Black Sun Rising

by Mathew Carr

  For Lara

  May the long time sun shine upon you

  All love surround you

  And the pure light within you

  Guide your way on.

  The Barcelonians combine the vivacity of the Gaul with the dignity of the Castilian, while their appreciation of music recalls the Teuton. In no town in the Iberian peninsula flows a more vigorous and cheerful tide of life; and none makes so cosmopolitan an impression.

  —Karl Baedeker, Spain and Portugal Handbook for Travellers, 1901

  But to this day the natural affiliations of the Catalans attract them to the S. provinces of France; and they are always ready for revolt. Barcelona in particular is a hot-bed of anarchy.

  —Karl Baedeker, Spain and Portugal Handbook for Travellers, 1913

  The city of spies, labyrinth of mines and countermines, of secret rendezvous, of multiple treacheries…

  —Victor Serge, Birth of Our Power

  PROLOGUE Barcelona June 14, 1909

  Hermenigildo Cortéz woke up in the early morning of the greatest day of his life and looked down through the shutters. The sun was only just coming up but already the port was beginning to stir. He saw the wagons and carts bringing fish and vegetables to the market; the factory workers in their caps and blue smocks drifting sleepily through the gray dawn. He heard the clatter of horses’ hooves from just outside his field of vision and the blare of a horn coming from the direction of the harbor. Beyond the statue of Columbus he could see the streaks of red spreading across the sky beyond the rows of fishing boats, masts, and funnels. For the next two hours he paced the room or sat in bed, smoking and staring into space. At seven o’clock he began to get dressed. He put on the double-breasted suit, shirt and tie, the scuffed box toe shoes, the false beard and moustache, and finished it off with the fedora hat.

  When he was done he paused to examine himself in the mirror. He looked like any other Indiano, fresh off the boat from Buenos Aires with nothing to show for it but the clothes he stood up in. He went downstairs to the seamen’s café and drank a brandy to steady his nerves before returning to pay his bill. No sooner had he come back to his room than the butterflies began to swirl around in his stomach once again. He took off his jacket and drew the little suitcase from under the bed. Even though there was no danger, his hands were clammy as he laid it down gently on the dressing table.

  Once again he lifted the infernal machine from the pile of clothes and thought how much it looked like an iron. He turned it on its side to unscrew the metal casing and looked down on the rows of taped dynamite, and the wires that connected them to the detonator and the timing mechanism. Even though he had already practiced all this various times, he bit his lip as he adjusted the timing mechanism to ten o’clock. Now the clock was ticking and his heart seemed to beat in time as he reassembled the device and put it back in the suitcase. By the time he stepped out onto the street, he had managed to calm himself. He walked alongside the harbor, and saw the fortress perched on the hill beyond the Columbus Monument, and then turned into the Ramblas. In the far distance he could see Mount Tibidabo overlooking the city, beyond the canopy of trees and the beige hotels and apartment buildings with their wrought iron balconies.

  Many years ago his grandmother had told him how the mountain got its name from the Latin tibi omnia dabo—all these things I will give to thee. These were the words the devil had spoken to Jesus in an attempt to tempt him, his abuela said, and she told him that he should think of them every time he looked at the mountain so that he would not give in to temptation himself. Hermenigildo had once been fond of the old woman, but he knew he had disappointed her when she was alive and she would not have been pleased with him now. Her disapproval did not bother him, because he had long since freed himself of all the laws, superstitions, and sentimental attachments that might once have inclined him to seek her approval. And now he was conscious of the power that his freedom gave him as he walked up through the central thoroughfare, past the newspaper stands and terraced cafés, past the gentlemen in leisure suits, canes, and boaters, accompanied by well-appointed señoras in feathered hats, holding fans and parasols.

  He passed servants and housewives in long white skirts carrying straw baskets, workers in blue smocks and crumpled caps, army officers in uniform with ladies on their arms, nuns and priests, beggars and barrow boys. There were also police; watching over the daily herd like dogs: Guardia Civil in their three-cornered hats; Mossos d’Escuadra in their English-style helmets, municipal guard dogs with clubs and red capes; militiamen in plain clothes with shotguns hanging from their shoulders and pistols bulging under their coats.

  For a moment Hermenigildo imagined that they could hear the ticking bomb, but he knew it was an illusion. There was nothing in his appearance or demeanor to attract attention, and it was impossible to hear the bomb above the sounds of the new century. Even the voices around him were muted by the factory sirens, the tinkling bicycle bells and screeching streetcars, and the occasional roar of a motor car spluttering through the stream of traffic on both sides of the thoroughfare, as though the whole city was nothing more than a gigantic factory machine turning around on invisible cogs.

  Hermenigildo took care to match his step with the flowing crowd, because it was not good to seem like a man in a hurry on the Ramblas. He strolled past the cafés; the Central, the Suizo, the Americano and the Oriente; past the Boqueria market and the flower stalls of the Rambla de las Flores. He glanced at the roses and carnations and bright bouquets, the blue-tipped irises and cobalt allium with heads like sea anemones, the children peering at the trilling songbirds, and the flower vendors tying up bouquets or adjusting their arrangements.

  It was nearly 9:15 when he reached the watchmaker’s shop at the top of the Ramblas and crossed the road toward the floral glass and striped awnings of the Bar la Luna. By lunchtime the café would be packed, but now there were only a few customers scattered around the terraced tables. In the far corner an elderly gentleman was sitting under the awning, accompanied by a woman who looked considerably younger. The man was tall and distinguished, with old-fashioned white sideburns, and a flat-topped hat. He looked English or German. His companion was wearing a veil over her eyes, but Hermenigildo could see enough of her face to see that she was pretty. He ordered a coffee and looked out toward the watchmaker’s clock, while the woman sipped at a cup of hot chocolate and the foreign gentleman pored over what appeared to be a guidebook.

  At 9:50 Hermenigildo laid some coins on the table. A moment later the woman got up and went inside. The foreign gentleman was still immersed in his book, and Hermenigildo tried not to look at his face or the faces of the other customers, because it was better not to dwell on such things. It was better to think of himself as a shell that had been fired, and had now reached its destination. He pushed the bag under the table and walked out toward the street. Even as he left the café he half-expected to hear someone calling him back, but now he was out of sight of the terrace and walking quickly across the Plaza Catalunya. He was halfway across the square when the bomb exploded behind him. Even from that distance the noise made him jump, and he seemed to feel the hot air blowing toward him. His first instinct was to keep walking, but he sensed that he was more likely to attract attention to himself if he did. Instead he turned and looked back. In spite of himself he could not help admiring what he had unleashed. There was power and beauty in the explosion and its aftermath. It was as if a small volcano had erupted from underneath the city, bursting up through the café in a cascade of fire, smoke, leaves, and debris. For a moment the blast seemed to reverberate through the streets, swallowing all other sounds, and then he heard the first screams and saw the customers running out into the street. Directly opposite the café a tram had
come to a halt, and its passengers were staring with horrified fascination as a woman staggered out onto the pavement. Hermenigildo was pleased to see that it was not the woman who had been sitting with the foreign gentleman. This woman was older and stouter and not as pretty. Her face and hair were covered with dust and her dress was stained red.

  It was not until she turned toward him that he realized that one of her arms was missing. He thought that he had seen enough now, and as he walked away he could not help feeling slightly sick.

  1

  From the fifth floor of the Mountview Hotel, former detective-sergeant Harry Pedro Lawton could hear the sound of children’s laughter and the sea gently rolling on the shore behind him as he prepared to climb onto the opposite balcony. It was less than three feet away, but he knew that Dr. Morris would have been horrified to see him there. Once again he considered knocking on the door. But Divine & Laws paid only by results and Mrs. Evangeline Watson and her companion were under no obligation to open it to a private investigator. They might even summon the receptionist and have him thrown out, in which case three weeks’ work would be wasted.

  There had been a time when he would not have thought twice about climbing over, but now the street seemed a long way down, and he knew that if he waited any longer his nerve might fail him. He hoisted one leg and then the other over the edge of his own balcony, and stood gripping the edge with both hands. Turning sideways toward the wall, he reached out with his right hand and stepped out with his right leg toward the opposite ledge, even as he held on to the ledge with his other hand. He ignored the sickly sensation in his belly and pulled himself onto the opposite balcony, shifting his weight as he did so, until he was gripping the ledge with both hands. Now the sounds of coitus became louder as he climbed over onto the balcony, and his palms were damp as he gripped the window sill and climbed in through the rose-patterned curtains.

  “Good morning,” he said brightly. “Sorry to interrupt.”

  The two bodies erupted in a flurry of hands, heads, and feet, and Mrs. Evangeline Watson stared back at him in horror. Lawton could not help feeling a pang of guilt at the sight of her flushed cheeks and disheveled hair, as Lieutenant Teddy Rycroft rolled away from her and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “Who the hell are you?” he said.

  “Harry Lawton, private investigator. Acting on behalf of Divine & Laws solicitors. I’m here to serve Mrs. Watson with her divorce papers.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, you dirty Fenian bastard.” Rycroft advanced toward Lawton with his fists clenched and his manhood already drooping.

  “I wouldn’t advise that, sir,” Lawton said. “I have some knowledge of the pugilistic art.”

  “So do I.” Rycroft brought his fists up to his face and took an obvious swing at Lawton’s head with his right, which Lawton easily evaded by dropping underneath it and stepping back with his own fists raised. Lawton had never fought a naked man before. He had read somewhere that the ancient Greeks used to do this, but now the confrontation seemed embarrassing and faintly ridiculous.

  “This won’t help anyone, Lieutenant,” he said. “And it definitely won’t end well for you.”

  “Oh stop, Teddy.” Mrs. Watson was sitting up in bed now with a sheet wrapped around her. “How much is my husband paying you, Mr. Lawton? I’m sure I can find more.”

  “Your husband pays the solicitors not me, madam. And I’m not here to blackmail you. Just doing my job is all.”

  “And what a job.” Rycroft pulled on his underwear. “Your mother must be proud.”

  Lawton shrugged and dropped the envelope onto the bed. “My mother’s feelings are no business of yours. Bring these to the solicitors next week. Please don’t try to pretend you didn’t receive them. My statement will be sufficient proof that you did.”

  Rycroft gave him a baleful stare as he opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. Behind him he heard Mrs. Watson let out a very different moan to the ones he had heard before. He could not know whether she was crying because of the divorce that would ruin her or the loss of the lover who would certainly abandon her. Either way he felt sorry for her, because Lieutenant Rycroft was a typical army rake, whose career and reputation would remain unscathed by this, but Mrs Watson’s husband was a hard-nosed bastard who would crush her in the courts. It was always the women who came off worse in these situations, but the world was what it was and there was nothing he could do about it. He unlocked the door to his own room, picked up his overnight bag, and walked back out into the dark corridor with its creaking floorboards and well-trodden carpets. At the end of the corridor a shifty face stared back at him from a hallway mirror that had not been polished in a long time. The reflection showed a big man, six feet tall and comfortably over the police regulation height despite his hunched shoulders, but in that moment he felt much smaller. He looked away from his own accusing gaze and hurried back down to the street to catch his train.

  * * *

  Divine & Laws had their offices near Great Ormond Street Hospital, close enough to Chancery Lane to maintain a veneer of respectability and just far enough to allow their clients to visit them without losing theirs. Lawton arrived in the late afternoon to find John Divine reading the court report from the Evening Standard on the Rainier divorce case to his partner and Donaldson the articled clerk. Mrs. Rainier’s attempt to divorce her Jewish husband on grounds of cruelty had attracted a lot of attention in the press, partly because of the juicy counterclaims from her husband regarding her own adultery, and also because Mr. Rainier had enlisted the services of Sir Edward Carson KC, the prominent Ulster Unionist and the Standard’s favorite barrister.

  Carson had demolished Mrs. Rainier’s claims with his usual efficiency, and Divine was reading a letter that Carson had produced in court from Mrs. Rainier’s Austrian lover. “As you well know I do everything in my power to please you,” he read. “You have no idea how often I think and dream of you—how often I have you in my arms, kissing you fervently all over your lovely body, your lips, your beautiful eyes.”

  Divine shook his head in mock disapproval. “All over her body gentlemen! If I was her husband I’d want to strangle her if I heard some Jew talk to his wife like that. Good afternoon, Harry. I take it you have news?”

  “Yes sir. The papers are served. And well-served.”

  “Excellent. And I have news for you. You had a visitor this morning. A gentleman. Chief Inspector Maitland—from Scotland Yard. Not in any trouble, are we?”

  “Not that I know of sir. I knew Captain Maitland from the army. I worked under him in Limehouse.”

  “Well he left his phone number. You can call him when you’ve given your deposition.”

  Lawton sat down at the clerk’s desk and described how he had witnessed the respondent Mrs. Evangeline Watson in the act of sexual congress with Lieutenant Edward Rycroft, in Room 510 of the Mountview Hotel in Brighton at precisely 9:15 A.M.

  “How did you get into their room?” Divine asked. “Do tell.”

  “I climbed in through the window.”

  “Five floors up!” Laws exclaimed. “Harry, your talents are wasted on us! Perhaps you should have taken up cat burglary.”

  “I know a lot about it, that’s for sure,” Lawton said. “But I do have some morals left—just about.”

  “The same can’t be said of Mrs. Watson,” Divine said with a sigh. “The women of today! Too much time on their hands and too much freedom. They behave like this and now they want the vote!”

  Lawton said nothing. After signing his statement he dialed the number and waited for the exchange to make the connection. A few moments later James Maitland’s crisp upper-crust accent came crackling down the line.

  “Good afternoon Harry,” he said. “Glad to hear from you.”

  “Captain. I didn’t know you were at the Yard.”

  “I am. And I have some work that might interest you. Very well-paid work—in Barcelona.”

  “Barcelona?” Lawton said. “In S
pain?”

  “That’s the only one I know. Listen, do you know the Clarence? It’s just up the road from the Yard.”

  “I do.”

  “Can you be there in an hour?”

  “Yes sir. But—”

  “See you there then.”

  Maitland hung up and Lawton put the phone down to find the others looking at him with obvious interest.

  “Going on holiday, Harry?” Divine asked.

  “On what you pay me?”

  Divine laughed. “You can go, you know. We’ve got nothing for you right now.” He handed him an envelope filled with bills and coins. “Barcelona. Isn’t it full of anarchists?”

  “Crawling with them,” Divine agreed. “And even madder than ours. A bomb went off there just last week. In a café. The bastards.”

  “Do you remember one of them bombed an opera house there some years back?” Laws said. “In the middle of William Tell if I remember correctly. Just tossed two bombs into the audience! One of them fell onto a lady’s lap and didn’t explode. The other did. Absolute bloody carnage.”

  Divine grimaced and shook his head. “Wild beasts. They need to be put down.”

  Lawton left Divine and Laws discussing anarchists and infernal machines, and made his way through the stream of hansom cabs, trams, and motorized taxis, omnibuses, milk floats, carts, and drays. He passed a giant billboard painting advertising The Arcadians, showing the actor Dan Rolyat in a forest setting, surrounded by a cluster of appealing young women in long white dresses and flowers in their hair. Rolyat looked like a cat with the cream, and no wonder. The musical was the big show in town that year. Even the widow Friedman had hinted that she wanted to go, as if he had enough money to take her to the West End.

  Lawton walked on through a haze of smoke, dust, and petroleum fumes. He was surprised how unsettled he felt at Maitland’s unexpected call. Maitland had made no attempt to contact him since his illness, and there was no reason why he should. Even when they had worked together in Limehouse, Lawton continued to think of him as an army officer rather than a policeman. Maitland had moved in a more elevated world of gentlemen’s clubs, Wimbledon, Lord’s, and country houses when he was away from the station. A man like that did not come to the East End except for work or business.