Last Rituals (31 page)

 

 

"No," Matthew said. "This one in the margin. What does it do?"

 

 

"Well, I don't know," Thorgrímur replied. "I can't say, unfortunately. The text on the page doesn't refer to it—it's an example of a symbol that the owner of the book added to the margin himself. That wasn't unusual; symbols like this occur in more works than just those specifically describing magic."

 

 

"What manuscript is it from?" Thóra asked, peering at the text accompanying the document.

 

 

"It's a manuscript from the seventeenth century, owned by the Royal Archive of Antiquities in Stockholm. It goes by the name of the Icelandic Book of Sorcery. Naturally the author is anonymous. It contains fifty spells of various sorts—most are innocent, aimed at personal advancement or defense." He stooped to read the same text Thóra had been peering at. "Some of them are darker, though—for example, one is a death charm, to kill the target. One of the two love spells is also pretty heavy black magic." He looked up from the case. "Funny. Your friend Harald was passionately interested in precisely this section of the exhibition, the old books and manuscripts."

 

 

"Did he inquire about this same symbol?" Matthew asked.

 

 

"No, not as far as I recall," Thorgrímur replied, then added: "I'm not exactly an expert in this particular field so I couldn't help him much—but I do remember that I put him in touch with Páll, the director I'm standing in for. He knows all about these sorts of things."

 

 

"How do we get in touch with him?" Matthew asked excitedly.

 

 

"That's the trouble—he's abroad."

 

 

"So? Can't we phone him or send him an e-mail?" asked Thóra, no less eager than Matthew. "It's quite important for us to find out what this symbol means."

 

 

"Well, I have his number somewhere," Thorgrímur said, much calmer than they were. "I suppose the best thing is if I call him and talk to him first—give him the rundown. He can contact you afterward."

 

 

Thorgrímur went behind the counter, produced a notebook and flicked through it. Then he reached for the telephone and dialed a number, taking care not to let them see it. A short while passed before he started speaking—only to leave a voice mail message.

 

 

"Sorry. He didn't answer. He's bound to call as soon as he gets the message—maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day."

 

 

Making no attempt to conceal their disappointment, Thóra and Matthew gave Thorgrímur their cards. She asked him to let them know the moment he got in touch with Páll. He gladly agreed and put their cards inside his notebook. "What about that friend of yours—did you want to know why he was here?" he said when he had finished.

 

 

"Yes, certainly," Thóra replied. "Did anything besides the manuscripts interest him or did he mention that he was looking for anything?"

 

 

"It was mainly the manuscripts, if I recall correctly," Thorgrímur said, thinking back. "Actually he made me an offer to buy the sacrificial bowl in here, but I couldn't tell if he was joking."

 

 

"Sacrificial bowl? What sacrificial bowl?" Matthew asked.

 

 

"Follow me—it's just inside." They followed him into a small room where a stone bowl was in a display case in the center. "This is a bowl that was used during sacrifices—it was found nearby and the police forensics team has confirmed that there are traces of blood in it. Centuries old as it turns out."

 

 

"That's a hell of a lump of rock," exclaimed Thóra. "Couldn't they have made do with a wooden one?" The stone artifact had to weigh at least several pounds. It had been hollowed out to make the middle concave.

 

 

"So it's not for sale, then?" Matthew asked.

 

 

"No, definitely not. It's the only original exhibit at this museum, and I don't have the authority to sell the objects here anyway."

 

 

Thóra peered at the stone. Could this be the object that Harald had coveted? It seemed unlikely, but stranger things had come to light during their investigation. "This is definitely the same stone?"

 

 

"What do you mean?" Thorgrímur asked in surprise.

 

 

"Well, I was just wondering if the director could have taken Harald at his word, sold him the stone bowl, and had another made to replace it?"

 

 

Thorgrímur smiled. "Not a chance. It's the same stone that's always been here. I'd bet my head on it." He turned round and left the room, with them in hot pursuit. "As I said—he just mentioned it casually."

 

 

"But was there anything else he said or asked about?" Thóra asked. "Anything out of the ordinary?"

 

 

"Well, as I said he was mainly interested in the old sorcery books and manuscripts," Thorgrímur repeated. "He did ask me about
The Witches' Hammer,
if I'd ever heard or seen anything about an old edition of it in Iceland. I'd never heard such a story and told him so. Maybe you don't know what I'm talking about?" He looked at them.

 

 

"Oh, yes. We've heard of it," Matthew answered for them both.

 

 

"I asked him what he based his claim on and he said that some old letters suggested a copy found its way to Iceland."

 

 

 

CHAPTER 25

The stately approach to the main building of the University of Iceland was in a league of its own when compared with other local buildings. Bríet admired the view as she sat on the steps of the crescent-shaped driveway. For some reason she suddenly wanted to own a car. But that was out of the question on her pittance of a student loan—she'd love to meet the miser who calculated the cost of living it was supposed to meet.

 

 

It would be nice to finish her course and start working—not that historians were big earners. If she wanted money she was in the wrong field. So she yearned to sink her claws into a good provider, as her elder sister had done when she married a lawyer. He worked for one of the big banks and was rolling in money. Her sister lived a life of luxury. Now they were building a huge house on the outskirts of the city and her sister, a political science graduate, worked mornings in one of the ministries and could play around shopping for the rest of the day.

 

 

Bríet leaned up against Dóri's side; he was sitting next to her. He was so handsome, a great guy really—and, to top it off, doctors generally did very well for themselves.

 

 

"What are you thinking about?" he asked as he threw a snowball he had been busy making.

 

 

"Oh, I don't know," Bríet answered wearily. "Hugi, mainly."

 

 

Dóri followed the snowball's trajectory as it soared high into the air and landed right beside the statue of Saemundur the Wise and the seal. "He was a sorcerer," Dóri said. "Did you know that?"

 

 

"Who?" Bríet said in surprise. "Hugi?"

 

 

"No, Saemundur the Wise."

 

 

"Oh, him. Yes, of course I knew."

 

 

Dóri gazed at the statue of the sorcerer beating a seal over the head with a prayer book. According to legend the seal was actually the devil himself, in disguise. It was a strange statue to put in front of a university, and Dóri had long been fascinated with it.

 

 

Bríet took a pack of cigarettes out of her bag. "Want one? Your favorite brand." She smirked as she handed him the white packet.

 

 

Dóri smiled back at her as he looked up from the packet. "No, thanks. I've got some." He took one of his own and they both lit up. He leaned forward so that Bríet had to take her hand off his shoulder. "What a mess."

 

 

"Tell me about it." Unsure of the best reply, Bríet decided to play safe. She did not want him to do anything stupid that would have bad repercussions for her, and of course for him too. But she also wanted to show him that she had more understanding and integrity than Marta Mist.

 

 

"I'm sick of this bullshit." He stared straight ahead and thought a moment before continuing. "The other students here are totally different from us."

 

 

"I know," Bríet said. "We're not exactly typical university students. I'm fed up with it too." She had no idea what they were talking about.

 

 

Dóri went on talking and Bríet had the impression he had not been listening to what she said. "What really strikes me most is that the other students—who aren't always going out and partying—seem just as happy with life as we are. If anything, more satisfied."

 

 

Bríet took her chance. She put her arm over Dóri's shoulder and pressed her face toward his. "I've been thinking exactly the same thing. We've gone too far; if Andri and the others want to keep on, they can do it without me. I'm going to get a grip on myself, on my studies and everything really. It's no fun anymore." She had deliberately avoided mentioning Marta Mist by name for fear of giving herself away.

 

 

"That's funny—I kind of feel the same way." He turned to her and grinned. "We're not so different, you and me."

 

 

Bríet gave him a peck on the cheek. "We're a good team. Forget the others."

 

 

"Not Hugi," said Dóri, and his smile vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

 

 

"No, of course not him," she hurried to say. "I'm always thinking about him—how do you reckon he feels?"

 

 

"Awful. I can't take this anymore."

 

 

"What?" Bríet was afraid to ask—she would have preferred to make a guess at what he meant, but she wasn't sure she'd get it right and she didn't want to spoil the way things were going.

 

 

Dóri started to get to his feet. "I'll give that lawyer a couple more days—then I'm going to the police. I don't give a shit what happens."

 

 

Damn. Bríet desperately tried to think of a way to make Dóri see some sense—she would even have gladly handed him over to Marta Mist, had she been there with them. "Dóri, you didn't kill Harald, did you? You were at Kaffibrennslan, weren't you?"

 

 

He stood up and looked down at her, his expression far from pleasant. "Yes, I was at Kaffibrennslan. Where were you?" He walked away.

 

 

Bríet was upset. She leaped to her feet and said: "I didn't mean it like that, I'm sorry. I just meant—why go to the police?"

 

 

Dóri stopped dead in his tracks and spun round. "You know—I can't understand any longer why you and Marta Mist are so set against it. The day of reckoning always comes. Don't forget that." He strode off.

 

 

Bríet had no idea how to react. A few moments later she took out her mobile and punched in a number.

 

 

* * *

Laura Amaming headed for the lobby of the Manuscript Institute where Gloria was struggling to vacuum the mat. Laura had not had the chance to talk to her alone all morning and she gladly seized the opportunity. "I need to ask you something."

 

 

Gloria looked up in surprise. "What? I'm doing exactly what you taught me."

 

 

Laura waved her hand dismissively. "I'm not talking about cleaning. I want to know if you noticed anything unusual in the common room over the weekend of the murder. You cleaned it then. Before the body was found."

 

 

Gloria's dark eyes widened. "I told you—and the police. There was nothing."

 

 

Laura gave her a stern look. She was lying. "Gloria. Tell me the truth. You know lying's a sin. God knows what you saw in there. Are you going to lie to him, too, when the time comes for you to stand in front of him?" Laura took the girl by the shoulder and forced her to look her in the eye. "It's all right. You couldn't know there'd been a murder. No one went into the printer room that weekend. What did you see?"

 

 

A tear rolled down Gloria's cheek. Laura was unruffled; this was not the first tear that the girl had shed at work. "Gloria. Pull yourself together. Tell me—I found traces of blood on the window handle of the common room. What was in there?"

 

 

The tear became two, then three, then they poured out in a steady flood. Gloria blurted out between sobs: "I didn't know—I didn't know."

 

 

"I'm aware of that, Gloria. Everyone is. How could you have known?" She wiped the tears from the girl's cheeks. "What was in there anyway?"

 

 

"Blood," the girl said, looking at Laura in terror. "But it wasn't a pool of blood or something like that. It was more like someone had tried to clean up and missed a few spots. I didn't realize until it was up off the floor and on my cloth. I didn't think any more of it then—I didn't know about…you know."

 

 

Laura heaved a sigh of relief. Traces of blood—nothing more than that. So Gloria was safe, she surely wouldn't land in trouble for concealing it. Laura had kept her own cloth with the blood from the window and could now give it to Tryggvi to pass on to the police. They had methods for tracing the owner of the blood. In her mind Laura had no doubt that the murder was committed in that room. "Gloria—don't worry about it. It's just a trivial matter. You'll just need to make a new statement—just tell the truth, that you didn't realize the importance of this information." She smiled, but the girl was still crying.

 

 

"There's something else," she said, still sniveling.

 

 

"Something else?" Laura asked, amazed. "Like what?"

 

 

"I found something else in there that morning. In the drawer where the knives are kept. I'll show you," Gloria said, and burst into tears again. "I kept it. Come with me."

 

 

Laura followed Gloria into one of the cleaning closets on the first floor. Her eyes still shiny with tears, Gloria climbed onto a small set of steps and reached up to the top shelf. Bringing down a small object wrapped in a paper towel, she handed it to Laura. "I kept it because I knew it was rather strange. And when the body was found, I realized what it was, and I got so scared. My fingerprints are on it and I was sure the police would think I killed him. I didn't kill him."