House of Evidence by Viktor Arnar Ingólfsson Page B

lettering.
    “Was this where the lady of the house worked?” he asked.
    “Yes.” Matthías got up. “She often sat here and wrote. She kept up a lively correspondence with her relatives and friends in England.”
    Halldór examined the photographs on the wall.
    “The family, I assume,” he said.
    Matthías came closer and examined the photos in question. “Yes, she has arranged them so that the Icelandic half of the family is to the left on the wall and the English half to the right. The largest picture is of my brother.”
    Halldór examined this photograph. It showed a good-looking man in middle age, with a high forehead and dark, wavy hair, combed back. His eyes were dark and intelligent, the nose straight and delicate, his well-shaped mouth lightly smiling.
    “My brother was a handsome man. Here is a picture of him and his wife on their wedding day,” said Matthías, pointing to a picture of a young couple posing by a church door. Elizabeth was wearing a white wedding gown with a long train, artistically arranged at her feet, and Jacob was in a morning coat and striped trousers, holding a top hat under his arm.
    “They were married in her hometown in England.” He pointed at another picture. “These are the children, Jacob Junior and Kirsten. This was taken at a photographic studio in England when they all went to visit her family, in 1934. Jacob Junior was nine years old at the time and Kirsten four.”
    The photograph had been carefully posed. The boy wore short trousers and sat bolt upright on an upholstered chair, and the girl stood beside him wearing a long, full dress. His clothes were dark in color, hers were light; the background was tastefully draped with cloth, and there was a rocking horse and a leather ball in front of them. Brother and sister bore similar expressions—somewhat arrogant, thought Halldór.
    Matthías pointed at a picture of an older man with white hair and a full beard. “This is old Jacob Kieler, my grandfather. He was born and brought up in the province of Schleswig, which at different times has belonged to both Denmark and Germany. He arrived in Iceland in 1857 to work as a shop assistant for a fellow countryman of his. This, on the other hand,” he said, pointing to a picture of a young man sporting a generous mustache, “is my father, Alfred. He ran a store, first in Hafnarfjördur and later here in Reykjavik. He built this house. And this is my mother, Kirsten.” Matthías pointed at a picture of a plump older woman wearing Danish ceremonial clothes and decked with jewelry. She reminded Halldór of Queen Victoria of England.
    “My niece, Kirsten, was of course named for her. This is the old house in Hafnarfjördur, taken in 1901.” Matthías pointed at a picture of an old two-story wooden house. A young boy wearing shorts was standing in front of it. “This is my brother Jacob. He must have been eleven years old at the time. I think the photo was taken by a foreign friend of my father’s.”
    Matthías pointed at another picture, this one of Birkihlíd under construction; the main walls of the house had been set up, and the builders were working on the roof. In front of the house was a small hayfield, where a cow and a few sheep were grazing.
    “This picture was taken in 1910, when Birkihlíd was being built,” he said.
    “Is this a picture of you?” Halldór asked, pointing at a photo of a slim young man with a dapper mustache, playing the cello.
    “Yes, the picture was taken in Berlin in the spring of 1932, the day I gave my first solo concert.”
    “I assume these are your niece and nephew with their mother,” Halldór said, referring to an enlarged color snapshot of an older woman with a young woman and a man. Though he had onlyseen Jacob Junior after his death, he recognized him immediately. The decorations in the background indicated that the picture had been taken during Christmas celebrations.
    “Yes,” Matthías replied, “Elizabeth and Jacob Junior