Magnus walked around the table and stood behind Moritz’s shoulder. Moritz leafed through the book, each brown page a faithful copy of the vellum of the original manuscript. He paused at an empty page on which were written only a couple of faded lines. Indecipherable.
‘There is a big gap between Njals Saga and Egils Saga. No one could read this line until the invention of ultra-violet light. Now they know what it says.’ Moritz quoted from memory. ‘“Insert here Gauks Saga Trandilssonar; I am told that Grimur Thorsteinsson Esq has a copy.”’ He turned to Magnus and smiled. ‘We knew that there once was a Gaukur’s Saga, but we thought it had been lost, like so many others. Gaukur is mentioned once, very briefly in Njals Saga; that he was killed by Asgrimur.’
‘When you read the saga, you will find out how,’ said Magnus with a smile, returning to his seat. The Book of Modruvellir must have been the instance of the saga’s existence that Ingileif had mentioned.
‘The other place he crops up in is extraordinary,’ Moritz said. ‘There are some Viking runes in a tomb in Orkney, graffiti really, which were discovered in the nineteenth century. The runes claim that they were carved by the axe once owned by Gaukur Trandilsson of Iceland. So the man really did exist.’
Moritz looked at the sheaf of papers in front of Magnus.
‘And that’s the English translation? May I read it?’
‘Yes. Although you will have to use gloves and you will have to read it here. We need to give it to our forensics people before it can be copied.’
‘Do you know where the original is?’
‘Yes, I do. There are only scraps of the original vellum, but there’s an excellent seventeenth-century paper copy. We can show it to you tomorrow. Of course, we can’t be sure what we’ve found is genuine. We need you to authenticate it.’
‘With pleasure,’ said Moritz.
‘And keep this confidential. Don’t say a word to anyone.’
‘I understand. But don’t let your forensic people handle either document without my supervision.’
‘Of course,’ said Magnus. ‘If the saga is genuine, how much would it bring?’
‘It’s impossible to say,’ Moritz replied. ‘The last medieval manuscript on the market was sold by Sotheby’s in the nineteen sixties to a consortium of Icelandic banks. It had belonged to a British collector. Of course this time around the banks haven’t got any money, nor has the Icelandic government.’ He paused. ‘But for this? If it is authentic? There will be plenty of willing buyers outside Iceland. You’re talking millions of dollars.’
He shook his head. ‘Many millions.’
*
As Magnus returned to his desk, Arni was waiting for him, looking excited.
‘What is it? Did Ingileif’s fingerprints match?’
‘No. But I’ve heard back from Australia.’
‘The Elvish expert?’
Arni handed Magnus a printout of an e-mail.
Dear Detective Holm,
I have been able to translate most of the two messages you sent me. They are in Quenya, the most popular of Tolkien’s languages. The translations are as follows:
1. I am meeting Haraldsson tomorrow. Should I insist on seeing the story?
2. Saw Haraldsson. He has (??). He wanted much more money. 5 million. We need to talk.
Note – I could not find a translation for the word ‘kallisarvoinen’, which I have marked (??).
It has been a pleasure to find that my knowledge of Quenya has finally been of practical assistance to someone!
Kind Regards
Barry Fletcher
Senior Lecturer
School of Languages and Linguistics
University of New South Wales
‘Well, the first message is pretty clear. The second was sent at eleven p.m., the night of the murder, right?’ Magnus said.
‘That’s right. As soon as Jubb got back to the hotel having seen Agnar.’
‘No wonder he needed to talk, if he had just pushed a dead body into the lake.’
‘I wonder what the kallisar- whatever-it-is word means?’ Arni asked.
Magnus pondered it for a moment. ‘Manuscript? “He has the manuscript.” That would make sense.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Arni.
‘What do you mean?’
‘That doesn’t sound right to me. It sounds as if Agnar has something else. Something he wants more money for. That Jubb wants to speak to Isildur to discuss whether he should pay for it.’
Magnus sighed. His patience was running low. ‘Arni! We know Agnar died that night. This message explains he was holding out for a lot more money. So Jubb killed him and he needed to speak to the boss once he had done it. Simple. Happens in drug deals back home all the time. Now, let’s show this to Baldur. He’s going to want to discuss this with Jubb.’
Arni followed Magnus to Baldur’s office. It didn’t seem quite that simple to him, but Arni was used to being wrong on police matters. He had learned the important thing was not to make too much of a fuss over his mistakes, and not to let them get him down.
Vigdis drove up the winding road to Hruni. It had taken her nearly two hours to get there from Reykjavik; a long way to go just to tick off a name on a list. But Baldur had insisted that every appointment in Agnar’s diary should be investigated, and so now it was time to check the mysterious entry Hruni.
She passed two or three cars coming the other way, and then she rounded a bend and came upon the valley in which Hruni nestled. As Rannveig had said there was nothing there apart from a church and a rectory beneath a crag. And a view over the meadows to distant mountains.
The Sunday service must just have finished. There were three cars parked on the gravel apron in front of the church. Two of them drew away as Vigdis came to a stop. In front of the church two figures, one very large, one very small, were in deep discussion. The pastor of Hruni and one of his parishioners.
Vigdis hung back until the conversation had finished and the old lady, her cheeks flushed, hobbled rapidly to her small car and drove off.
The pastor turned towards Vigdis. He was a big block of a man, with a thick beard and dark hair flecked with grey. For a moment she felt a flash of fear at his sheer size and power, but she was re-assured by the clerical collar around his neck. Bushy eyebrows rose. Vigdis was used to that.
‘Vigdis Audarsdottir, Reykjavik Metropolitan Police,’ she said.
‘Really?’ said the man in a deep voice.
Vigdis sighed and took out her identification. The pastor examined it carefully.
‘May I have a word with you?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ said the pastor. ‘Come into the house.’ He led Vigdis into the rectory through to a study cluttered with books and working papers. ‘Please sit down. Would you like a cup of coffee, my child?’
‘I’m not a child,’ said Vigdis. ‘I’m a police officer. But yes, thank you.’
She moved a pile of yellowing journals off the seat of a sofa and on to the floor. As she waited for the pastor to return, she examined his study. Open volumes sprawled over a large desk and books lined the walls. Any bare patches were adorned with old prints of various scenes from Icelandic history: a man on the back of a seal or a whale in the sea; a church tumbling down, no doubt Hruni itself; and three or four etchings of Mount Hekla erupting.
Through the window Vigdis could see the modern-day church of Hruni, red and white, spick and span, nestled among ancient gravestones and scrappy trees.
The pastor returned with two cups of coffee, and lowered himself into an old chintz armchair. It creaked with his weight. ‘Now, how can I help you, my dear?’ His voice was deep and he was smiling, but his eyes, deep-set and dark, challenged her.
‘We are investigating the death of Professor Agnar Haraldsson. He was murdered on Thursday.’
‘I read about it in the papers.’
‘We understand that Agnar visited Hruni quite recently.’ Vigdis checked her notes. ‘The twentieth. Last Monday. Did he come to see you?’