Black Sun Rising

by Mathew Carr

  He touched his waistcoat and realized to his astonishment that he was bleeding. The man was only a few yards away from him now, and Mata could see the pistol in his hand with the tube attached to it. He tried to raise the cane to protect himself, but another shot hit him in the stomach and his legs gave way beneath him. He fell hard onto his knees and remained there, like one of the beggars on the Ramblas pleading for alms, as the cane slipped from his hand. For a moment he saw himself as the enxaneta once again, looking down on the sea of hopeful, smiling faces that all wanted him to succeed. Once again he reached his hand toward the fiery sky, and thought of Sylvia and the children. Another shot hit him in the chest and he rolled over onto his side. As he looked up into the dark eye of the silencer he felt as if he was also rushing like a train into a tunnel, and then he saw the flash of light and he was no longer conscious of anything at all.

  26

  As soon as Lawton returned to Mata’s apartment and found it empty, he knew something was wrong. Mata should have been back hours before, and he could not think of any reason why he would not be there. It was possible that he had come back and gone out again while he had been in Gràcia, but his note was still there on the table and Mata had not left any of his own. Even if he had gone to his office, he should have been back by now. Wherever he was, Lawton had no idea where to look for him, and it was not safe to go into the city at night the way things were. He turned on the gas light in the kitchen and ate some bread and ham before going out into the gallery to wait.

  From the courtyard down below he heard the sound of laughter, a piano playing a waltz, and to his amazement he looked down to see a group of Mata’s neighbors dancing on one of the terraces beneath the flaming sky. Lawton wondered if the entire city had lost its senses as he watched the dancers elegantly spinning around while the flames licked at the sky above the rooftops behind them, and the gunshots continued to pop from all directions. He lay on the sofa with the light out, smoking his way through the rest of the pack until the music stopped, and even though there was still no sign of Mata he felt himself drifting off to sleep.

  At some point he woke up to find the sky illuminated by the same fiery red glow. The building was silent now, and looking at his watch he saw that it was three o’clock. His first hopeful thought was that Mata might have come back without waking him, but when he went into his bedroom his bed was empty. It was impossible to shake off the oppressive sense of dread now, as he walked back to the gallery, past the paintings and books and the portrait of Mata’s pretty wife and children. Even as he sat in front of the window and waited impatiently for the day to begin he was conscious of Mata’s wife and children staring down at him from the wall, and urging him to go outside and look for him. By five o’clock he had had enough of waiting. Once again he picked up Mata’s gun and his father’s hat and went out into the burning city.

  He walked quickly, with his shoulders hunched and his hat pulled down, glancing warily around him at the trees and darkened doorways that might conceal a potential attacker. On reaching the Plaza Catalunya it was clear that the city was very far from returning to normal. Even though it was not yet fully light, lines of cavalrymen and infantry were already filtering into the square from the direction of the university, and he saw at least two pieces of field artillery and a machine gun among the horses and wagons bringing fodder, food, and supplies. In every direction he could see black columns of smoke and little tongues of flame rising up from different points of the city, and there was smoke in his eyes and the taste of ashes on his tongue as he walked back down the Ramblas.

  Apart from the women hurrying back and forth from the market near the top of the thoroughfare, the crowds had dispersed, and a cluster of police and Civil Guards were gathered among the trees with their rifles at the ready. Some of the backstreets leading off the Ramblas were still barricaded, and a few pale and fearful faces stared at him out of the gloom as the fires continued to burn behind them. Lawton had seen enough war to know when a battle was about to begin, and he walked hurriedly down to the Calle Escudellers to get away from it

  As he had expected, Mata’s offices were closed. There was only one other place he could look for him now, and even the thought of it filled him with gloomy trepidation. Once again he walked back into the Calle Hospital and into the medical school, past the fountain and the palm trees, and up the ancient stone steps. He headed down the corridor toward the autopsy room, past the corpse of a woman lying on a wooden stretcher who appeared to have been shot in the chest, and a worker in a bloodstained white smock who was sitting on a bench with a bandage around his head. Even as he pushed the two doors open he saw Quintana standing over one of the tables, and then the pathologist turned to look round and Lawton recognised the body of Bernat Mata stretched out beneath him.

  * * *

  In death Mata looked even more like a Boer, or some great bearded warrior from a more distant era waiting to be laid on a funeral pyre with his sword beside him. But Mata was not a man of the sword, and Lawton knew that he was not supposed to die like this, with the hole in his forehead and the dark stains on his chest and stomach.

  “They brought him in during the night,” Quintana said. “The night watchman found him near the city hall. This is terrible. I can’t even tell his family because the telegraph isn’t working. He must have walked into some kind of fight.”

  “I don’t think so,” Lawton said.

  “You know who did this?”

  “I have an idea. Do you know where the Calle del Carmen is?”

  “It’s just around the corner behind the market. Turn right when you go out of the school and then turn right again. Shouldn’t you tell the police about this?”

  “I don’t think they’re likely to be very interested today, do you?”

  Quintana nodded and said nothing, and Lawton turned away and threw the doors open once again, nearly knocking over a startled orderly. In his career as a policeman and detective he had encountered some revolting acts of brutality and cruelty, but none of them had ever filled him with the fury that he felt now, as he made his way out of the medical school beneath the swirling canopy of smoke. Even as he crossed the courtyard it occurred to him that he would be lucky to get out of Barcelona alive, but he no longer cared. In that moment the only thing he wanted to do was find Mata’s killers, and there was only one person left in the city who could lead him to them.

  Ten minutes later he reached the dingy apartment building in the Calle del Carmen that matched the address Esperanza Claramunt had given him. He glanced up at the rows of mean little balconies and slipped the revolver from his waistband, and then stepped past the boxes filled with uncollected rubbish and pushed open the unlocked door. He had nearly reached the third floor when he heard a door open just above him. He held the Smith & Wesson up in front of his chest, and waited on the dark stairwell as a young woman emerged from Ruben Montero’s apartment. She was carrying a wicker basket and wearing a shawl over her shoulders. She turned yawning toward the stairway and immediately recoiled at the sight of Lawton and the revolver.

  “Ay dios mío.” She put her hand up to her mouth and stared at Lawton as he came onto the landing, with one finger to his lips and the revolver pointed at her head.

  “I’m looking for Ruben Montero,” he said.

  “Ruben? He’s not here. What do you want him for?”

  “Who are you?”

  “His wife. Flor.”

  “Where’s your husband, Señora?”

  “He’s in Poblenou. I don’t know where. I never know. And now with the strike on… Are you a policeman?”

  Lawton lowered the revolver. “You’re Pau Tosets’s sister, aren’t you? Miss Claramunt told me about you.”

  “Espe?” Flor looked more confused than afraid now. “What does she have to do with this?”

  “She knows that your husband is a murderer. And now another man has been killed because of him.”

  “What?” She stared at him uncomprehendingly.
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  “You heard. When you see him, tell him Harry Lawton’s looking for him. He’ll know why.”

  Flor continued to stare at him with the same stupefied expression as he turned and walked back down the murky stairway. By the time he reached the Ramblas his fury had begun to subside, and he realized how foolish he had been. This was not the way to conduct an investigation anywhere, let alone in a city like this. He promised himself that he would not allow his emotions to control him again, but it was difficult to think what to do next as he walked the short distance to the Hotel Internacional, where he found Bonnecarrère calmly eating breakfast in the hotel restaurant.

  “Monsieur Lawton,” he said. “Would you like some coffee?”

  “I would. And a cigarette if you have one.” Lawton sat down, and Bonnecarrère poured him a coffee and gave him his pack of Pall Malls.

  “Has something happened?” he asked.

  Lawton lit a cigarette and let out a stream of smoke. “Mata’s dead,” he said. “They killed him last night.”

  Bonnecarrère clicked his tongue and continued to eat his breakfast while Lawton told him what he had found in the morgue.

  “Merde, these people are serious, aren’t they?” Bonnecarrère said, when he had finished.

  “They are. But so am I.”

  Lawton told him about his conversation with Ruben Montero’s wife, and it was obvious that the Frenchman did not approve. “This isn’t the way for a policeman to behave,” he said. “Like a cowboy in the Wild West. We need to use our heads, mon ami.”

  “I know that.”

  “I assume you’re intending to go to Poblenou to look for this Montero?”

  Lawton looked at him in surprise. “Of course.”

  “If I were you I would keep off the streets till our appointment this evening. The city is a battlefield right now. You don’t even know where to find him. If you go looking you may also find yourself in the mortuary.”

  “So what do you suggest I do? Nothing?”

  “I suggest you stay off the streets. Tonight we’ll go down to the docks and see what this Excelsior is bringing. Until then, rest.”

  Lawton knew that he was right. He finished his coffee and walked back up the Ramblas toward the Plaza Catalunya. He had nearly reached the British consulate when he saw a column of dragoons coming slowly down the central thoroughfare. They looked imposing and incongruous in the midst of so much mayhem, in their blue uniforms and yellow braiding, their pointed helmets and knee-length leather boots. Lawton was surprised to see Smither standing on the pavement outside the consulate, watching the soldiers with an enraptured expression, as though he were watching a Horse Guard parade on the Mall. He looked around as Lawton came toward him.

  “Harry,” he said. “I see you’ve got my message?”

  “I came by yesterday, but you weren’t open.”

  “Not much point, old boy. But I thought I’d have a peek at the office. It seems General Santiago is going to take back the Raval today. And not soon enough. Come on up.”

  Lawton followed Smither up the stairs and into his empty offices. He hung his hat on a rack and sat behind his desk as Lawton sat down opposite him. The urn containing Foulkes’s ashes was still on the shelf, and Lawton looked at the Union Jack in the corner and the king’s portrait on the wall, and thought of the England that Smither belonged to: a country where police carried no weapons, and wise men of high estate looked down on the world from a great height. As a representative of His Majesty’s Government, he knew that Smither would be interested to know that two people in his investigation were connected to German military intelligence. But that would involve telling him that he had nearly been charged with murder, that he had shot at a Spanish policeman, and that he had been saved by a member of the French secret service.

  “Any closer to taking these away?” Smither nodded toward the ashes. “Charlie Arrow says you’ve had some… complications?”

  The vice-consul gave him a faintly pitying look, and Lawton wondered what else Arrow had told him. “The investigation has been a little more difficult than I anticipated,” he said. “But I’m making progress.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Smither reached into his desk and handed him the letter. “This came to you from Scotland Yard. Sent through the diplomatic post for some reason.”

  Lawton opened the letter, and immediately recognized Maitland’s neat, precise handwriting:

  Scotland Yard.

  June 19

  Harry,

  I apologize for not replying sooner, but it took a little more time than I expected to find the information you wanted. It seems your instincts were correct as usual: there was a reason why Dr. Foulkes was not honored at the Everdale Asylum. In 1900 three of Foulkes’s patients died, in circumstances that were not made clear, but there was a suggestion that inappropriate medication may have been used. Foulkes also acquired skulls from some deceased inmates of the asylum, again without any permission or authorization. These improprieties were not made public, but Foulkes was relieved of his duties prematurely.

  As you can imagine, it was not easy to obtain this information. Neither the staff nor the current director were very forthcoming, but I managed to find a former member of the Board of Trustees at Everdale, a Reverend Fraser from Folkestone, who said that Foulkes may have carried out unwarranted medical procedures in which some patients may have died. The reverend did not know what these procedures were, and there was no formal investigation into them, but it was not seen fit to honor Foulkes’s directorship with the traditional portrait.

  I hope this information is useful to you. I spoke to Mrs. Foulkes and she does not appear to have been aware that anything untoward took place at Everdale. She tells me you’ve confirmed her husband’s body.

  I assume that means you’ve completed your investigation?

  Yours,

  Maitland.

  Lawton had just put the letter in his pocket when the boom of a cannon sounded from the street. The vice-consul stood up and stared down excitedly at the Ramblas as the dragoons surged forward into one of the backstreets.

  “There they go. There aren’t many cities where you can watch a real saber charge from your own office!”

  Lawton nodded vaguely, and looked at the urn containing Foulkes’s earthly remains. Even though he had not met Foulkes, he had never liked him. Now he stared bleakly at the ashes on the vice-consul’s bookshelf and wondered what other secrets had died with him, and how many more people would have to die before he completed an investigation that was unlike anything he or Maitland had foreseen.

  * * *

  Esperanza knew that most of her relatives and neighbors admired her and her mother for looking after Eduardo, while others pitied them for the burden they had to carry. But she had never thought of her brother as a burden. No one, not even her mother, understood the happiness and pleasure that he brought her. Even now, as she sat on the edge of her bed and watched him sleeping on the other side of the room, she felt a great wave of love and affection toward the strange but magical creature who had been her constant companion ever since she was born. She could still remember how Eduardo had laid his head on her shoulder when he found her crying on the day of their father’s death. Even now, as a young man, he still laid his head on her shoulder in exactly the same way, and even though he could not speak he always seemed to know when she felt sad or when she was happy.

  It was impossible to even consider putting him in the madhouse, as her grandparents still recommended. Even now, as she prepared to go out into the burning city once again, she wanted to protect him. Had she believed in God she would have thanked him for bringing him back to her the night before, but she knew that God would not have accepted her prayers. He would have told her not to go back onto the streets if she really wanted to protect her brother, that it was reckless and irresponsible of her to risk her life when her mother and her brother needed her at home. But even as she looked down on Eduardo, she knew that she could not hide away in her
mother’s apartment when her friends and neighbors were preparing to defend the Republic of Gràcia.

  Still she flinched, as she tied up her boots, at the thought of a saber cut or a bullet or a cannon ball tearing into her flesh, because there was no doubt that the army would assault the barricades sooner or later, and it was obvious that Gràcia was no more able to resist riflemen, artillery, and cavalry than the workers at the Electricity Factory. Had the Communards known they were going to lose when they went out to face Thiers’s troops? Or had they actually believed they could win? Perhaps there were moments in history when it was necessary to fight even when you knew you would lose the battle and might even be killed yourself, she thought gloomily, so that others could remember what had happened and take inspiration from your sacrifice.

  She went out into the little room and looked at the table and four chairs. In spite of everything, she found herself making the sign of the cross like a kind of blessing, and she quietly pleaded to be allowed to sit there again at the end of the day, and not for her sake, but for the sake of Eduardo and her mother. In the same moment her mother emerged from the bedroom and stared at her with an anguished expression.

  “Don’t go,” she begged. “Please.”

  “I have to go!” Esperanza snapped. “I’ll be back.”

  Her mother bowed her head in resignation, and Esperanza kissed her on the forehead and embraced her. “It’s alright, mama,” she whispered. “Everything will be alright.”