Thóra felt as though she had been transported back in time at least half a century. She was sitting in a living room crammed with highly polished furniture.
“Jónas is very unhappy that this didn’t come up when the deeds were signed,” she said, the springs of the old sofa creaking as she leaned back. It was an imposing piece of furniture with exceptionally deep seat cushions, so when she finally touched the back of the sofa, she realized what a stupid position she had ended up in and hurriedly sat up again. She was only just tall enough to sit against the back of the sofa without her feet dangling in the air.
Börkur and his sister, Elín, had called her earlier that morning and invited her to their house in Stykkishólmur. Thóra decided to take them up on it instead of having them come to the hotel. She welcomed the chance to get away, hoping a change of scenery might clear her mind.
The house was one of the most elegant in town. It had clearly been built by a man of means, and was very well maintained. Probably their great-grandfather’s house, Thóra thought. He had made money from schooner fishing and had the sense to sell out before the trawlers took over. When they arrived, Matthew had admired the corrugated-ironclad house. It was beautifully decorated, with white-painted gables, window frames, and guttering. Because the conversation would be held in Icelandic, he had opted instead to look around the town, so Thóra was sitting by herself beneath the watchful eyes of Börkur and Elín, who sat facing her with their hands resting authoritatively on the arms of their ornate chairs.
“Those are old wives’ tales. I would never have thought them relevant in a modern business deal. Ghosts of abandoned children! I don’t know what to say,” said Börkur dismissively. “And I can’t help wondering if it would have made a difference if he had known. All that man was worried about was clinching the deal. He wasn’t interested in the salmon run in the river or anything.”
“Actually, given the nature of his business, I’m certain this would have mattered a great deal to him,” she corrected him politely. “Salmon would be a secondary consideration in this context, but the supernatural definitely wouldn’t.”
Börkur snorted derisively. “And what’s he asking for, exactly, based on this nonsense? A discount on the sale price?”
“Yes, for example,” replied Thóra. “That would be one option.”
“I’ve never heard anything like it,” he bellowed. “Do we need to hire a lawyer?” He turned to his sister, his face thunderous.
Elín, sitting impassively at his side, replied, “Shouldn’t we discuss this further? I’m sure we can resolve it.” She addressed Thóra. “Can’t we? Or is Börkur right?”
“If I thought the only solution was a discount or damages, I’d have sent you a letter to that effect,” Thóra answered. “I’ve come here to discuss the matter and see if we can’t find another way around it.”
“Damages,” muttered Börkur. “I’m the one who ought to be claiming damages. I should be at work instead of sitting here having this ridiculous conversation.”
“Oh, come on,” his sister said irritably. “I bet your staff were glad to get rid of you. They’ll probably have a collection and pay you to stay away.”
Börkur flushed beet-red, but chose not to answer. Instead he turned to Thóra again. “Here’s your answer,” he snarled. “You can tell Jónas that we don’t give a shit about this gobbledygook, and neither will anyone else. I can’t believe any court would award damages because of a ghost.” Breathing heavily, he added, “You must have been pretty hard to find—a lawyer who’s prepared to take on rubbish like this.”
Thóra did not care for the implication that she was a third-rate lawyer, but decided to hold her tongue. She knew that losing one’s temper was the best way to lose an argument. “Naturally, it’s up to you what you do,” she said calmly, “but I would like to remind you that judges get annoyed when people don’t try their utmost to resolve disputes before litigating. Courts are a last resort, not the first step.”
Elín placed her hand over her brother’s, which was gripping the carved arm of his chair. “I understand,” she said to Thóra. “But how else can we resolve this? What do you propose?” She turned to her brother, smiling encouragingly. “We’re open to suggestions.”
“Call in an exorcist, maybe?” grunted Börkur. “How about that?”
Ignoring him, Thóra focused on Elín. “Shouldn’t we start by discussing whether you two have ever been aware of any supernatural activity there?”
“Yes, why not,” Elín replied, her grip on her brother’s fingers tightening. “That’s easy. I’ve never been aware of anything strange going on, because I’ve hardly spent any time there. Our mother was brought up at Kreppa with our grandfather Grímur. His brother, Bjarni, owned the land at Kirkjustétt where the hotel was built, but he died young. If there were any stories about that farm, we wouldn’t necessarily have heard them.”
“How about you?” Thóra asked Börkur. “Have you ever noticed anything, or heard any accounts of either farm being haunted?”
He shook his head impatiently. “Of course not. There’s nothing to notice or hear. I don’t go in for that bullshit. And I’ve spent even less time there than Elín.”
Thóra turned her attention back to the sister. “So how come the farms are in such good condition? I didn’t see Kirkjustétt before the hotel was built, but we took a look at Kreppa and I assume that Kirkjustétt was in a similar state.”
“Yes, it would have been,” Elín answered, her voice level. “We looked after the farmhouses well.” She gestured around to the room they were sitting in. “This house has been in the family ever since my great-grandfather built it. We’ve always used it as a retreat when we come to this part of the country. It’s much more home, and not as remote as those two old farms. My brother and I don’t come here often, but we could easily have shared it.”
“But why maintain the farmhouses? What was the point?” asked Thóra.
“Well,” Elín said. “It meant a lot to Mother when she was still in good health. She didn’t want to disturb anything because she planned to move back to the countryside in her old age and wanted to keep everything the way it was. That never happened, though, because care provision for the elderly is very basic here, compared with Reykjavík.” She lifted her chin. “Nonetheless, we kept the houses after Mother fell ill, because we had the idea that Börkur’s children and mine could eventually inherit one farmhouse each. Although the two of us don’t mind sharing this house, we knew that someday our children might want to come here with their own families.”
“So why did you sell them?” Thóra asked. “You kept the farms in good shape for decades because of your children, then sold them once they’d grown up.” By way of explanation she added, “I’ve met your daughter, Elín—Berta—and I expect your other children are of a similar age.”
Elín smiled coolly. “That’s just the way it turned out. I only have the one daughter, actually, but Börkur has two sons. Neither of them has shown any interest in Snæfellsnes, so there’s no need to hold on to the farms.”
“What about Berta?” Thóra asked. “I met her here and it sounded like she comes out here quite a lot.”
Elín gave the same cold smile. “Berta spends a lot of time here, that’s true. But Börkur and I have agreed that I’m going to buy his share of this place, so it’s unnecessary for my daughter and me to own two houses in western Iceland. It’s enough of an investment for the family to own all those farm properties. In fact, we’re getting rid of them one by one.”
“Do you own other farms around here?” Thóra asked.
“Yes,” Börkur chipped in, his chest swelling with pride. “Quite a few.”
Thóra wrinkled her brow. “So why didn’t you just sell Jónas one of those?” she asked, puzzled. She thought that for most people the last thing they sold would be the property with sentimental value.
“Jónas was looking for farmland with an old house on it,” Börkur replied morosely. “He really wanted to buy the site once he heard there was not just one farmhouse on it but two.”
“He made us a very good offer, as you know,” Elín added. “It was simply time to make a decision.”
Thóra wondered whether to probe further into their reasons for selling the farms. She wasn’t convinced, particularly given Elín’s chilly demeanor. Not wanting to provoke the woman with more questions, she changed the subject. “Did you know anything about the history of the farms?”
“Did we know anything about it?” repeated Elín. “Of course we did, but unfortunately I’m not much good with things like history and genealogy.” She released Börkur’s hand. “The same goes for my brother, I’m afraid.”
Börkur sat up a little and cleared his throat. “I’ve always meant to look into it in more detail, but I can never find the time.”
“But you must have heard stories from your mother over the years?” persisted Thóra. “Don’t you remember any about the farms?”
“Our mother didn’t really discuss her life here,” Elín replied. “She was so young when she moved to Reykjavík with Grandfather.” Elín looked down at her lap. “It’s no secret that her life wasn’t a bed of roses. Kristrún, our grandmother, died when Mum was still a baby, and we understand that Grandfather was far from being a model father. He had a few issues, shall we say, and never recovered properly after Grandmother died.” Elín looked up again, into Thóra’s eyes. “Unfortunately I don’t remember him, so I can’t judge for myself, but I’m sure he wasn’t a bad man.”
Thóra frowned. “Why do you phrase it like that? Did he mistreat your mother?” Could this be the incest story Sóldís had mentioned?
“In a way, yes,” replied Elín. “He committed suicide. Mother was only eighteen, and I know I would never let my own child find me dead, so to my mind he wasn’t a good father, whatever else can be said for him.”
“Oh, come on,” objected Börkur suddenly. “You know he was ill. You can’t expect someone who’s clinically depressed to behave in a way society would deem normal—that’s discrimination.”
Elín glared angrily at him for a moment without answering. Then she relented slightly. “Of course, my brother has a point. I love Mother so much that I can’t help feeling bitter about how he failed her.” She looked around the room. “I’m pretty sure the reason Mother kept the farm going was that everything was wonderful when she lived here. It wasn’t until they moved to the city that Grandfather’s illness developed. She wanted to hold on to her memories of a happy childhood.”
“I understand. It must have been difficult,” said Thóra sympathetically. “I noticed your grandmother’s gravestone in the cemetery by the farm, but your grandfather Grímur doesn’t seem to be buried with her. If you don’t mind me asking, why is that?”
Elín pursed her lips. “Mother said she’d decided that after he died. He left no instructions as to his preferred place of rest, and she didn’t want to have him buried here on Snæfellsnes. I think perhaps she wanted to have him close to her, because she was living in Reykjavík.”
This seemed a strange kind of logic to Thóra. She made herself more comfortable on the sofa. “Tell me, do you know anything about your great-uncle Bjarni, who originally lived at Kirkjustétt?”
“He died young from TB,” said Börkur quickly, clearly pleased at getting his answer in first. “He lost his wife young too, so the brothers’ lives followed a similar pattern. They were both young widowers, each with a daughter.”
“She died too,” Thóra said. “I mean his daughter, Gudný. TB, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Elín firmly. Judging from her expression, she didn’t like losing control of the conversation to her brother. “They both fell ill and refused to go to Reykjavík and stay in a sanatarium, as they used to call TB clinics in those days. I don’t know if it would have changed anything. I know precious little about tuberculosis—nothing, really—but I know that Grandfather looked after them as best he could; he was a doctor. That wasn’t enough, unfortunately.”
Thóra leaned forward. “I have to ask you something now, and I’m aware you might find it uncomfortable.” She paused. The brother and sister sat and waited, as if paralyzed. “I’ve heard stories about incest on the farm. They say Bjarni abused his daughter. Could that be right?”
“No!” snapped Elín. “That’s rubbish. It just goes to show that back then people had nothing better to do than invent filthy stories about respectable folk who had died and couldn’t defend themselves against gossip.” She fell silent, her face bright red. It clearly wasn’t the first time she’d heard this.
“How can you be sure?” Thóra asked cautiously. “Your mother might not have known about it because she was so young, and—as you said yourself—you didn’t know your grandfather, so you can’t have heard his side of the story.”
Elín glared wrathfully at Thóra. “I’ve heard my mother deny it so passionately that for me there’s not a shred of doubt. It’s pure fabrication.” She frowned. “To tell the truth, I don’t see any point continuing this conversation. If you don’t have any more intelligent questions, I think we ought to call it a day.”
“I’m sorry,” Thóra said humbly. “Consider the subject closed.” In desperation she tried to broach another subject to avoid being thrown out. “Do you happen to know why your grandfather and his brother quarreled?” she asked hurriedly. “I understand they didn’t speak for years.”
Elín was still too angry to answer, so Börkur replied. “It was more to do with their wives. The women fell out, and their husbands followed suit. I don’t think anyone knows exactly what the dispute was between Grandmother and her sister-in-law, but it was serious enough that the brothers were never the same with each other, even when both women were dead. Stubbornness and grudges run in the family.”
Elín interrupted. “Mother told me that our grandmother Kristrún lost a baby, and in her confusion she blamed her sister-in-law for killing it. The accusation was completely unfounded; the child had been ill, but Grandmother’s mental state was starting to deteriorate at the time. Bjarni was insulted by her accusations against his wife and he and Grandfather had a furious argument, but they had made up by the time Bjarni died—I understand Grandfather treated him well, looked after him during his illness when no one else would go near him for fear of infection.”
Thóra nodded. “Do you know if there was ever a fire at either of the farms?” she asked, visualizing the drawing of the burning house she’d seen on the child’s desk at Kreppa.
“A fire?” they said in unison.
Elín shook her head. “No, I’ve never heard that. Both farmhouses are in their original state.”
Thóra nodded again. “And do you recognize the name Kristín in connection with the farms?”
“Not that I can recall,” said Börkur, seeming unfazed by her change of topic. “There must have been a few Kristíns in the area, but I don’t remember having heard of any.” Elín shook her head. Both seemed sincere.
Thóra carefully formulated her next question, which she expected to be her last. “Do you know whether either or both of the brothers were sympathetic to the nationalists during the war?”
“Nationalists?” Börkur echoed, reddening. “You mean Nazis?”
“Yes,” said Thóra.
“This is quite enough,” Elín said, slamming her hands on the arms of her chair and standing up. “I refuse to waste any more time on this nonsense.”
Thóra also stood up. “One final question, on a different subject. You have presumably heard about the woman who was murdered last week. Now another murder has been committed, in all probability last night. Did you happen to be around here on the evenings in question?”
In anger, the brother and sister looked uncannily alike. The expression of fury that appeared almost simultaneously on their faces made them suddenly almost identical. “The only polite answer I can think of to your unpleasant insinuation is no—neither of us is in any way connected with these murders. You should leave now,” spat Elín. “Ghosts, incest, Nazis, and now murder. I won’t put up with this crap any longer.”
Matthew was leaning casually against a lamppost outside, but stood up straight when Thóra appeared. The door slammed loudly behind her as soon as she stepped on to the porch, and he smiled mischievously. “Did you ask about the young man with the burns?” he said.
“No,” said Thóra grumpily. “I didn’t get that far.”
Matthew smiled even more broadly. “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “Come on, I need to show you something.”