Meltwater (Fire and Ice)

pastor.’
    Egill looked distinctly uncomfortable as they led him into an interview room.
    ‘Had a bad night’s sleep?’ asked Baldur.
    Egill nodded nervously.
    ‘What do you want to tell us?’
    Egill ran his fingers through his thinning hair. He looked at Magnus. ‘You remember that you asked me yesterday whether information given to a priest should remain confidential even if it
relates to a crime, and I told you it should?’
    ‘Yes, I remember that,’ said Magnus.
    ‘It’s been a central tenet of all Christian sects for centuries, as I’m sure you are aware. The Catholics have the sanctity of the confessional, but the principles apply more
widely.’
    ‘I see,’ said Magnus.
    ‘Well, this business with our former Bishop made me think overnight about the rights and wrongs of keeping quiet when you see something illegal – not that I know anything at all
about him.’
    ‘No,’ said Magnus. Baldur was sitting in silence, although Magnus was sure he would have his own views on the matter. The important thing now was to let Egill talk, and Baldur knew
it.
    Egill smiled. ‘Ironically, that was exactly what Ásta wanted to ask me about. Whether she should talk to you about what someone had told her.’
    ‘What did you say?
    ‘I advised her not to. Especially since the person who had spoken to her was doing so in the belief that because she was a priest the knowledge would go no further.’
    ‘Did she take your advice?’
    ‘She seemed to disagree with it. She wasn’t sure. Although she didn’t tell me she was going to, I am not at all surprised that she went into the church to pray for
guidance.’
    Why the hell did you not tell us this yesterday? was what Magnus wanted to shout at the priest. But he didn’t. ‘How much did she tell you about this . . . individual?’
he asked calmly.
    ‘Very little. She told me very little on purpose. It sounded like this person had made some kind of confession to her.’
    ‘Did she give you any clue what about?’
    ‘No. Not at all. But she did say that the crime was a serious one.’
    ‘What about the sex of this person? Did Ásta use the words “he” or “she”?’ Baldur asked.
    ‘Good question,’ said Egill. He closed his eyes, trying to remember. ‘She said “he”. I’m sure she said “he” just once, as in, “He asked me
for my assurance that I wouldn’t tell anyone.”’ He nodded, more firmly this time. ‘It was definitely a he.’
    ‘Was there any indication that this person might have been involved with the Church in any way?’ Baldur asked. ‘A fellow clergyman, perhaps?’
    ‘No,’ Egill replied firmly. ‘None at all.’
    They spent ten more minutes asking the same questions in different ways, but without getting any different answers. Both detectives refrained from yelling at their witness. Magnus badly wanted
to, and he was sure Baldur felt the same way.
    ‘That bastard should have told us this right away,’ muttered Baldur as they left the interview room. ‘All this crap about confidentiality of the confession. What about
“Thou shalt not kill”? And “Thou shalt help the police find the killer”?’
    Magnus sympathized. ‘I wonder who it was who confessed to Ásta?’ he said.
    ‘And what they confessed,’ said Baldur. ‘I’ll bet you it had something to do with that pervert the Bishop.’
    ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Magnus.
    ‘Baldur!’ Árni was approaching them along the corridor, looking flushed.
    ‘What is it?’ asked Baldur.
    ‘We’ve found the murder weapon. The candlestick.’
    ‘Where?’
    ‘Right next to Raudavatn.’ Raudavatn, or Red Water, was a tarn about a kilometre from the church in Grafarholt.
    ‘Things are beginning to move,’ said Baldur. ‘Are you coming, Magnús?’
    ‘No, I’ll stay here,’ said Magnus. He appreciated Baldur including him, but although things were moving he wanted to stop rushing around.
    He wanted to think.
    Once Baldur had gone, he too left the building and walked down towards the bay. The sky was clear and it was cold, with a gentle breeze blowing in off the water from the north. He crossed the
busy Saebraut and walked a little way along the shore to the Viking ship sculpture. He sat down, hunched in his jacket against the cold, and stared out over the bay.
    The Snaefells Glacier way in the distance was hidden in its own little cloud, but Mount Esja was clear. Its upper reaches were daubed in a dribbling of white snow, and the cliffs