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then asked Hrefna to speak to the housekeeper, showing her the way to the kitchen.
    The old woman sat at the kitchen table with one hand covering her eyes; on the table in front of her was a glass of water, half full. A uniformed officer stood in the middle of the room, turning his cap back and forth in his hands.
    “You can take a seat,” Hrefna said to the policeman, as she sat down in front of the old woman.
    “My name is Hrefna. I’m from the police. Do you feel ready to answer a few questions?”
    The woman looked up and nodded. Her eyes were red.
    “I was told it was you who called the police,” Hrefna began gently.
    “Yes,” replied the woman softly.
    “What is your name?”
    “Sveinborg Pétursdóttir.”
    Hrefna wrote the name on a piece of paper in front of her. “I understand you are the housekeeper here.”
    The woman nodded.
    “And the man lying out there, who is he?” asked Hrefna.
    “It’s Jacob—Jacob Kieler Junior. I suppose he is dead, isn’t he?”
    “Yes, that’s right, he is dead.”
    Sveinborg bowed her head and wiped a tear from her eye.
    “Did he live alone here?” Hrefna asked.
    “Yes.”
    There was a short silence.
    “Have you any idea what happened?” Hrefna asked.
    “No, not at all,” the woman answered.
    “Please tell me about this morning, when you arrived,” Hrefna continued.
    Taking a sip from her glass, Sveinborg began her slow and tentative account. She described how she had entered the house and then gone into the kitchen, where she had noticed right away that things were not as usual. Jacob was in the habit of having his breakfast, and then leaving the crockery in the kitchen sink. She would assemble some cold meats and other things each evening, and leave them for him in the refrigerator. They hadn’t been touched. She described how she had searched the house and then where she had found him.
    Her account was disturbed by Jóhann, who wanted to check the soles of Sveinborg’s shoes in order to compare them with the footsteps in the snow. She pointed him toward the shoes in the rear vestibule. He also asked to check the shoes of the police officer still sitting with them in the kitchen.
    “What was Jacob’s occupation?” Hrefna asked after Jóhann had left.
    “He had an office job in a bank. He had been with them for over twenty years,” Sveinborg answered, adding apprehensively, “They must be wondering where he is. Can you let them know what’s happened?”
    “Yes, we’ll do that,” Hrefna replied, catching the policeman’s eye and nodding.
    “And Matthías. He must also be told straightaway,” Sveinborg added.
    “Who is he?” Hrefna asked.
    “Matthías Kieler. He is Jacob Junior’s uncle. He is staying in an apartment not far from here.”
    “We will see to that,” reassured Hrefna, writing down the address Sveinborg gave her. “I shall need a good deal more information from you, but I don’t want you to have to stay any longer in this house. Wouldn’t you feel a bit better in your own home?” Hrefna asked kindly.
    The old woman nodded with relief.

    Diary I
    March 4, 1911. My birthday. I am 21 years old and life is very good. I celebrated the day by taking a train to Roskilde and back again. This is the route of the first railroad here in Denmark, opened in 1847. I have never before traveled by train, and I was shaking with enthusiasm as the train set off. It felt as if the platform was beginning to move while the train remained stationary, just as when a ship moves off from the jetty…
    March 5, 1911. I am still reflecting on my railway journey yesterday. It is utterly astonishing that no railway has yet been built in Iceland. I know that theGovernment Chief Engineer has been campaigning for us to build a railroad, but the voices of dissent are always strong. There is an ample sufficiency of arable land in Iceland, but lack of transport has been a hindrance to agriculture. Product sales are held up in winter, efficient feed transport