readingbooks in Icelandic, but she never again tried to speak it. Elizabeth was not a person you mocked.”
Halldór led the way into the office. There was gray fingerprint powder on the desk and on the stamp frames.
“I do apologize for this mess,” Halldór said, as he examined the stamps. “These must be worth quite a bit.”
“I don’t think they’re worth a fortune, but they are attractive and neatly displayed. Jacob Junior inherited a large stamp collection from his father, but I gather he had sold everything apart from these here.”
Halldór selected the latest diary from the bookshelf. “I assume that Jacob Senior continued to keep a diary after he completed this one at the beginning of 1932.”
“That’s right. He kept a diary until his death.”
“Do you know where the more recent books are?”
“No.”
Halldór turned to the gun cabinet. It seemed quite sturdy, with the guns securely locked behind an iron grill. There were two shotguns, three rifles of various sizes, and one pistol, all clean and shiny—it looked as if they had recently been polished.
“Who owned these weapons?” Halldór asked.
“Jacob Senior was a great shooting enthusiast; they were his,” Matthías replied. “Jacob Junior also went shooting with his father, and was a reasonable shot.”
“Is there ammunition here for the guns?”
“I expect so, but Jacob Junior probably kept it in a safe place.”
“Can you tell me why one of the dining chairs has been moved into the parlor?” Halldór asked, as the two men made their way through the parlor toward the dining room.
“No,” Matthías declared, shaking his head.
In the dining room was a large sideboard for china; some of the doors were glazed, revealing the collection of beautiful plates inside. There was a small trolley in one corner of the room.
They passed through the door that led from the dining room into the kitchen. And Matthías paused, looking around the room. “Jacob and his mother showed great persistence in putting up with this turn-of-the-century kitchen all these years. The refrigerator was the only thing that was bought new, but it was hidden inside one of the cupboards. There is also an electric stove.”
Halldór examined the utensils hanging on the walls. “Has this stuff been in use here all the time?” he asked.
“No, hardly,” Matthías replied. “I assume that Sveinborg has cooking equipment that she keeps somewhere. These things are more museum items. Jacob Junior even collected old kitchen equipment from other houses to display here.”
“There is a coal-fired range here; is it in working order?” Halldór asked.
“Yes, it is connected to the house’s main chimney stack, which has three flues. There is also a fireplace in the laundry room in the basement. Come, I’ll show you all this on the plan of the house that is kept in the studio.”
To the right of the house’s main entrance was a door leading to the extension. “Jacob Senior had this studio built in 1935 to provide a work space for himself and his assistants,” explained Matthías.
It was a spacious room, about twelve by twenty-six feet, containing a large drafting table with a complicated wrought-iron support that allowed one to adjust the table’s height and position. A heavy counterweight made it easy to set the angle of the table, and a drafting machine with two long rulers was attached to its top edge. There was a chair with a screw thread so it couldbe made higher or lower by turning the seat. Halldór’s eye was caught by the large framed drawings, white lines on a dark blue base, hanging on the walls. He examined the one nearest to him. “Reykjavik Station, Scale 1:2000, 1923.” The drawing was a rough sketch of Reykjavik city center, showing the outlines of the principal buildings and Tjörnin Lake, but also incorporating a railroad station and train tracks.
The railroad station had been drawn on the corner of Skothúsvegur and Sóleyjargata,
Halldór led the way into the office. There was gray fingerprint powder on the desk and on the stamp frames.
“I do apologize for this mess,” Halldór said, as he examined the stamps. “These must be worth quite a bit.”
“I don’t think they’re worth a fortune, but they are attractive and neatly displayed. Jacob Junior inherited a large stamp collection from his father, but I gather he had sold everything apart from these here.”
Halldór selected the latest diary from the bookshelf. “I assume that Jacob Senior continued to keep a diary after he completed this one at the beginning of 1932.”
“That’s right. He kept a diary until his death.”
“Do you know where the more recent books are?”
“No.”
Halldór turned to the gun cabinet. It seemed quite sturdy, with the guns securely locked behind an iron grill. There were two shotguns, three rifles of various sizes, and one pistol, all clean and shiny—it looked as if they had recently been polished.
“Who owned these weapons?” Halldór asked.
“Jacob Senior was a great shooting enthusiast; they were his,” Matthías replied. “Jacob Junior also went shooting with his father, and was a reasonable shot.”
“Is there ammunition here for the guns?”
“I expect so, but Jacob Junior probably kept it in a safe place.”
“Can you tell me why one of the dining chairs has been moved into the parlor?” Halldór asked, as the two men made their way through the parlor toward the dining room.
“No,” Matthías declared, shaking his head.
In the dining room was a large sideboard for china; some of the doors were glazed, revealing the collection of beautiful plates inside. There was a small trolley in one corner of the room.
They passed through the door that led from the dining room into the kitchen. And Matthías paused, looking around the room. “Jacob and his mother showed great persistence in putting up with this turn-of-the-century kitchen all these years. The refrigerator was the only thing that was bought new, but it was hidden inside one of the cupboards. There is also an electric stove.”
Halldór examined the utensils hanging on the walls. “Has this stuff been in use here all the time?” he asked.
“No, hardly,” Matthías replied. “I assume that Sveinborg has cooking equipment that she keeps somewhere. These things are more museum items. Jacob Junior even collected old kitchen equipment from other houses to display here.”
“There is a coal-fired range here; is it in working order?” Halldór asked.
“Yes, it is connected to the house’s main chimney stack, which has three flues. There is also a fireplace in the laundry room in the basement. Come, I’ll show you all this on the plan of the house that is kept in the studio.”
To the right of the house’s main entrance was a door leading to the extension. “Jacob Senior had this studio built in 1935 to provide a work space for himself and his assistants,” explained Matthías.
It was a spacious room, about twelve by twenty-six feet, containing a large drafting table with a complicated wrought-iron support that allowed one to adjust the table’s height and position. A heavy counterweight made it easy to set the angle of the table, and a drafting machine with two long rulers was attached to its top edge. There was a chair with a screw thread so it couldbe made higher or lower by turning the seat. Halldór’s eye was caught by the large framed drawings, white lines on a dark blue base, hanging on the walls. He examined the one nearest to him. “Reykjavik Station, Scale 1:2000, 1923.” The drawing was a rough sketch of Reykjavik city center, showing the outlines of the principal buildings and Tjörnin Lake, but also incorporating a railroad station and train tracks.
The railroad station had been drawn on the corner of Skothúsvegur and Sóleyjargata,
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