Rietfontein, Cape Colony, near the border of German South West Africa, 1906
The camel dropped to its front knees and Colonel Llewellyn Walters gratefully and painfully dismounted. A coloured levy took the cantankerous beast’s reins and a white constable saluted.
Walters narrowed his eyes against the glare. Even by African standards this was a godforsaken middle-of-nowhere place. The police post and lockup were made of brick and tin but the dozen or so other dwellings were mean little places of mud and whatever rubbish some trader had bothered bringing this far into the rocky desert and abandoned. He’d been assaulted by the sun throughout the journey and now the ground was trying to burn him from the soles of his boots upwards.
The lioness had taken a good deal of muscle and tendon from his right leg in 1902, and he suffered when he had to sit for extended periods. He had survived because he’d kept a cool head and feigned death. The lioness that had attacked him was the biggest in the pride and she had spent some time fighting off her sisters. This had given Walters time to draw a knife that Hermanus’ Boers had missed, hidden inside his belt. When the lioness returned for him she had clamped her jaws over his shoulder and dragged him, between her forelegs, deep into the bush. When Walters was sure they were away from the rest of the pride he had reached up under her and stabbed her in the heart. Bleeding profusely he had managed to climb a tree, where he spent an agonising night out of reach of the other lions. When they lost interest, at daybreak, he had seen one of the dead Boers’ ponies trotting down the nearby track and had called to it. The horse had come to him and he was able, with great difficulty, to get into the saddle and ride as far as the main railway line, where a patrol from Steinaecker’s Horse had come upon him and taken him to Komatipoort. From there he was put on a British hospital ship, which had been moored in Delagoa Bay in neutral Portuguese East Africa. Seriously wounded British soldiers were taken there for surgery. Though far from recovered, when he had regained consciousness after being operated on he had thanked whatever force had landed him in the same port Claire Martin would no doubt be shipping her stolen gold from. Unfortunately, he narrowly missed her. Before he could board another ship for Cape Town his wounds became infected. He believed it was his sheer will to find the woman and the gold that had brought him through the fever.
His convalescence was long, but the story of his brush with the lion spread and Walters decided it would be to his advantage to stay in Africa. A fellow officer organised his posting to the Cape Mounted Police and he found his ability to sniff out and take over as many rackets as he broke up earned him money and higher rank. He spent his spare time investigating the whereabouts of the gold and his early queries ascertained that Sergeant Cyril Blake had died of malaria in Komatipoort at the war’s end.
Claire Martin had disappeared, or reinvented herself somewhere. Walters had befriended the German consul in the Cape Colony and the man had made enquiries on his behalf – in repayment for a goodly number of cigars, women and bottles of the Cape’s finest wines. It seemed the Germans had no record of Claire arriving in the Fatherland, and the consul’s queries across the border in South West Africa had drawn blanks.
But now, four years on, he had two new leads.
Walters touched his giraffe’s tail fly whisk to the peak of his pith helmet.
‘Welcome to Rietfontein, sir.’
Hell, more like it, Walters thought to himself.
‘You’ll be wanting to freshen up, sir?’ the constable continued.
‘The understatement of the new century, constable,’ Walters said, ‘but where are the Germans?’
‘Waiting, sir, at the border post. They sent word this morning that the German colonel, von Deimling, had only just arrived. We hear there’s been quite a bit of fighting to the south, sir, at a place called Narudas. Von Deimling let the rest of his column carry on to Keetmanshoop, but he’s ridden here to meet you. Perhaps you’d like to freshen up, let them cool their heels, sir? I could show you around, like.’
The constable seemed impressed, and so he should. Walters knew he wielded considerable power in the Cape, yet he was under no illusions that a German colonel would go too far out of his way to meet with the Cape Mounted Police if there wasn’t something of importance to von Deimling as well. ‘No. It’s them I’m here to see.’
The constable looked ever so slightly crestfallen. ‘Very well, sir. We can take a horse from here.’
Thank God, Walters thought. As tempting as the idea of a bath was, he was here on a mission, one that he had deemed worth the arduous journey from his comfortable digs in the Cape.
‘It’s just, that, well, sir . . .’
‘Out with it, Constable . . . ?’
‘Laidlaw, sir, Malcolm Laidlaw. It’s just that it’s not every day we get the commandant of the Cape Mounted Police paying us a visit and if you’d like to see the station . . .’
‘I would not. Ready the horses, Laidlove.’
‘Laidlaw, sir.’
‘Hop to it, man.’
Walters fought a brief and losing battle with the flies and took a sip of warm water from his canteen while Constable Laidlaw fetched the horses.
The horse was marginally less uncomfortable than the lurching gait of the camel that had taken him over the longest and worst stretch of his journey to reach this, the remotest police outpost in the northwestern corner of the colony.
A mile down the track they found four Germans on horseback. A Leutnant, a lieutenant who introduced himself as Kurtz, saluted Walters and welcomed him to German South West Africa. He was accompanied by an NCO and two Schutztruppen who gave curt nods and cool stares to Laidlaw.
Kurtz led him another mile into the desert where a small camp had been set up. An older man stepped out from under the awning of one of three canvas tents. He had a moustache modelled on the Kaiser’s and iron-grey stubble on his head, which he covered with his cap as they approached. The riders all dismounted and the German officer stood.
‘May I present Colonel Walters of the Cape Mounted Police, sir,’ Lieutenant Kurtz said with a click of his heels.
‘Colonel,’ Walters said. The two men shook hands and von Deimling gave a sharp nod of his head.
‘Welcome to German South West Africa, please take a seat.’ Von Deimling gestured to a canvas and timber safari chair. ‘A drink? Beer, wine, schnapps?’
‘Water, please, if you have it,’ Walters said.
Von Deimling spoke German to Lieutenant Kurtz, who then saluted and left, making for the next tent. Walters noticed Kurtz walked with a pronounced limp and von Deimling followed his gaze.
‘My aide was wounded in action.’
‘I must commend you on your English, Colonel,’ Walters said. ‘I picked up some Afrikaans during war, but I don’t speak your language.’
‘I trust your journey was not too arduous,’ von Deimling said.
Walters eased himself, somewhat gratefully, into the low-slung chair and crossed his legs. A soldier handed him a glass of cool water, a balm for his lips, which were cracked from days of exposure to the sun and dry, hot wind. Lieutenant Kurtz had also returned, carrying a folder. He stood behind the colonel and if his wounded leg troubled him his posture or face did not betray it. ‘My journey was fine, thank you.’
‘Good. I will, as you would say, get to the point – I am eager to return to Keetmanshoop. As I said in my telegram to my superiors, which you received through diplomatic channels, there is a British subject serving with the Nama rebels.’
‘Technically,’ Walters set his glass down on a folding side table, ‘the man is Australian and they seem to have taken matters of government somewhat into their own hands since becoming a federation, but, yes, the man in question is still a subject of the crown.’
‘This man, Edward Prestwich,’ von Deimling snapped a finger and Kurtz handed him the folder, ‘took part in the battle at Narudas earlier this week. He subsequently was involved in an ambush of my forces who were returning to Keetmanshoop after a successful engagement with the rebel commander Jakob Morengo in the Karasberge. We inflicted serious casualties on the rebels.’
Yet they were still able to ambush you on the way home. Walters kept his thought to himself and simply smiled and nodded.
‘Several wagons at the rear of our column were cut off. Three were destroyed but of more concern was the murder of four wounded German soldiers by the rebels. Prestwich was last seen by one of our officers standing on the back of the wagon where the murders took place.’
‘You believe he was responsible?’ Walters said.
Colonel von Deimling gave a small shrug. ‘Of that I have no proof – I would hope that a white man would not stoop so low, but your colonial troops in your last war had a reputation for shooting prisoners of war, did they not?’
Walters pursed his lips. ‘What else do you know about this man?’
‘From our sources,’ Von Deimling reclined in his chair and brought his fingers together, ‘we know that this Prestwich is an Australian who served with the British Army in the war against the Boers in an irregular horse unit. He has been known to us for some time as a thief, trading in cattle stolen by the Hottentots, the Nama as they call themselves, and supplying horses and perhaps arms and ammunition to the rebels. It would be of assistance to German South West Africa if your police could perhaps exercise greater diligence in controlling the illegal trade in livestock back and forth across the border.’
Walters did not need some Hun telling him how to run his police force. Ordinarily he would have sent an underling to a meeting about some miscreant colonial scoundrel, but this case was of particular interest to him. A particularly diligent lieutenant on his staff, on receiving the cable from the foreign office, had shown great initiative by searching for the service record of Edward Lionel Prestwich. Two things leapt out from the briefing the lieutenant had prepared for him.
Firstly, Edward Prestwich had been a member of Steinaecker’s Horse and he had died of malaria in 1902 at Komatipoort; secondly, when Walters had consulted his notes from that period he confirmed that Sergeant Cyril Blake had been reported as dead on that same day.
On top of all that, just two days ago Walters had received a routine report from a patrol officer when he passed through Upington which mentioned a red-headed European woman visiting the town in search of missing cattle some time earlier. Her name was Claire Kohl, wife of a German doctor-cum-farmer across the border.
There had been no sign of the alleged Prestwich in Upington, and no one seemed to know where he was or when he would be back, so Walters had come to Rietfontein to discuss the man with his German counterparts across the border. He also wanted information on the red-headed woman.
‘What would you like me to do about this, Colonel?’ Walters asked, punctuating his feigned disinterest with a swish of the giraffe’s tail.
Von Deimling gave a tight smile. ‘I am tempted to say your job, Colonel, but I do not wish to sound flippant or rude.’
Walters ignored the criticism. ‘Naturally, the Cape Mounted Police take all allegations of illegal activity seriously and I am sure our government would take a dim view of a British subject, colonial or otherwise, acting as a gun runner or armed rebel.’
Von Deimling stroked his moustache. ‘For my part, I have put a price of three thousand Marks on the head of this man, Prestwich. He seems to be overly sympathetic towards the natives. There are even reports of him cohabiting with a coloured girl in Upington from time to time. If this man was to brag of his exploits, perhaps spreading falsehoods of Morengo’s successes around Upington, then he might sow the seeds of rebellion among your own native people. I’m sure the Cape Colony and your masters in England would not like to have to deal with the type of uprising and banditry that we are faced with.’
‘Quite,’ Walters said. ‘I see you have a file.’
Von Deimling nodded. ‘In the interests of international cooperation I would be pleased to share what we have with you, and in return perhaps you could give me some sort of assurance that I could pass on to my superiors.’
It was Walters’ turn to negotiate. ‘Perhaps you might be able to assist me with something?’
‘Of course.’ Von Deimling spread his hands wide. ‘If it is in my power. I am but a humble soldier.’
‘While you are concerned about an Australian entering your territory illegally, I have recently had reports of a woman, possibly of Irish or American descent, red hair, a farmer’s wife I believe, crossing from your side of the border into the Cape Colony at Upington.’
Von Deimling brought his hands together again, on his chest. ‘There would be very few women of that background in South West Africa. There are precious few women in colony still, in fact, and most of them come by ship from Germany.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘May I ask your interest in this woman?’
‘It dates back to my time during the war against the Boers. I was involved in investigations then, much as I am now.’
Von Deimling broke into a wide smile, which was as pleasant and lifelike as dried skin stretched either side of a corpse’s jaw. ‘Come, come, Colonel, it’s known to us that you were an officer in British military intelligence during the war. As that conflict is over and our two nations are not at war I’m sure we can be frank with each other, as one old soldier to another.’
Walters didn’t return the smile. ‘There was a woman I was investigating, a half-German half-Irish Fenian, the daughter of one of our own “rebels”, named Claire Martin, who sympathised with the Boers. She had spent time in America and had also been infected with that country’s moral lassitude. Miss Martin was, we believed, spying for your government and acting as an intermediary between a German arms manufacturer, her cousin, Fritz Krupp, and the Boers.’
Von Deimling looked impassive. ‘The Imperial German Government had no involvement in your war with the simple farmers of South Africa, although it’s no secret a number of our citizens felt so aggrieved by the treatment of the Boers that they fought alongside them – without official approval, of course.’
‘Of course, and even if you knew of the lady’s involvement in intelligence matters then I’m sure you wouldn’t confide that you did.’
Von Deimling put a finger to his lips. ‘There is a woman, a farmer’s wife with red hair. I’ve seen her in the Schützenhaus, the marksmen’s club in Keetmanshoop. I believe I did hear someone say that the woman was a foreigner.’
Walters raised his eyebrows. ‘A humble farmer’s wife?’
‘Well, perhaps not so humble. If this red-headed woman is the Claire Martin you are looking for then her surname would now be Kohl as she is the wife of the town’s doctor – one of my reservist officers. They have three farms, each quite large. They have sheep and cattle and breed horses for the Kaiserreich.’
‘Three farms? Is that unusual?’
He spread his hands wide as if to encompass the nothingness around them. ‘South West Africa is a land of great opportunity for hard-working Germans, and those who are drawn to our way of life and views. Many settlers from the old country, and quite a few from South Africa, have found prosperity here. Between you and me, though, I’ve heard it said that the doctor left a mound of debts and more than one broken heart back in Germany before he came here.’
‘And in Africa he made enough money to buy three farms?’
Von Deimling shrugged. ‘Perhaps the woman, this red-head you are so interested in, came from means? If I may be blunt, what is your interest in this woman, Colonel – your war has been over four years now?’
‘She stole a good deal of money from the British Army – she was part of a gang that held up a payroll wagon that was under my supervision.’ Walters relaxed into the story. Though it was a lie he had told it enough times to almost believe it himself. ‘They got away with a hundred thousand pounds. The thieves were tracked down and ambushed by a detachment of my soldiers and whilst they killed the men involved the woman, Claire Martin, got away with the wagon. Apart from the fact that she stole a good deal of money from the crown, my career suffered as a result of the initial theft and my inability to get the funds back and bring her to justice.’
Von Deimling nodded. ‘I can see why this is a matter of interest to you. But from what I know of Dr Kohl, it seems like she has spent your missing money.’
‘That should not stop her from being investigated, I’m sure you would agree.’
‘Perhaps,’ von Deimling said, ‘but the lady is now a subject of the Kaiser, living on German territory.’
Walters stroked his moustache. ‘Just as Edward Prestwich is an Australian living, ostensibly, in the Cape Colony.’
‘Touché, Colonel Walters.’
‘Any more information you can provide about Frau Kohl, even a confirmation of her first name and maiden name, would be of great help to the Cape Mounted Police, Colonel, and very much appreciated.’
Von Deimling snapped his fingers. ‘Kurtz?’ The aide stepped forward and von Deimling asked him a question in German.
‘Claire, Herr Oberst,’ Kurtz replied.
Walters could barely contain himself.
Von Deimling at last passed him the file. ‘That is the doctor’s wife’s Christian name, Claire.’
Walters fought to still his breathing. He opened the dossier and a face he recognised immediately stared back at him.
‘One of my men found this picture in the possession of a coloured girl we captured at Narudas,’ von Deimling said. ‘She is a friend of the man, it seems, a whore most likely. Our doctor from Keetmanshoop, coincidentally the husband of the woman you are seeking, confirmed he saw this man during the battle, climbing onto one of our wagons just as another carrying ammunition exploded. The coloured woman was a prisoner, but she had managed to free herself. Prestwich was attempting to rescue her, but was blown from the wagon. Herr Doktor Kohl said he saw the white man crawling in the sand, injured but alive, as Kohl retreated with the coloured woman under his charge.’
Walters stared at the picture, willing his hands to stay still so as not to pique the German’s interest. Walters’ hunch was correct – Cyril Blake had switched identities with the late Edward Prestwich at Komatipoort – for the man staring back at him from the photograph was most certainly Claire Martin’s partner in crime.
In the interests of fairness Walters told von Deimling that Prestwich was an alias and that the man the Germans were looking for was really Cyril Blake. Von Deimling beckoned to Kurtz and relayed the news to his aide – Walters caught the use of Blake’s name.
‘Some wine, now, Colonel?’ von Deimling said.
Walters was lost in thought. The painful journey here had been worth it. Women were Blake’s weakness and he had been trying to rescue his coloured lover. Was he also trying to find Claire Martin in South West Africa?
A lesser man might have been worried that Blake was alive, that he might try to expose Walters’ deeds during the war. Perhaps the man was plotting his revenge – who knew? – but the fact was, Walters could use Blake to get to Claire Martin. If von Deimling kept an eye on the woman then Blake might fall into the Germans’ hands, but Blake was canny and careful. If Walters could get a tail on Blake, someone he trusted, then Blake would lead him to the woman, and to the gold. Walters was sure now that Claire Kohl was, in fact, Claire Martin – the story of the penniless doctor and the red-haired foreigner being able to afford to buy a large chunk of German South West Africa told him that she had indeed made her way to that colony with a sizeable portion of Kruger’s gold. The question was, how much of it was left, and how could he get his hands on it?
Von Deimling cleared his throat. ‘Colonel?’
Walters looked up, realising his opposite number had asked him something, though he could not recall what.
‘I asked if you are ready for some wine now?’
‘Oh, yes, of course.’
‘You look like you have just seen a ghost, as the English say.’
No, he thought, not a ghost, but a soon-to-be dead man and a woman he would make talk.