Black Sun Rising

by Mathew Carr

  Afterward he washed and put on the smarter of his two suits, and went downstairs to the kitchen, where he ate a breakfast of bread, Bovril, and tea. He walked the short distance to the underground, and bought a copy of the Mirror. Even as he waited for the train he checked his body and the world around him for any warning signs that might oblige him to retreat from the day. But there was no numbness or tension, no unwanted sights or smells, and the faces around him seemed clear and distinct as he sat on the train and read the paper from cover to cover, from the advertisement offering treatment for alcoholic excess to the society and sports pages. By the time he reached St Pancras he had learned that Bertie was motoring at the Newmarket races; that Lloyd George’s budget faced another challenge in the Lords; that Hobbs was on his way to another hundred, and that the suffragette prisoners would now be force-fed.

  The paper also reported that the army had perfected its military measures against the Somaliland Mullah. Lawton had learned to take such claims with a pinch of salt. From a distance it was always a pleasure to imagine generals effortlessly moving the empire’s armies back and forth like pieces on a board, but he had seen war with his own eyes and so had Maitland. He glanced up at the list of stations and pictured a line of soldiers sweating and cursing their through Somaliland toward some unknown destination in their scratchy uniforms and helmets, weighed down by their knapsacks and rifles. And then he saw himself and his companions standing over the five Boer commandos, who knelt beside their blankets with their hands on their heads. He saw Maitland’s face like a smooth marble statue in the moonlight and heard the horses whinnying just behind him, and the rustle of the wind stroking the trees above their heads.

  Even in the darkness he saw the anger and disbelief on the faces of the Boers that they had allowed themselves to be taken by surprise in the bush by the English officer with the plummy accent. They were not the only ones to underestimate Maitland. When the young captain took command of their unit that winter, few people had expected much from him. Maitland came to them fresh off the boat, smelling of cologne and exuding an air of the cricket pitch, country estates, and drawing rooms, but he had proven himself to be a tough, brave, and decisive officer who never asked his men to do anything he would not do himself. He was also ruthless. Where some officers had balked at putting Boer women into camps or burning their farms, Maitland had not shown a moment’s hesitation. Lawton had not fully realized how ruthless until that night on the veld, when Maitland stared down at the five commandos and said, “Corporal, draw up the firing squad.”

  Lawton remembered that Maitland had given the order in the same voice that he might have used to give instructions to a servant or the gardener, so that he was not sure if he had heard him correctly.

  “Sir?”

  “You heard. These men are guerrillas. We aren’t taking prisoners.”

  By that time Lawton had already done a lot of things in the war that he had never imagined doing, and he did not question his orders further. No one knew how many of their men the Boers had killed, and even the notion of taking prisoners seemed like a quaint relic of a different kind of war that had neither meaning nor relevance in a situation like this. Out there in the veld, on that calm moonlit evening, Maitland’s order seemed entirely logical, and even the Boers seemed to expect it. They left the five bodies lying in the copse and took their rifles, horses, and ammunition, and it was only afterward when they rode away that Maitland told them that they would be better not to speak about it. And now as the train pulled away from Liverpool Street, it seemed to Lawton that he could still smell the sweet scent of acacia as the oldest of the Boers lay twitching on the ground till Maitland finished him off with the Browning.

  * * *

  In the end they had been forced to speak about it to the military tribunal. At the inquiry, they all told the story they had agreed upon and rehearsed with Maitland, and Lawton had been the first to testify. Once again the scene unfolded before him; the barracks hut where the regimental commander Colonel Phillips sat behind the desk with his two officers, one of whom was taking notes; the wooden chair where Phillips invited him to sit down; the fresh young faces of the newcomers marching up and down the dusty square outside in their khaki uniforms.

  “Corporal Lawton, this is not a court-martial. But I would appreciate your frankness. I want you to describe what happened on the night of September 24.”

  “Our column was carrying out anti-guerrilla operations in the Lichtenburg sector, sir. We were looking for a Boer commando camp, acting on intelligence information.”

  “And did you find it?”

  “We did, sir. We left our horses and advanced on foot. But our presence was discovered. There was a firefight sir. All five commandos were killed.”

  “But there was a sixth who you didn’t find, wasn’t there?” Phillips looked at him intently. “And he says that Captain Maitland ordered you and your men to execute the prisoners in cold blood. And if that is true, then it is a very serious matter.”

  “It isn’t true sir. They were armed guerrillas and they were shooting at us.”

  “Well why do you think this Boer is saying something completely different?”

  “To discredit His Majesty’s army sir. And make up for the fact that his unit was caught with its pants down.”

  Phillips smiled faintly. Even then Lawton sensed that he wanted to believe what he was being told, and that he knew, as all of them did, that bad things happened in war that could not be helped, even if the politicians and the public preferred not to hear of them. In the end there had been no court-martial, and the incident was forgotten because it suited everyone to forget it. He had lied, and lied well, and it was because of his lies that Maitland had not ended up in prison or in front of a firing squad, and left the army as a hero and gone on to become a chief inspector at Limehouse station.

  It was Maitland who invited him to join the force and Maitland who encouraged him to become a detective. Lawton did not know whether he had acted out of guilt or gratitude, and until yesterday he had not expected to see him again. Now he found him waiting by the ticket office, wearing the same suit he had worn the previous day, and a newly starched collar. No doubt he had a fragrant wife to do such things for him, Lawton thought, and he wondered whether she had any idea what her husband had once been capable of when he wore a uniform.

  “I meant to tell you yesterday,” Maitland said, as they sat down on the train. “There’s an English detective in Barcelona already. Charles Arrow.”

  “Arrow of the Yard? I thought he’d retired.”

  “He has. But he’s been helping the city with its terrorism problem.”

  “And he didn’t want to take this on?”

  “He’s not interested. But he might be able to help you if you need it. And one other thing, I’ve told Mrs. Foulkes that you left the force to become a private investigator—for the salary. If she asks just go along with it. We don’t need to give her any more… unnecessary information.”

  “Yes sir.” Lawton felt himself reddening.

  “No need for sir, Harry. We’re not in the army now. I was very sorry to hear what happened to you. All the things we went through in the war. And then this? Damned bad luck.”

  Lawton did not like sympathy, whether it came from the widow Friedman or from Maitland, and he nodded vaguely and looked out the window as the train chugged out through the suburbs. Maitland briefly attempted to make conversation about their Limehouse days, but Lawton’s obvious lack of enthusiasm was such that he soon gave up and retreated behind his newspaper. From time to time he made some comment on what he was reading, as though he were talking to a complete stranger. None of this dispelled the awkwardness between them. Even as Lawton looked out at neat little towns and villages, the soft undulating hills and woodlands, he found himself thinking of the war. He saw his unit riding across the veld in the rain and sun, chasing guerrillas, and blowing up watering holes with dynamite. He saw himself bayoneting sheep and cattle at Boer farm
s, smashing furniture and setting fire to Boer houses. It seemed incredible to him that he could ever have done such things, but Maitland’s presence was a reminder that he had. He was not sure whether war changed men, or whether it merely brought to the surface things that were normally kept hidden in peacetime, but a part of him now wished that Maitland had not come back to remind him of his own transformation.

  * * *

  On arriving at Hastings, they took a motor-taxi to the village of Graveling, and drove out through a landscape of hedgerows, fields and oast-houses.

  Twenty minutes later the taxi drove into a tree-lined drive and pulled up in front of a large redbrick house, with a coat of arms of crossed swords and a shield above the doorways. A servant girl in a black dress, white apron, and bonnet ushered them into a large drawing room covered in a wallpaper design of birds and flowers. Lawton stared at the oriental carpets, the paintings and pictures, the long mirrors on either side of the fireplace, the two sofas that faced each other in front of the French windows, and the freshly mowed lawn that stretched out toward the fields beyond.

  He also noticed an unmistakably medicinal smell that seemed out of place in such opulent surroundings, and he soon found the explanation for it in the array of medicines, pills, and powders piled on the table next to one of the sofas. Some of them were familiar to him, from Clarke’s Blood Mixture, Spasmosedine sedative, Bromocarpine nerve tonic, and Eno’s Fruit Salt for the liver, to the strychnine and potassium bromide that he knew only too well. He was still looking through them when Maitland gave a little cough, and a woman in her early sixties appeared in the doorway, holding a stick in one hand and her maid’s arm in the other.

  Mrs. Randolph Foulkes was wearing a red satin dressing gown emblazed with damask flowers that reached all the way down to her Moroccan slippers. The richness and playfulness of these colors only accentuated her sharp, bony features and unforgiving demeanor, as she sat down opposite the window and invited them to do the same. The maid drew the curtain and Mrs. Foulkes stared disapprovingly at Lawton as Maitland introduced them.

  “Well,” she said, “I wasn’t expecting a half-caste. And what happened to your nose?”

  “I used to box in my youth ma’am,” Lawton replied. “It was broken on one occasion.”

  “Really Maitland, I asked for a detective not a brawler!”

  “I worked alongside Detective-Sergeant Lawton in K-Division,” Maitland replied. “That’s Limehouse, ma’am—one of the roughest districts in London. I can assure you there was no better thief-catcher in the district.”

  Mrs. Foulkes looked only partially mollified. “Yet you left the force for private enquiry?”

  “I did, ma’am. For financial reasons.”

  “And you speak Spanish.”

  “My mother was Chilean. My mother was part Mapuche.”

  “What an exotic combination! I’m sure Randolph would have found you fascinating. Amelia, it’s time to feed the rabbits.”

  The maid nodded and left the room. Lawton’s face was expressionless, but the widow was not endearing herself to him. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said.

  Mrs. Foulkes waved her hand as though a fly had just entered the room. “We all die, Mr. Lawton. But this affair requires further investigation. I assume the chief inspector has explained why?”

  “I understand that your husband left money to an unknown beneficiary.”

  “He did—to a woman.” Mrs. Foulkes grimaced. “I didn’t even know Randolph was in Barcelona.”

  “He didn’t know anybody there?”

  “Only Señor Ferrer. He was in London in April. He came to see me with his wife. But Randolph wouldn’t have visited him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ferrer is an anarchist,” Mrs. Foulkes explained. “But he’s also an educationalist. I write children’s books for the Moral Education League and Señor Ferrer wanted to publish one of them. He and Randolph spent an hour yapping in his study. When they’d gone Randolph told me he never wanted to see him in his house again. He certainly wouldn’t have gone to see him in Barcelona. As far as I knew he was in Vernet writing a book.”

  “Vernet?” Lawton said.

  “Vernet-les-Bains. In the French Pyrenees. Randolph rents a house there. He goes there every year to write and walk in the mountains. Sometimes he spends the whole summer there when he’s writing a book. I’ve never seen the house, but I used to go to Vernet to take the waters. We stayed in a hotel then. Now I don’t go anywhere. I suffer from neurasthenia, you see.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Lawton replied.

  “The disease of the century!” she exclaimed wearily. “My doctor says it’s because the world is moving too fast. Newspapers, steamships, and trains, and now the automobile. The brain can’t cope, he says. Well I don’t know why this should affect me. I only take the Times and I’ve never even been in an automobile. Yet some days I can’t even get out of bed. You’d never believe I used to be on the stage.”

  “Oh I can very well believe it,” said Maitland.

  Mrs. Foulkes acknowledged the flattery with the faintest of smiles. “Before your time perhaps. I was at the Lyceum when Mr. Stoker was manager.”

  “The Bram Stoker?” said Lawton.

  She looked at him in surprise. “Well, well. You didn’t strike me as a literary man.”

  “I don’t read much,” Lawton said. “But I have read Dracula. A strange tale.”

  “I knew Mr. Stoker before he wrote it. He used to say my Ophelia was one of the greatest performances he had ever seen. I made grown men and women cry, Mr. Lawton! Now I merely waste away.”

  She gave them a pained look. It was no wonder she had been on the stage, Lawton thought. “So your husband was writing a book in Vernet?” he asked.

  “So he said.” Mrs. Foulkes opened a drawer in the medicine cabinet and handed him a postcard of a large pink building with tall white arches and cream façades with the word CASINO emblazoned above the doorway. Lawton read the message dated June 11: Thought this would bring back memories. Weather marvelous as always. Writing going well. Plenty of walks and good conversation. Keep well, Randolph.

  “My solicitor told me about the payment last week,” Mrs. Foulkes said. “The money was requested from Barcelona two days after that postcard was sent, at the Bank of Sabadell. The payee’s name was Marie Babineaux.”

  “Do you know this woman?”

  “Never heard of her. That’s why I want you to go to Barcelona and find out who she is. After you’ve confirmed whether Randolph is actually dead.”

  “I should point out ma’am, that it isn’t always easy to identify a body after a bomb blast,” Lawton said.

  “That won’t be a problem. Randolph was one of the pioneers of fingerprinting. He has many copies of his own at his laboratory. My secretary will supply you with them. Randolph was also missing two toes on his left foot—from frostbite. There are also photographs—Bertillonage photographs. Another of my husband’s interests. Will that be sufficient?”

  “I’m sure it will,” Lawton replied.

  “Good. I want you to leave as soon as possible. Your pay will be £5 a day plus traveling expenses—the first month payable in advance. There will be a bonus of £30 if you find this… trollop. I assume that’s acceptable to you?”

  Lawton suppressed his astonishment. These rates were more than his detective’s salary, and nearly twice as much as he received from Divine & Laws. “Very much so,” he replied.

  “Good. Is there anything else you need?”

  “Does your husband have a workplace or study here in the house?”

  “He does.” She looked at him suspiciously. “Why do you ask?”

  “I’d like to look around it,” Lawton said. “If there’s a possibility of deception it’s always good to know something about the person who may have been deceived.”

  Mrs. Foulkes did not look pleased. “I assure you there’s no other possibility, Mr. Lawton. My husband would not have had an
extramarital affair. He wasn’t the type.”

  Lawton had heard too many similar claims to take her insistence for granted, but he said nothing as Maitland gave her a reassuring smile.

  “As I told you, Mr. Lawton is very thorough. But I must get back to the Yard. I’ve asked the taxi to wait.”

  Mrs. Foulkes was about to call for the maid to show Maitland out, but Lawton offered to do it himself and accompanied him to the door.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Appreciate it.”

  Maitland looked pleased. “Not at all. Glad to be able to help. And this is easy money Harry. If you need anything from me when you’re over there, let me know. Good luck.”

  Once again they shook hands, and as Lawton watched him walk back to the taxi, it occurred to him that for the first time in two very dismal years his luck might have finally changed.

  3

  On Thursday afternoon Bernat Mata finally took his children to the Barcelona zoo to see the great ape. For weeks his son Carles had been pleading with him to take them to see the monster, now the boy stood holding his father’s hand and stared nervously at the white gorilla that glared back at them from the opposite side of the narrow moat.