained window near the peak of the gable.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Tóti gasped.

‘Sit down, Reverend,’ Blöndal said, pulling out a cushioned chair.

Tóti sat as directed.

‘Here we are then.’ Blöndal ran his large hands over the smooth surface of the desk. ‘Shall we begin?’

‘Of course, District Commissioner,’ Tóti said, nervously. The grandeur of the office made him uncomfortable. He had not known that people in the north lived like this.

‘My men said that the condemned was brought to Kornsá without incident.’

‘That’s my understanding, also,’ Tóti said. ‘And I am pleased to report that Agnes has settled into her new custodial holdings at Kornsá.’

‘I see. You call her by her Christian name.’

‘She prefers it, District Commissioner.’

Blöndal leaned back in his chair. ‘Continue.’

‘Well, the prisoner has hitherto been included in all aspects of the household’s haymaking,’ Tóti continued. ‘And I have been informed by District Officer Jón Jónsson that she labours with a humble demeanour, as befits her reduced state.’

‘They do not keep her in irons?’

‘It is not usual practice.’

‘I see. And her domestic duties?’

‘She attends them with utmost diligence. The prisoner seems quite content to spend days of ill weather knitting.’

‘Remind them to be wary of supplying her with tools.’

‘They are watchful, District Commissioner.’

‘Good.’ Blöndal pushed his chair back and, opening a drawer in his desk, carefully drew out a sheet of light green paper and a penknife. He then turned and picked up a glass jar stuffed with long, white swan feathers from a corner of a bookshelf. ‘I always send the women to collect these,’ Blöndal said, momentarily distracted. ‘In late summer. It’s best to get them when the birds moult. No need to pluck them out.’ He offered Tóti the jar holding the clutch of feathers.

‘Oh no, I couldn’t.’ Tóti shook his head.

‘I insist,’ Blöndal boomed. ‘A true man is distinguishable from all others by his writing implements.’

‘Thank you.’ Tóti gingerly took a feather.

‘A provider, the swan,’ Blöndal said. ‘The skin of the feet makes excellent purses.’

Tóti absently brushed the light edge of the feather against his hand.

‘And the eggs are tolerable. If boiled.’ Blöndal neatly swept up the slivers of quill from the desk, and then unscrewed a small bottle of ink. ‘Now, if you will, a brief summation of your religious administrations to the criminal.’

‘Of course.’ Tóti was aware of sweat creeping out on his palms. ‘During the harvest I visited the criminal intermittently, being, as you will understand, occupied with the harvest at Breidabólstadur.’

‘In which ways did you prepare for your communication with the condemned?’

‘I . . . I would be lying if I said that, at first, my responsibility towards her immortal soul did not weigh heavily upon me.’

‘I was worried of as much,’ Blöndal said grimly. He made a note on the paper in front of him.

‘I thought that the only recourse to her absolution would be through prayer and admonishment,’ Tóti said. ‘I spent several days in consideration of the verses, psalms, and other literature I thought might bring her to the feet of God.’

‘And what did you select?’

‘Passages from the New Testament.’

‘Which chapters?’

‘Uh . . .’ Tóti was unnerved by the rapidity of Blöndal’s questions. ‘John. Corinthians,’ he stammered.

Blöndal looked askance at Tóti and continued writing.

‘I tried to talk to her about the importance of prayer. She asked that I leave.’

Blöndal smiled. ‘I’m not surprised. She struck me as especially godless during the trial.’

‘Oh no. She seems very well versed in Christian literature.’

‘As is the Devil, I am sure,’ Blöndal rejoined. ‘Reverend Jóhann has set Fridrik Sigurdsson to reading the Passion Hymns. Revelations, also. It is more inciting.’

‘Perhaps. However . . .’ Tóti sat up straighter in his chair. ‘It’s become apparent to me that the condemned requires means other than religious rebuke to acquaint herself with death and prepare for her meeting with the Lord.’

Blöndal frowned. ‘By what means have you been
acquainting
the condemned with God, Reverend?’

Tóti cleared his throat and gently set the feather on the desk in front of him.

‘I fear that you may find it unorthodox.’

‘Pray, tell me and we shall ascertain whether your fear is reasonable.’

Tóti paused. ‘I have come upon the conviction that it is not the stern voice of a priest delivering the threat of brimstone, but
the gentle and enquiring tones of a friend that will best draw the curtain to her soul, District Commissioner.’

Blöndal stared at him. ‘The gentle tones of a
friend
. I hope I am mistaken in thinking you are serious.’

Tóti reddened. ‘I am afraid you’re not mistaken, sir. All attempts to press the condemned with sermons had adverse effect. Instead, I, I . . . I encourage her to speak of her past. Rather than address her, I allow her to speak to me. I provide her with a final audience to her life’s lonely narrative.’

‘Do you pray with her?’

‘I pray
for
her.’

‘Does she pray for herself?’

‘I find it impossible to believe she does not, in private. She is to die, sir.’

‘Yes, Reverend. She
is
to die.’ Blöndal slowly set down his quill and pursed his lips together. ‘She is to die, and for good reason.’

There was a knock on the door. ‘Ah,’ said Blöndal, looking up. ‘Sæunn. Come in.’

A nervous-looking young maid entered the room, bearing a tray.

‘On the desk, if you will,’ Blöndal said, watching as the girl placed coffee, cheese, butter, smoked meat and flat bread in front of him. ‘Eat, if you are hungry.’ Blöndal immediately began heaping slices of mutton onto his plate.

‘Thank you, I am not,’ Tóti said. He watched the District Commissioner push a large mouthful of bread and cheese into his mouth. He chewed slowly, swallowed, and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his fingers.

‘Assistant Reverend Thorvardur. You might be forgiven for thinking that friendship will direct this murderess to the way of truth and repentance. You are young and inexperienced. I bear some
blame for this.’ The District Commissioner slowly leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk.

‘Let me be forthright with you. Last year, in March, Agnes Magnúsdóttir hid Fridrik Sigurdsson in the cowshed at Illugastadir. Natan Ketilsson had returned from the farm Geitaskard with a worker there, Pétur Jónsson –’

‘Forgive me, District Commissioner, but I believe I know what is thought to –’

‘I think you do not know enough,’ Blöndal interrupted. ‘Natan had returned home after visiting Geitaskard to attend to Worm Beck, the District Officer there. Worm was very ill. Natan returned to Illugastadir to consult his books, and – as I understand it – fetch additional medicines, and Pétur accompanied him. It was late, Reverend. They decided to sleep the night at Natan’s home and return in the morning.

‘That evening Fridrik arrived in secret from Katadalur and Agnes hid him in the cowshed. They had planned to kill Natan and steal his money all winter, and that is what they did. Agnes waited until the men were asleep before summoning Fridrik. It was a cold-blooded attack on two defenceless men.’

Blöndal paused to gauge the impact of his words upon Tóti.

‘Fridrik confessed to their murder, Reverend. He confessed that he took a hammer and a new-sharpened knife into the badstofa and killed Pétur first, crushing his skull with one blow of the hammer. He either believed it was Natan, or wished to be rid of a witness – I do not know. But he then certainly attempted to kill Natan. In his confession Fridrik said that he raised the hammer and aimed the blow at Natan’s skull, but missed. He said he heard the crunch of bone, and, Reverend, examination of the remains revealed that Natan’s arm was indeed broken.

‘Fridrik told me that Natan then woke, and thought, in what was likely a stupor of pain, that he was at Geitaskard and that it was his friend Worm before him.

‘He said: “Natan saw Agnes and me in the room and he started begging for us to stop, but we continued until he was dead.” Note his words, Reverend. “Agnes and me.” Fridrik said that Natan was killed with the knife.’

‘Agnes did not kill them, then.’

‘That she was in the room cannot be disputed, Reverend.’

‘But she did not handle the weapon.’

Blöndal settled back in his chair and placed his fingertips together. He smiled. ‘When Fridrik confessed to the murders, he was unrepentant, Reverend. He thought he had done the will of God. He thought it was justice for past wrongs committed by Natan, and claimed both murders as his own. I am of the opinion that it was not quite as he said.’

‘You think Agnes killed Natan.’

‘She had incentive to, Reverend. More incentives than Fridrik.’ Blöndal daubed his finger against the crumbs remaining on his plate. ‘I believe Fridrik killed Pétur. The man was killed with one blow, and a hammer is a heavy tool to wield.

‘Fridrik said Natan woke and saw what it was they were doing to him. I believe that he lost his nerve, Reverend. How easy it is to forget that Fridrik was only seventeen on this night. A boy. A thug, certainly – it is well established that he and Natan were enemies of a kind. But think, Reverend . . .’ Blöndal leaned closer. ‘Think of how it must be to kill a man for his money. Imagine if he begged you for his life? If he promised to pay you whatever ransom asked, no authorities notified, if you would only let him live?’

Tóti’s throat was dry. ‘I cannot imagine such a thing.’

‘I must,’ Blöndal said. ‘And I have. I am of the opinion that, on seeing Natan wake and beg for his life, Fridrik lost his nerve and
faltered. He wanted money, and it would undoubtedly have been offered to him in those moments.’ His voice was low. ‘I am of the opinion that Agnes picked up the knife and killed Natan.’

‘But Fridrik did not say that.’

‘Natan was stabbed to death. Fridrik was a farmer’s son; he knew how to kill animals with a knife. The throat is slit.’ Blöndal reached over his desk and jabbed a finger in Tóti’s throat. ‘From here . . .’ He dragged the nail across Tóti’s skin. ‘To here. Natan did not have his throat cut. He was stabbed in the belly. This indicates motives more sordid than theft.’

‘Why not Sigga?’ Tóti asked in a small voice.

Blöndal shook his head. ‘The maid of sixteen who burst into tears as soon as I summoned her? Sigga didn’t even attempt to lie – she is too simple-minded, too young to know how. She told me everything. How Agnes hated Natan, how Agnes was jealous of his attentions to her. Sigga is not bright, but she saw that much.’

‘But women may be jealous and not murder, District Commissioner.’

‘Murder is unusual, I’ll concede that, Reverend. But Agnes was twice the age of Sigga. She had travelled to Illugastadir from this valley – a not inconsiderable distance – where she had spent all her life. Why? Surely not just for employment – she had sufficient opportunities here. There was something else, surely, that made her go to work for Natan Ketilsson.’

‘I’m sure I don’t understand, District Commissioner,’ Tóti said.

Blöndal sniffed. ‘Excuse me for speaking plainly, Reverend – Agnes believed that she deserved more. A hand in marriage, I would expect. Natan was an indiscreet man – his bastards litter this valley.’

‘And he broke his promise?’

Blöndal shrugged. ‘Who said he promised her anything? As far as I can see, Agnes was under the impression that she had
successfully seduced him. But Sigga testified that Natan preferred her . . . attentions.’

‘This was spoken of in the trial?’

‘A coarse matter. But murder trials are composed of coarse matters.’