House of Evidence, page 6
“Was Jacob Junior unhappy about this decision?”
“Understandably he was not keen on it. This was his childhood home and he had been assiduous in maintaining it,” Matthías replied.
“So the decision to sell the house was made two years ago.”
“Yes, discussions regarding the sale began two years ago.”
“Was the delay at that time due to Jacob Junior’s resistance?” Halldór asked.
“You could say that. He was looking for ways to avoid selling the house,” Matthías replied.
“When did he decide to buy the house himself?”
“I arrived here in Iceland from Austria just under two months ago with the intention of finalizing this matter, and I have since pursued that aim in collaboration with Kirsten and our lawyer. Jacob Junior finally realized that neither I nor his sister wished to retain our shares, and as a result began to look at the possibility of acquiring sole ownership of the house.”
“How was the purchase price agreed upon?” Halldór asked.
“The house and its furnishings were assessed by experienced appraisers. He agreed to pay the price thus determined.”
“Do you know how Jacob was planning to finance this purchase?”
“He obtained a mortgage for part of the sum. But it was nothing to do with me. It is my understanding, however, that he had plans in place to raise the rest of the money,” Matthías replied.
“Do you think that he already had this money?”
“I have no idea,” Matthías said wearily. “I only know what Kirsten has told me, that when their mother died and her estate was settled, she was as good as penniless apart from her share of the house. So there was certainly no cash for him to inherit.”
“You are telling me, sir, that half of the house has belonged to you since your father died. Why wasn’t the estate divided earlier?” Halldór asked.
“Alfred, my father, died in the fall of 1930 when I was studying in Berlin, and at that time my brother Jacob Senior agreed to look after my affairs. My brother and I had a close relationship, and he looked after me very well. We agreed that he would carry on living in the house for the foreseeable future, but that I always had a home here.”
Matthías paused briefly, glancing down thoughtfully.
“When Jacob Senior died I had already decided to live abroad and practice my art,” he continued. “I knew how important this home was to Elizabeth, and I promised her that as far as I was concerned she could live in the house for the rest of her life.”
There was another silence, before Matthías added, “I felt this was a good offer and I was not expecting the division of the estate to be delayed after her death.”
Halldór decided to change the subject. “Are there many visitors here?” he asked.
“No, not at all,” Matthías replied. “Jacob Junior has always led a very quiet life. Only his family and a few friends ever visit as far as I know.”
“So Jacob Junior has never married?”
“No. We in the family were expecting him to start looking around after his mother died, but that did not happen.”
“After his mother died. But then he must have been…” Halldór did some mental calculations, “forty-six years old?”
“Yes?” It didn’t sound as if Matthías considered that an odd age to be getting married for the first time.
Halldór turned to a fresh page in his notebook and asked about Jacob Junior’s friends.
“It’s mainly a few men who are fellow members of some Christian society.”
“Was he a great believer?” Halldór asked.
“Nothing more than the usual. But it provided good companionship, and that’s what he sought more than the praying, I think. His childhood friend, Reverend Ingimar, is chairman of the society. You will, of course, speak with him.”
“Who inherits from Jacob Junior?” Halldór asked, returning to the previous line of questioning.
“I am not familiar with the contents of the will,” replied Matthías. “His sister Kirsten would be the principal heir, and I suspect that young Elísabet will inherit something. She is the only descendant of the family. Sveinborg the housekeeper also deserves to be remembered. She has probably not been paid much in recent years, poor woman.”
Halldór leafed back through his notebook and examined the notes he had made.
“You say you live in Austria, sir,” he said.
“Yes,” Matthías replied. “I have been a member of a string quartet in Salzburg for many years. I retired this fall as I have not been very well, and am, consequently, sorting out my financial affairs.”
“Are you planning to live here in Iceland?” Halldór asked.
“No. I rented a furnished apartment for a few weeks while these matters are being settled. Then I shall return home. I have lived in Europe since I was twenty-five years old and the climate here does not suit me.”
Halldór pondered how to proceed. There was an awkward silence, and then Erlendur, still sitting on the little desk, cleared his throat and said, “I happen to be going to Austria this Saturday, on a ski trip with the family.”
“Where will you be going?” Matthías asked.
“A place called Zell am See.”
“A lovely town. Admittedly I have only been there in summer, but I understand that the valley and the lake are just as beautiful in winter. I know nothing about skiing, however. You should try and spend a day in Salzburg; it’s not far from there.”
Jóhann stuck his head in the door. “Halldór,” he said, interrupting them, “it’s Hrefna on the phone for you. She wants to speak to you. It’s important.”
Halldór stood up and joined Jóhann in the corridor, leaving Erlendur alone with Matthías. Halldór had the feeling Erlendur would use this opportunity to find out more about Salzburg and Austria.
Diary II
January 27, 1913. Went by myself to Thorvaldsens Museum, where I remained the best part of the day. In my life’s work I must remember that structures should above all enhance the environment and reflect favorably on the designer. It is not enough to build robustly if the result offends one’s fellow citizens’ sense of beauty. Studying such works of art as are here on display must increase one’s feeling for the form and balance of objects, small and large…
March 5, 1913. Had a letter from Elizabeth to which I shall reply immediately. Mrs. Heger does not approve of this correspondence; she maintains that the English will muddle my German…
March 21, 1913. Had a letter from my father. He says a railway is being laid in connection with the building of the harbor in Reykjavik, to transport stone from Öskjuhlíd down to the shore. I am writing back to ask him for further information on this railway and the locomotives…
April 2, 1913. Went with Helgi to the pawn shop to redeem his best trousers for him. He promises to pay me back when the residence grant is paid out…
May 17, 1913. Elizabeth writes and welcomes my idea of visiting her in my summer vacation…
June 5, 1913. A letter arrives from my father with information on the railway in Reykjavik. There are two locomotives: Pionér, built by Arnold Jung in Germany in 1892; and Minør, built by Jungenthal in Bei Kirchen in Germany the same year. The gauge is 90 cm…
June 6, 1913. The final BSc examinations are imminent. I shall miss this college, but I nevertheless feel certain that my decision to go to Berlin is the right one…
Have you worked for these people for long?” Hrefna had resumed her questioning of Sveinborg, wanting to find out more about the family that had lived at Birkihlíd.
“Yes, forty-five years this coming spring,” Sveinborg replied, as she poured coffee for the two of them and sat down opposite Hrefna. “I began working for the family in May 1928.”
“That’s a long time. You must have been happy there.”
“Yes, the family has always treated me well.”
“Can you describe the household for me?”
“When I started out, there were four of us in service,” Sveinborg replied. She stopped briefly to think before continuing. “There was an older woman, Mrs. Elínborg, who looked after the kitchen and did the cooking. Her husband was called Hjörleifur, and he did outside work and managed supplies. Then there were the two of us maids, me and Magga; I mainly looked after the children, who were lovely. We domestics lived in the two basement rooms.” Sveinborg smiled faintly at the memory, and went on, “At that time it was very much an upper-class establishment. Merchant Alfred had actually retired, and old Mrs. Kirsten was in poor health. Jacob Senior, the engineer, was, on the other hand, highly regarded in town, and Elizabeth was a real lady; visitors were constantly coming and going, and there were wonderful parties. What with everything, we domestics were kept very busy during those years.”
“What sort of a man was Jacob Senior?”
“Jacob Senior was an extremely handsome man. He was polite and considerate, and everybody felt comfortable in his presence. He inspired confidence, if I may put it like that. He had very elevated ideas on many things, and it was interesting to listen to him when he sat at table with important people and bombarded them with his ideas on all kinds of projects.”
“And Elizabeth?”
“She was a good mistress; somewhat dictatorial, it is true, but that was the norm in those times. It was sometimes difficult to please her because, in the beginning, my understanding of English was limited. The mistress never spoke Icelandic, but she understood it well enough. Occasionally Jacob had to interpret when he came home in the evenings, and it irritated her having to involve him in the running of the house. But he didn’t mind.”
“What has the household been like in recent years?”
“Everything changed when Jacob Senior passed away. The mistress stopped holding receptions, and the domestic staff was given notice. I stayed on because I had gained a reasonable understanding of English. Later my duties were reduced as well, as Jacob Junior was studying abroad and Kirsten had gotten married, so I moved into my own apartment and worked only half a day. Naturally the mistress had to reduce her outgoings.”
“What has your job consisted of lately?” Hrefna asked.
“I would usually go there around eleven in the morning and prepare lunch. Jacob Junior used to come home at lunchtime to eat with his mother, and he kept up the habit after she died. When I had cleared up after lunch, I would do the cleaning. The mistress used to give me instructions of what to do, and I have maintained her routine ever since she passed away. I always go over all the main rooms once a week; she was very firm about that. Round six o’clock I would start to prepare supper, which I served at seven o’clock sharp. Jacob and his mother always used the dining room in the evenings, but recently Jacob Junior had taken his meals in the kitchen with me, both at lunchtime and in the evening. When I’d cleared up after supper and prepared breakfast, I would go home.”
“And what is your salary?”
Sveinborg looked away. “It would not be considered generous today,” she demurred. “The house is very expensive to run, and Jacob Junior is not a high earner. But I get my pension and I own my apartment outright.”
“Can you describe your day yesterday in Birkihlíd?” Hrefna asked.
“Yesterday was a Wednesday, when I usually clean the main rooms and wash the floors. They are not used much, but there is always a bit of dust. The stamp collection came back from the exhibition over the weekend, and the frames were very smudgy, so I gave them a good polish. Jacob was going to put them into the safe.”
“There’s a safe in the home?”
“Yes.” Sveinborg thought for a bit, and then whispered, “It’s under the desk in the office.”
“Do you know what is in it?”
“Jacob keeps his stamps in it, and some of the diaries are kept there.”
“What diaries?”
“Jacob Senior’s diaries. He kept a diary throughout his entire adult life.”
“Do you know where the key to this safe is kept?”
“No, I didn’t need to. I would never open the safe.”
Hrefna didn’t doubt her. She dropped the subject of the safe, and asked to hear more about her routine yesterday.
“I always putter about in the kitchen while the afternoon serial is on the radio; they are reading Jón Gerreksson’s biography right now. The serial finishes at three o’clock, and after that I went out shopping, as I usually do on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. I always go to the same neighborhood store; Jacob has an account there that he settles every month. An old friend of mine lives next door to it, and I always visit her; she is now in terribly poor health, so I also do some shopping for her as well.
“When did you get back to Birkihlíd?”
“Before five o’clock.”
“What did you do then?”
“I’d finished in the main rooms, so I stayed in the kitchen. I cleaned the floor and put potatoes on to boil. I was going to cook haddock fillet; it’s usually fish on Wednesdays.”
“When did Jacob get home?”
“It must have been after six. He went straight to his study upstairs. He usually worked there until I told him supper was ready.”
“When did you go home?”
“As soon as I had cleared up after dinner.”
“What time was it then?”
“Sometime after eight, I think. I don’t know the exact time; I don’t wear a watch. I just hear on the radio what time it is,” Sveinborg said apologetically.
Hrefna smiled. “Approximately is good enough for me. Was Jacob at home when you left?”
“Yes, he rarely went out in the evening.” Sveinborg thought it over. “He usually watched the news on the television after supper, but when I went into the television room to say good-bye, he wasn’t there. I found him downstairs in the office. I thought perhaps he was putting his stamps away.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I just sort of said good-bye. I told him that there were milk and cookies if he wanted a snack later in the evening, and that everything was ready for breakfast.”
“What was his reply?”
“He just said thank you.”
“Did you know if he was expecting visitors that evening?”
“No, if so, I would, of course, have stayed longer and served coffee to the guests.”
Hrefna looked at the cup in front of her. This seemed to be Sveinborg’s favorite occupation, supplying people with good, strong coffee.
“Er…” Sveinborg suddenly began, hesitantly, “do you think that Jacob Junior was…shot with a gun?”
Hrefna put away her pen and looked at the older woman. “Yes, that is what it looks like.”
Sveinborg shook her head. “This is a dreadful notion,” she said.
“Yes?” Hrefna waited for further explanation.
“Yes, well, it’s like this,” Sveinborg replied. “Jacob Senior also died in the parlor in Birkihlíd, almost thirty years ago. He was also shot with a gun. Thank goodness the mistress did not have to relive this.”
“Who shot him?” asked Hrefna.
“Nobody knows; they never found him.”
Diary II
July 10, 1913. Elizabeth and her friend Miss Annie Barker met me at the quay in London. They have organized a ten-day hike round northern England with three of their friends…
July 20, 1913. We struck camp and set off on the last leg of our journey at dawn. We walked all day. We are now proceeding along the Scottish border. We men carry the best part of the burden in our knapsacks, but the girls carry small knapsacks as well. Elizabeth’s energy amazes me. I lead the walk but she is always right behind me; she is enjoying the trip even though we are all exhausted…
July 25, 1913. Elizabeth invited me to dinner at her parents’ home along with Miss Annie. The Chatfields are extremely formal and polite. Afterwards we attended a concert given by a large orchestra. A work by the Czech composer Antonín Dvořák, the New World Symphony, was the one that will stay in my memory. He was born in 1841 and died in 1904, according to the program. This is the last evening of my visit…
Jóhann and Marteinn had brought some bags into the parlor, one including a camera and various accessories; another, equipment to collect fingerprints; and a third holding containers for the samples they hoped to collect. They then set up powerful spotlights on tall tripods around the parlor, leaving the windows covered.
While Fridrik waited to supervise the removal of the body, Jóhann began taking photographs of it, first full-body shots from several angles, and then close-ups of the entry wound, outside as well as inside the clothing.
Jóhann got Fridrik’s permission to take samples of the deceased’s fingerprints right away, rather than leaving it for the postmortem, which he was relieved not to have to attend. He drew from one of his bags a metal horseshoe-shaped tool, which somewhat resembled a shoehorn, that he used for fingerprinting. It had slots through which he could thread paper tape printed with five squares. He also withdrew a small inkpad containing special fingerprinting ink and, grasping one of the deceased’s hands, pressed each finger onto the inkpad and then onto the paper in the tool, whose horseshoe shape ensured that the impression of the whole fingertip was clearly reproduced on the paper. Jóhann processed both hands, and then covered them with plastic bags, securing them with rubber bands around the wrists.
He would have liked to check if the deceased had fired a gun recently, but it was not possible. He did have equipment back at the lab for doing a so-called paraffin test, where warm paraffin wax was applied to the hands to see if they revealed nitrates left by a gunshot, but recent research had shown this method to be very inaccurate so Jóhann had stopped running these tests. There were new methods involving expensive chemical tests, but he did not possess that equipment. In any case, a positive result would not have shown whether the deceased had fired the gun himself or had used his hands to protect himself from a shot fired from very close range.
