Ghosts of the Past

by Tony Park

  ‘To be honest, I could use a change right now,’ Nick said, and found he meant it.

  She looked at her watch and he felt a little stab in his heart. ‘I should get going.’

  He finished his wine, trying hard not to show his disappointment. ‘Sure, no problem.’

  ‘No,’ she held up a hand, perhaps sensing what he was feeling, ‘it’s not that I don’t want to stay out, but I promised a girlfriend I’d go running with her at five thirty tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Aargh.’

  ‘I’m regretting it already.’ Susan waved to their waiter.

  ‘I’ve got this,’ Nick said.

  ‘No, please, let me pay half.’

  He held up a hand. ‘Absolutely no way. Besides, I hope there’ll be a next time, and you can pay then. Somewhere fancier.’

  She laughed again and he decided he loved the sound. ‘Deal.’

  While Nick paid the bill Susan summoned an Uber with her phone.

  ‘Here in two minutes,’ she said as he put his wallet away and stood.

  Nick had enjoyed meeting her, and the dinner. It was a shame to see her go, but talking to his aunt ensured he would be in touch with Susan again, even if it was to say he’d drawn a blank. His guilt over Jill aside, he realised he was way more invested in this ancestor of his than he’d originally anticipated. ‘I just hope my aunt comes through with something interesting.’

  ‘Me as well. Oh,’ Susan added, ‘I meant to tell you earlier. There’s a German academic named Anja Berghoff who has also been researching Claire Martin and the period of history and the area where Cyril Blake was killed. I reached out to her but she was a bit overprotective of her research. She snubbed me.’

  Nick thought for a moment. ‘I wonder if it might help if I contacted her. She might be interested in hearing from a descendent of Blake?’

  ‘That would be lekker. You’re right, Nick, she might be more receptive to you, but don’t tell her you used to be a journalist – I think she distrusts us. I’ll send you her email address.’

  ‘Cool,’ he said, wishing she didn’t have to leave.

  ‘Well . . .’ Susan put out her hand to shake and he took it. To his delight, she leaned in and offered him her cheek for a kiss. Nick obliged.

  ‘Night,’ Nick said.

  Susan kept hold of his hand for a few more seconds. ‘It’s been really nice meeting you, Nick. I hope your aunt does know something as I’d like to see you again.’

  They walked out onto the footpath and the car arrived. Nick opened the door for her.

  ‘A gentleman as well,’ she said as she got in, her skirt riding up a little and exposing more of her thigh as she shimmied in. ‘Thank you again.’

  ‘My pleasure.’

  Nick closed the door and watched the car drive off. Susan looked back at him, and smiled through the rear window.

  Chapter 7

  Munich, Germany, the present day

  Anja’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She took it out and looked at the screen. It was her mother. She let the call go through to voicemail.

  Her tummy was grumbling, telling her it was time she left the LMU library and found a sandwich. She had started to pack up when her phone buzzed once more.

  Anja sighed. Her mother was becoming mildly forgetful and had probably misplaced something. Anja walked through the library to the reception area, where she could use her phone. By the time she got there the phone had rung out and she was tempted to go back to her desk. However, it buzzed for a third time.

  ‘Hello, Mama, sorry, I was in the toilet.’

  ‘Hmm, ignoring me, more like it . . . the gas man is here.’

  Anja exhaled audibly. ‘Why are you calling me to tell me that?’

  ‘Because, Miss Smarty Pants, you are apparently the one who called the gas company and told them to come and inspect a leak in the basement somewhere.’

  Anja was instantly worried. ‘Mama, I did not call the gas company.’

  ‘But the man said he spoke to you, he called you the “young woman” of the house. He did not call me old, but I found his tone quite offensive nonetheless.’

  ‘Mama, listen to me,’ Anja’s pulse was pounding now, ‘where is this man?’

  ‘He is out the front of the house, of course. Did you think I would let just anyone in? You know there are these conmen who come around preying on old ladies and –’

  ‘Yes, I do know, Mama, we discussed that the other day, remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember,’ her mother said, raising her voice. ‘Why do you think I’m calling you, if not to check?’

  ‘Is he still there?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose so.’

  ‘Is the door locked?’ Anja asked.

  ‘Of course it’s locked. Do you think I am a fool?’

  Anja bit her lip. ‘Did you get a good look at him?’

  ‘I’m going to the peephole now, to check him out.’

  ‘Be careful, Mama.’ She waited, fretting, wondering if she should have told her mother she would call the police and then ring her back.

  ‘He’s gone,’ her mother said.

  Anja breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Call the police, please, Mama, tell them what happened. I’m coming home right now.’

  ‘Please don’t feel that you have to put yourself out, Anja.’

  A pair of police officers were at Anja’s mother’s house when Anja arrived home, somewhat out of breath from her high-speed cycle ride through the Englischer Garten and across the John F. Kennedy Bridge. The police seemed to be finishing up and were trying to extricate themselves, politely refusing her mother’s invitation to stay for coffee.

  ‘We’ll ask around the neighbourhood, Mrs Berghoff, to see if anyone else has had a visit from this guy,’ said the female officer, whose surname was Gunther according to her mother.

  ‘Did you check with the gas company?’ Anja asked.

  Gunther gave Anja a very tight-lipped smile that told her the police were not stupid. ‘Yes. They had no one in the street today. This sort of thing is, I’m afraid, all too common.’

  ‘My mother said the man told her that the “young woman” of the house had called the gas company,’ Anja said to the officer.

  ‘I already told them all this,’ her mother said.

  ‘Yes.’ Gunther nodded. ‘It’s also a common ploy. Your mother said you went out this morning, to the university, I believe.’

  ‘Yes. I’m a student there, and a tutor.’

  The policewoman continued. ‘By mentioning you the conman was trying to show your mother that he knew there was another woman in the house, and that therefore he would be more believable. He was probably watching the house for some time. Your mother did the right thing by calling you to check.’

  ‘See, Anja,’ her mother said, with a very self-satisfied look on her face, ‘not so foolish after all.’

  The policewoman shrugged. ‘It’s likely the guy would have been in and out of the house very quickly. He would have been looking for any cash or jewellery or small valuables lying around, like phones or tablets.’

  That was small comfort, Anja thought. As annoying as her mother could be, she felt incredibly protective of her. She put her arm around the older woman’s shoulder. ‘Were you able to give the police a description?’

  ‘Yes,’ her mother said.

  The policewoman opened her notebook again, more for show than necessity. ‘“Dark, like a Turk or a Syrian”.’

  ‘All those refugees,’ her mother said. ‘If you ask me –’

  ‘I’m sure the police officers need to get busy now, Mama, talking to your neighbours.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Gunther said.

  Anja thanked them, and the two officers left.

  ‘I don’t know why you want to go back to Namibia so soon,’ he
r mother said as she closed and locked the door behind them. ‘Those people have ruined a perfectly good country. They’re all corrupt.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’ Anja wanted to defend Namibia to her mother, to tell her of a country that was doing its best to root out corruption and to ensure a good education for its children. Tourists loved visiting the country, with its wide open spaces, good roads and bountiful wildlife. It would be a waste of breath, Anja thought, as she hung up her overcoat and took off her scarf.

  ‘I’m going to the basement to do some work, Mama,’ she said. It had been her father’s study and she suspected that he, like her, sometimes valued it as a place of refuge.

  ‘Fine, if you’d rather read about horses than talk to your mother.’

  Anja sighed and went downstairs. For all her faults and latent racism her mother had loved her father and had kept his desk and study more or less as he had left it. There was a photo on the wall, her parents with Anja as a two-year-old, at the waterhole at Etosha’s Okaukuejo Camp, a dusty white elephant no more than ten metres behind them, and a picture she loved, of her father, perhaps in his thirties, shirtless on the beach at Swakopmund on one of the rare days when the water was warm enough to swim.

  She sat in his old leather office chair, opened her backpack, and took out some more of the copied papers. Anja began to read where she had left off.

  The eastern Transvaal, South Africa, 1902

  For the first time in a long time Claire Martin was scared.

  A second British patrol had shown up, unexpectedly by the look of it, and two British officers were arguing over her. She knew which one she wanted to win.

  ‘She is my prisoner. My men captured her,’ the reedy younger captain with the evil eyes, Walters, was insisting.

  The other officer, a major, had grey hair and a walrus moustache, which he smoothed as he spoke. He had introduced himself to her as Peter Appleton. ‘Yes, old boy, and we’ve seen what your men do to prisoners of war, haven’t we, hmm?’

  After they had shot her horse and captured her the two Australians had tied her and left her on the ground while they went in search of the captain. From where they had left her Claire couldn’t see what had gone on exactly but it seemed the men, including Nathaniel, all ended up in the stables. She had heard a single gunshot. Major Appleton and his nine men had arrived as Captain Walters and the other Australian, Bert she thought his name was, emerged from the stables. Between them they dragged out the sergeant – the one who had captured her in the first place. It was confusing. At first she thought the sergeant had been shot, but he had been knocked unconscious.

  Tears had welled unbidden in her eyes when Major Appleton’s troopers had brought Nathaniel’s body out of the stables. She had guessed him dead. Claire had not loved him, but she had been his lover. There was a difference, but nonetheless she mourned his loss as she willed herself not to cry in front of the enemy.

  ‘’Ere ’ere, what’s this?’ a cockney trooper joked as he turned the dead American’s head to one side and inspected the bloody mess where his ear had been.

  Claire’s stomach heaved. Nathaniel had been mutilated before being shot.

  ‘Enough of that, Soames, you callous oaf,’ barked Appleton. ‘Not in front of the lady.’

  ‘As I was saying, sir,’ Walters continued, ‘the woman is my captive.’

  ‘She was your captive, Captain. Was being the operative word. She was lying alone on the ground unattended when I arrived and you and your . . . your colonials were up to Lord knows what in that barn.’

  ‘Major Appleton.’ Claire sniffed dramatically, looking up at the mounted officer in his saddle. ‘This has been a very trying experience for me, I’m sure you’ll understand.’

  ‘Of course, madam, of course. May I ask where you are from?’

  Summoning her almost dormant American accent, Claire said, ‘America, sir. I am a widow – my husband came here to work the goldfields. My cousin,’ she dabbed her eyes as she cast a glance at Nathaniel’s body, ‘was acting as my chaperone until I could raise enough money to return home.’

  ‘I’m sorry for this dreadful disturbance, madam, but I’m sure you’ll understand there are certain irregularities which need to be cleared up by the proper authorities. I shall have to take you into custody for the time being.’

  ‘Of course, Major, I understand. But if you could please release these bindings I might be able to tend to myself better.’ She raised her bound wrists to him in supplication and blinked twice.

  ‘On your honour, madam, I will have the bindings undone, but your mount will be tethered to mine for the journey back to camp.’

  ‘Of course, Major, on my honour as an American citizen,’ she replied.

  ‘See to it, Jenkins,’ Appleton said to one of the troopers.

  The dismounted soldier pulled out his bayonet and freed Claire’s hands. She rubbed her reddened wrists vigorously and gave Nathaniel a last, long look goodbye.

  ‘Sir . . .’ Walters interjected. ‘This woman is not American, she is a Boer sympathiser from the colony of German South West Africa. She is my prisoner and she is playing you for a fool.’

  Claire fought hard to hold back a look of shock. He knew a good deal about her. Judging by his behaviour Claire suspected that Captain Walters had a particular interest in capturing and questioning Nathaniel, but she’d had no idea that Walters knew anything of her background. Someone who knew about the armaments deal had talked.

  ‘Enough, Captain! For the last time.’ Major Appleton smoothed his moustache again. ‘The lady is coming with us and you will follow us and make your report about this . . . this business. Rum indeed, to say the least. Talk me through it again – it won’t be the last time you’ll have to do it today. Jenkins, take the lady inside in case she needs to freshen up before the ride.’

  ‘I’m fine, thank you, Major.’ Claire wiped her eyes. She wanted to play up her distress and allowed a few more real tears to flow for Nathaniel. At the same time she wondered if he had cracked under his brief period of interrogation. No, she told herself, otherwise Walters would have ridden off. He was here because he needed her, and if he wanted to question her it was either over the artillery pieces she had promised the Boers, or the way they were going to pay her. If he had been simply a diligent officer doing his duty he would have explained to the major about the shipment of German artillery destined for South Africa, but the fact that he hadn’t led Claire to believe that he, like her, wanted to know where the treasure was that would be used to pay for the guns.

  ‘I was questioning the prisoner in the barn when Sergeant Blake barged in.’ Walters motioned with a flick of his head to the still-comatose Australian as two troopers laid him across the rump of a horse. His hands were tied. ‘Sergeant Blake said to me, “I’ll show you how to loosen Old Piet’s tongue, sir,” and punched the prisoner several times in the face.’

  Claire watched Walters through narrowed eyes. She had heard no such comment about ‘Old Piet’, which was the British nickname for a Boer.

  ‘I see,’ said Major Appleton dryly. ‘Go on, Walters.’

  ‘When the man refused to say which unit he commanded – our intelligence told us a Boer colonel of American extraction would be visiting this house – the sergeant took out a knife and –’

  ‘Not in front of the lady, Walters. I think we can deduce what happened next from the state of the body.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Walters said. ‘Anyway, the man nearly passed out from the pain. I started to draw my pistol and ordered Blake to cease the torture immediately, but he turned on me. I’m afraid he had me covered with his rifle, sir, and I laid down my pistol.’

  ‘Mmm, not good, Walters, not good, but please go on.’

  ‘Sergeant Blake said words to the effect of “We’ll get nothing from this one, he’s too tough,” and then shot the poor man. While he did that I reached
for my pistol and tried to make a move on him.’

  ‘Better, Walters, better,’ Major Appleton said encouragingly.

  ‘I don’t know if I could have shot him before he got me, and that’s the truth, sir, but fortunately the other member of my patrol, Trooper Hughes here, entered the barn at that moment and clubbed the sergeant down with his rifle.’

  Bert just nodded, his face sombre.

  Claire continued to stare at Walters. He was lying through his teeth. When the major turned his back, Walters briefly returned Claire’s gaze and raised one eyebrow in a theatrical gesture. She felt a chill travel the length of her spine.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to hear all that, Miss Martin,’ Major Appleton said, as if she was some delicate daisy who would bend in a stiff breeze. ‘We are at war and some distasteful things happen in war, but torture and summary execution are not in the Queen’s regulations. Please accept my condolences for the loss of your . . .’

  ‘Cousin,’ Claire said, evenly.

  ‘Yes, cousin. Of course, my apologies,’ Appleton said, then turned to his men. ‘Soames, Harris, Smith, torch the buildings; leave nothing for the Boers.’

  ‘Sir!’ Walters blurted. ‘The dead man was a senior Boer officer. I need to search the house and farm buildings to see what documents may have been in his possession. I’ll torch the place once I’ve finished.’

  The major frowned. It seemed to Claire he didn’t like the impertinent young captain’s tone at all. Walters wanted something from the trading post and she wondered if it was the small ceramic bottle Nathaniel had passed to her when she’d made her escape. She had hidden it where no English gentleman would dare look for it and as yet she had not had time to open it. ‘No, Captain, you’ve got some explaining to do back at HQ. You will accompany us now and you can return later today or tomorrow to do your snooping. It looks like there’s precious little here to sustain the Boers in any case, but we’ll take the spare horses with us.’