The Flatey Enigma Read Free Page A

foreign butter, but it seemed to last forever.”
    Grímur laughed loudly at the story, even though he had definitely heard it often before and, in fact, had been one of the men who had tasted the motor grease.
    Their chatter made time pass quickly, and they soon neared their destination.
    As they drew closer, Kjartan was surprised to see how many houses there were on Flatey. First the church appeared, shimmering in a haze, since it stood at the top of the island, painted in white with a red roof. Then the village gradually started to take shape. The sun glared on the multicolored gables of the houses, and in many places laundry flapped on clotheslines.
    Grímur slowed down the engine as they passed a small isle with high bird cliffs covered in white shells on its northern side but a well-sheltered bay that faced Flatey on its southern side. The strait between the island was no more than a hundred meters wide.
    “We call that islet Hafnarey,” Grímur announced. “Scientists say it’s an ancient volcanic crater.” He still needed to raise his voice because the screeching of the birds had now taken over from the noise produced by the boat’s engine.
    They sailed slowly into the strait and approached a small, dilapidated concrete pier below the village. Some kids were watching them with natural interest.
    “This is called Eyjólfur’s pier. The new pier is over by the fish factory at the southern end of the island,” said Grímur. He steered the boat toward the mooring buoy floating in the strait and grabbed it with a short hook as they passed it. Högni tied the boat’s stern to the anchored buoy and then moved to the bow to be ready for when they reached the pier. Kjartan sat on the thwart beside the casket and felt an urge to help them, but the crew seemed to be doing a good job and he would have undoubtedly just been in their way. Högni hopped onto the step below the pier with the rope and held the boat while Kjartan and Grímur clambered out after him. Högni then released the hawser and allowed the anchored buoy to drag the boat away from the pier again.
    He scolded the children as he tightened the knot: “I strictly forbid you to go on that boat.” Then, to drive the point home, he added, “District Officer Grímur will stick you in that casket if you disobey!”
    The kids recoiled slightly at the sound of this threat and stuck their heads together. A short and stocky man, dressed in dark Sunday clothes with a black hat and silver walking stick poised in his hand, elbowed his way through the throng of children and greeted Kjartan.
    “Thormódur Krákur, I’m the deacon and the island’s eiderdown tradesman,” he introduced himself in a loud voice, tilting on his toes and rocking to and fro.
    “I’m Kjartan…the district magistrate’s assistant,” the new arrival said, hesitantly.
    Thormódur Krákur bowed deeply. “Welcome to the district of Flatey, my good sir and officer. This is hardly the most felicitous of occasions, of course, but we islanders always welcome visitors from our most distinguished magistrature.”
    “Thank you,” said Kjartan, transfixed by the medal that dangled from a threadbare ribbon on the deacon’s lapel.
    Thormódur Krákur continued with his speech but lowered his voice now: “The church will, of course, be open for you when you return with the deceased. I’ll come down with a handcart to transport the casket when you arrive. Our pastor will find some appropriate words.”
    “Yes…thank you,” said Kjartan. He hadn’t really thought about that aspect of the job. The district magistrate had only instructed him to collect the body from the island and to send it on the mail boat to Reykjavik, which was expected in two days’ time, and then write a report. After that his job was supposed to be done.
    “But wouldn’t it be possible to get a car for the casket?” Kjartan asked.
    “The only possibility then would be to use the van from the fish factory, but it