‘I tried to talk to her about the importance of prayer. She asked that I leave.’
Bl?ndal smiled. ‘I’m not surprised. She struck me as especially godless during the trial.’
‘Oh no. She seems very well versed in Christian literature.’
‘As is the Devil, I am sure,’ Bl?ndal rejoined. ‘Reverend Jóhann has set Fridrik Sigurdsson to reading the Passion Hymns. Revelations, also. It is more inciting.’
‘Perhaps. However . . .’ Tóti sat up straighter in his chair. ‘It’s become apparent to me that the condemned requires means other than religious rebuke to acquaint herself with death and prepare for her meeting with the Lord.’
Bl?ndal frowned. ‘By what means have you been acquainting the condemned with God, Reverend?’
Tóti cleared his throat and gently set the feather on the desk in front of him.
‘I fear that you may find it unorthodox.’
‘Pray, tell me and we shall ascertain whether your fear is reasonable.’
Tóti paused. ‘I have come upon the conviction that it is not the stern voice of a priest delivering the threat of brimstone, but the gentle and enquiring tones of a friend that will best draw the curtain to her soul, District Commissioner.’
Bl?ndal stared at him. ‘The gentle tones of a friend. I hope I am mistaken in thinking you are serious.’
Tóti reddened. ‘I am afraid you’re not mistaken, sir. All attempts to press the condemned with sermons had adverse effect. Instead, I, I . . . I encourage her to speak of her past. Rather than address her, I allow her to speak to me. I provide her with a final audience to her life’s lonely narrative.’
‘Do you pray with her?’
‘I pray for her.’
‘Does she pray for herself?’
‘I find it impossible to believe she does not, in private. She is to die, sir.’
‘Yes, Reverend. She is to die.’ Bl?ndal slowly set down his quill and pursed his lips together. ‘She is to die, and for good reason.’
There was a knock on the door. ‘Ah,’ said Bl?ndal, looking up. ‘S?unn. Come in.’
A nervous-looking young maid entered the room, bearing a tray.
‘On the desk, if you will,’ Bl?ndal said, watching as the girl placed coffee, cheese, butter, smoked meat and flat bread in front of him. ‘Eat, if you are hungry.’ Bl?ndal immediately began heaping slices of mutton onto his plate.
‘Thank you, I am not,’ Tóti said. He watched the District Commissioner push a large mouthful of bread and cheese into his mouth. He chewed slowly, swallowed, and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his fingers.
‘Assistant Reverend Thorvardur. You might be forgiven for thinking that friendship will direct this murderess to the way of truth and repentance. You are young and inexperienced. I bear some blame for this.’ The District Commissioner slowly leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk.
‘Let me be forthright with you. Last year, in March, Agnes Magnúsdóttir hid Fridrik Sigurdsson in the cowshed at Illugastadir. Natan Ketilsson had returned from the farm Geitaskard with a worker there, Pétur Jónsson –’
‘Forgive me, District Commissioner, but I believe I know what is thought to –’
‘I think you do not know enough,’ Bl?ndal interrupted. ‘Natan had returned home after visiting Geitaskard to attend to Worm Beck, the District Officer there. Worm was very ill. Natan returned to Illugastadir to consult his books, and – as I understand it – fetch additional medicines, and Pétur accompanied him. It was late, Reverend. They decided to sleep the night at Natan’s home and return in the morning.
‘That evening Fridrik arrived in secret from Katadalur and Agnes hid him in the cowshed. They had planned to kill Natan and steal his money all winter, and that is what they did. Agnes waited until the men were asleep before summoning Fridrik. It was a cold-blooded attack on two defenceless men.’