The Steady Running of the Hour: A Novel (58 page)

I take
The Icelandic Sagas
from my bag and page to the introduction.

The world of the Icelandic Sagas is complex and multi-layered, with the same agents alternately acting as forces for good or evil. The writing style tends towards the terse and impersonal, with little explanation of why events occur. Things happen; fate is rarely questioned. Personalities are shown through action, seldom through analysis. Relationships between individuals are complex, defined by friendship, blood, marriage, and immediate geography.

Certain themes define the Sagas, particularly the contending forces of character, honor, and luck. These devices compete to determine the outcome of the story. Characters must often and at great disadvantage overcome fantastic enemies. Life is short and uncertain; men’s worth is determined by glory in arms. Any slight to one’s honor or that of one’s family must be avenged, whether by blood or money. Men are easily goaded to fatal violence over a perceived insult.

The supernatural plays a major role as well. Oneiric elements are often featured, frequently in the guise of prophetic dreams. The concept of luck is simple, particularly as portrayed in
Njál’s Saga
: one is born with a certain store of luck. When that luck runs out, one is doomed.

However subtly it may be posed, a critical question faces the protagonists of the Sagas. Do they have the character to surmount their difficulties, or do they succumb to the vices of avarice, jealousy, pride or cowardice?

The bus approaches the end of the route, the remaining passengers exiting at the final stops until I’m alone. The driver eyes me through his rearview mirror. The bus makes a series of sharp turns and halts in a parking lot. All the doors swing open.

I walk off in the direction where I hope to find the ring road, the main highway that circles the whole island, running along the north coast to the Eastfjords and curving back along the south. I take out my free tourist map of Reykjavík and examine the city’s northern periphery, orienting the sheet with my antique compass. The part of the ring road I’m trying to reach is covered by an ad for glacier tours of Vatnajökull.

—You couldn’t even call this hopeless, I whisper.

I fold up the map and search for the highway by instinct. An hour of wandering brings me to a long entrance ramp; I choose a spot at the base where I’m visible for some distance and there’s a wide shoulder to pull over. I stand up straight and extend my thumb, thinking of my haggard appearance: an army-surplus parka, worn brown pants and muddy sneakers, an enormous backpack. I’ve never hitchhiked before.

The cars speed by at forty miles an hour, punching gusts of wind at me. I don’t look at the faces of the drivers. A sedan passes and its brake lights go red. I swing my bag over my shoulder and sprint up the road.

The first man who picks me up is tall and gangly, his cropped hair graying at the edges. He says he is a troubadour, a traditional entertainer in Icelandic song, and he bellows a few bars as proof of this. His voice is deep and impressive.

—Do you believe me now?

—I do.

The troubadour repairs credit card readers on gas station pumps throughout the country. He is from the Vestmannaeyjar, an archipelago off the southern coast.

We drive through green and rolling hills. The road twists and climbs to higher ground where the moss and dirt have been dusted in soft new snow. There are few other cars.

—The first snow of the year, he murmurs.

The troubadour sings folk songs to pass the time, his huge hands gripping the steering wheel. He tells me the grim tale of a serial killer who picked up hitchhikers.

—Maybe you’re the killer, he says, winking at me. But maybe I am.

We stop at a service station straddling the junction of two roads. The troubadour is going the other way. We go into the convenience store and he offers to buy me a hot dog three times before he accepts that I don’t want one. His generosity makes me embarrassed about how sorry
I’ve been feeling for myself. He asks the man behind the counter for a piece of paper and writes down his phone number. He slides the paper toward me, patting a huge hand on my back.

—You should be able to get another ride here. Call me if you get into trouble.

The town of Akureyri lies on the north coast of Iceland about halfway between Reykjavík and the Eastfjords. I get there after nightfall, riding in a young woman’s station wagon along a narrow inlet of dark water, the dim lights of the town reflected below. The woman drops me off at the youth hostel. I’d like to keep going, but I doubt anyone picks up hitchhikers at night.

Akureyri has six thousand inhabitants and feels even smaller than that. The bearded clerk at the youth hostel sits behind the counter turning the knob on an ancient color television. I put my passport on the counter and ask for a hostel bed.

—Took the bus up here?

—I hitchhiked.

The clerk raises his eyebrows, tossing a room key on the counter.

—You’re the only one here.

I ask if I can make a collect call. The clerk passes an old rotary phone across the desk. He interrupts his television viewing to stare at me as I ask the operator if I can be connected to England. The secretary at Twyning and Hooper recognizes my voice at once. I’m transferred to Prichard.

—The elusive Mr. Campbell, Prichard says. You’re quite the enigma here. Even Geoffrey can’t explain what you’re doing in Iceland.

—She was here. I know she was here.

—If you’ll excuse me, Prichard sighs, you don’t know that for certain. This brooch of yours proves nothing. Have you found any other evidence?

—Nothing watertight—

—Mr. Campbell, you’ve only two days left. And I cannot see how
this brooch, or anything in Iceland for that matter, will lead to evidence that connects you to Ms. Soames-Andersson.

—It’s all part of the same problem. And it’s all I’ve got to follow.

—No doubt it is, but you won’t solve all this by Thursday. In view of that, we’ve prepared certain arrangements. You recall that I’m forbidden to give details of the Walsingham trust except as necessary. But I can reveal to you now that the standard of evidence required for distribution of the estate is more—flexible, shall we say, than you may believe. In short, we may be able to get somewhere with what you’ve already found.

—I thought none of my evidence was usable.

—It wouldn’t pass muster in court. But the Walsingham fortune is governed by a trust, not a will. It was set up in what we call a ‘half-secret trust.’ Because a will is essentially a matter of public record, these half-secret trusts were fairly common in Mr. Walsingham’s day. A man who wished to leave money to a mistress or illegitimate children would direct in his will that the money be given to a trustee, who would then distribute the estate in accordance with a secret trust, be it oral or written. In this case, Mr. Walsingham bequeathed most of his assets to Twyning as trustee, with instructions for the estate to be distributed according to a secret trust document. That was the document that mentioned Ms. Soames-Andersson. It was out of the question that she be put in the will. We call it half-secret because everyone knows there is a trust, but no one knows what the trust says.

—I don’t understand.

—What this means for you is quite simple. The admissibility of evidence is determined by the trustees, not a probate court. And I’ve spoken with the other trustees—

—Who are they? How could they still be alive?

—I’m afraid I can’t tell you who they are. But I can say that the trust document allows for the selection of successors, just as I was successor to Peter Twyning. The point is that provided you return to London tomorrow, the trustees have agreed to evaluate the evidence you’ve gathered and make a decision from there.

—All the evidence that you said wasn’t good enough. Now you’re saying it is?

—What I’m saying, Prichard corrects, is that certain allowances might be made.

My voice rises. —Then why didn’t you say that at the beginning? This whole time you’ve been telling me I’m doing everything wrong. But you were the one who told me to follow Eleanor’s letter. Well this is where it led me. For two months you’ve been saying I’m off track, then suddenly—

—Mr. Campbell, Prichard interrupts, I told you all I was permitted to reveal at the time. As for the standard of evidence, I never represented that any specific standard existed. I only encouraged you to seek evidence the trustees might find persuasive. You never found it. The fact that the trustees are prepared to consider your case has more to do with the calendar than any particular evidence you’ve gathered. They’re simply reluctant to pass on the estate so long as a potential heir exists. They’re being charitable, and I think you ought to be grateful.

Prichard takes a breath. His voice softens.

—What is far more relevant is what I say to you now. You must return to London. We can arrange your travel and schedule a meeting. I can’t promise any result. But I can promise that if you’re still out in Iceland on Thursday, the estate will pass on and you’ll never see a penny.

There is a long silence. Across the counter the hostel clerk turns the knob on the television. I run my hand across my face, speaking almost in a whisper.

—I don’t care.

—Pardon?

—I don’t care about the money.

—You don’t care, Prichard repeats slowly. Are you sure of that? Have you any idea how you’ll feel in ten years, or in forty? Frankly, I don’t know that you’re mature enough to make such a decision. I don’t mean to patronize you, Mr. Campbell. But you’re twenty-three years old and you wish to throw away—

—What does it matter to you who gets the money? You’re just the lawyer.

—I daresay it does matter. It’s not a question of money. Look at the facts.

Prichard exhales sharply. His voice is getting louder.

—Fact one. Ashley Walsingham died alone on Mount Everest at the age of twenty-nine. Fact two. Mr. Walsingham left nearly his whole fortune to Ms. Soames-Andersson, a woman he hadn’t seen in seven years. Fact three. Ms. Soames-Andersson never collected the estate. Fact four. Your grandmother never collected the estate, nor did your own mother. Fact five. This law firm learned of a letter connecting you to Ms. Soames-Andersson less than three months before the eighty-year trust expires. What does all this mean to you?

—It’s crazy. It doesn’t mean anything.

—You’re wrong, Mr. Campbell. It means everything. Do you imagine I’m not troubled by the improbabilities of all this? Of course I am, and Geoffrey is, and anyone who ever touched the Walsingham case. But that’s precisely why it matters. Perhaps I’ve grown deranged in my old age, but the meaning is clear enough to me—

—It’s just random. It’s chaos.

—It is not, Prichard counters. All these signs point to you. The more I’ve learned, the more certain I’ve become. Perhaps it’s too much to say that Ashley Walsingham died for the money, or that it kept him and Ms. Soames-Andersson apart, or that it hurt your grandmother or your mother. But it seems to me they all suffered something, and only you stand to gain from it. Sentimental old fool that I am, I can’t bear to see you throw it away simply to satisfy some mad theory at the extremity of Europe. It isn’t fair to you. And it certainly isn’t fair to them.

I shake my head, winding the telephone cord around my fingers.

—I can’t turn back. I’m getting close—

—You may be close to something, Prichard says. But I doubt it’s what you think it is.

No one speaks. Finally Prichard says that Khan will expect to hear
from me by tomorrow morning at the latest. I give the phone back to the clerk.

—How far is it to the Eastfjords from here?

—The Eastfjords? Why do you want to go there?

—To go swimming.

The clerk doesn’t smile.

—Two hundred and sixty kilometers to Egilsstaðir.