The Soulmaker Book Two in the Trilogy The Angels Shall Sing

By Nikolas Ridout

The Anglo-Boer War is over, but the destruction it left behind is still fresh. The victory of the war did not feel that sweet to the British. The Queen’s army, despite being one of the most well trained in the world, received an unexpectedly good fight from the Boers. Hundreds of men died on both sides. The wives and children of the Boer fighters were taken to concentration camps where they suffered. The African farming community wants nothing but a moment of peace. They want the English to leave their land. But that seems like a far-fetched ideal now. Amidst the cold political tension, we get a second of respite in Jonathan Cobb’s short-lived happiness. The young fellow, who is soon to be 13, is visiting his grandfather in London. From Cape Town, Jonathan is excited to be back exploring London. Little did he know that he is being followed by some strange men! His excitement soon turns into a nightmare as he is abducted by these strange men. Who are these men? Why did they take Jonathan? What do they intend to do with him? Order your copy to discover the fate of this young boy and the adventure he embarks upon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nikolas Ridout
• Release date: Dec 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310299766

Nikolas Ridout

Nikolas Ridout was born and raised in Rondebosch, Cape Town. He went to the Rondebosch Boys School, and began his career working for General Motors. He later found his niche in IT while working with IBM. After taking an early retirement from corporate life, Nick started teaching IT at college. Despite being an avid reader and writer, Nick never pursued writing as a profession until recently. As a young boy, he had heard tales of the Anglo-Boer War from his grandfather. Now, he brings those stories into life through his writing.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The Diplomat

Schleissheimer-Strasse 33, Munich, Bavaria.

Monday, 12.30pm, 16th December, 1901. (12 days previously)

'My dear Paul (pronounced pole) what a pleasant surprise, it's been a long time, my friend, richtig.' (right, really)

Kurt Walters stood from behind his desk as Paul Weck entered his untidy little office.

'Kurt, ja, a long time, too long. I just walked in the front door was open…'

'Ja, ja, fine, I let the cat out, everyone is now out, ha ha, sit, sit what brings you back to Munich, last time I heard you were in South Africa '

'Ja, I was; you, I see, are still in the newspaper business.'

Kurt waved his hands. 'Ja, ja. Sit, sit, it is cold ja.'

He rubbed his hands as he sat. They were on the third floor; it was the top floor of a three-story apartment in the better part of town. The top floor, more an annex, had been converted into an office. Kurt Walters was the editor of a minor newspaper. He was a contract editor, he took his articles to a print house, and they did the copyediting, the composite, and the printing. A news agency handled the distribution. He lived in the apartments below. He was a big robust man, with a round face. He sat behind his desk, smiling, Kurt went on. 'Ja, it is well with me, I do apologize for the, er, er austerity of my surroundings, but Bavaria is going through a hard time, as you no doubt know.'

'Yes, I know this only too well, your son is well, your wife.'

'Ja, ja Josef is well, he is in Berlin, on the crime desk of Berlinblad, a junior reporter, doing very well for himself, Matilda is well, she is out, ha, ha spending my money. But you my friend you do not look well.'

'I am not, Kurt, not well at all.'

'Ah, good Bavarian beer, some, no, platefuls of good Schweinsbraten, will see you right, mark my words.' He slapped his thighs, smiling.

'Kurt I must speak with you urgently, something has happened.'

Kurt's smile dropped, he put on a serious face. 'Was ist los, my friend, you do look troubled.'

Paul Weck bent forward, and put his head in his hands, after a bit he looked up. 'I am out of the service!' His shoulders shook for a bit. 'I was expelled.'

'Richtig, good Heavens man, how terrible, coffee, ja, no, schnapps, just a moment.'

He spoke over his shoulder as he got up. 'The family they are all right, the boys.'

Paul nodded. Kurt went over to a large cabinet, stacked with papers, behind some files he took out a bottle and came back with the schnapps, scratched in his desk drawer and put two small glasses on the desk and poured. Smiled. 'So the wife doesn't see, prost.'

'Prost.'

They both downed their drinks. Kurt poured again and sat back.

Paul began talking; telling him what had gone on in Mowbray, Cape Town, and the séance he had attended, he was stuttering a bit, obviously trying to cover up parts of the story. After a bit he finished. 'So you see Kurt I thought it was just a séance, I had no idea what was going on, I paid my one hundred pounds, and I had been told, er, that they were really excellent, I had er, no idea they would be all this hocus pocus stuff, so that is why I am here.'

He coughed, trying to cover his face, the slight guilt obvious. 'I am desperate for a job, Kurt; I have no money left.'

'One hundred pounds! That is a lot of money.'

'They were supposed to be very good. You have so many connections, could you perhaps see a way to assist me.'

'Of course my dear friend, of course, anything for a fellow Bavarian, you know us by now, drink up, there's a good fellow, can I ask you, you mentioned a English Officer, do you perhaps remember his name.'

'Prost: yes Colonel Revington-Smythe, do you know of him.'

Kurt shook his head. 'Never heard of him. Und diesem kind, you say he left.'

'The boy. Carried out, would be better way to say it.'

'And the British Soldiers, they shot this Revington-Smythe.'

'My head was a little bit moggy from the ether, but yes, he was dead. Very dead.'

'Ether. You took ether.'

'Yes they give you ether to heighten the mind, so they said.'

Kurt shook his head. 'Oh dear, strange, nothing has been in the papers, nothing on the wire, not a word.'

'Yes I rather think that has been arranged you know, because of my position with the Diplomatic Corp.'

Kurt sat back in his chair, it creaked with his weight. 'Yes I can see; a cover up, ummm.'

Paul stood suddenly, flustered. 'You cannot publish this, Kurt; it would be the end of me.'

'Sit my dear fellow sit, wouldn't dream of it, it would only damage your reputation further, but we must begin, I think we should try and find you a job, ja.'

'Yes, yes.' Paul sat.

Kurt filled his glass again, Paul drank the schnapps, his face was quite red by now. He shook his head. 'I had no idea they were, were trying to kill the boy, he was a boy, a really nice looking boy, he looked like a German boy, you know blond hair and blue eyes, a little bit older than my, my Ernst.' He started sobbing.

Kurt waited for a bit. 'Why should they kill the boy?'

'I don't know,' he held his hands up, 'part of their rights.'

'Rights, you mean like a sacrifice, they were going to slay him.'

'Oh yes, they had it all prepared.' Kurt sat back speechless. He poured them another schnapps. Sat sipping slowly. He spoke after a bit. 'Do you know this group's name?'

'Ja it is Freimaurerisher Orden der Godenen Centurie.' (The Masonic Order of the Golden Century.)

Kurt Walters's eyebrows shot up, and then he went pale. He coughed, trying to keep his voice normal. 'So you are not a member, as such.'

'No, no: never, I just went along.'

'Uh, huh. So, so you were in goal.'

'Yes, treated like common criminals.'

'Jesus. Have you told anyone else?'

Paul Weck shook his head, looking down. Kurt Walters lent back and opened his desk drawer, fumbled for a bit and his hand came out with a Walther 7.65 pistol, he stood and pointed it straight into Paul Weck's face and pulled the trigger.

Ricky was laying in a deck chair; in the tropical sun on the private sun deck, outside a private suite, Upper A deck of the Dunottor Castle. This steam ship became famous in the 1890's for reducing the voyage time from Southampton, England, to Cape Town, South Africa, from 42 days to 17 days and 20 hours. They had the previous day, passed the equator. The sun was boiling hot, the air still; sultry clouds struggled for existence and the horizon was invisible in the haze. A few lonely seagulls squawked overhead. He was in a pair of shorts; next to him were piles of books, a wooden box labelled, Campbell's Whisky, and a glass of lemonade. He was eating peanuts, and a few shells had fallen around the deck chair, he was making notes as he read, on a pad. He put some papers down, and reaching over to the box, took out another pile of papers, labelled The Myths of Thule and Vril. The paper explained that just as Plato had spoken of the ancient Egyptian legend of Atlantis, Herodotus mentioned another Egyptian legend of the Hyperborean in the far North. At the approach of the ice age, these people migrated south to two islands called Thule and Ultima Thule, later they migrated to the highest point they could find on Earth, the Himalayas, the reason they went there was because here were entrance to the center of the earth. This idea had first been concocted by a British astronomer who maintained that the earth was hollow, this had led to Jules Verne's famous novel 'The voyage to the center of the earth' in 1867. Nietzsche had written that the common 'herd' strives for security within itself by creating morality and rules, whereas the Supermen have an internal vital force that drives them beyond this 'herd mentality'. Hegel had written that the world spirit, carried out by heroes, was the Plan of Providence and they, these heroes, were above morality. Ricky thought for a bit: so therefore, by deduction, that meant that normal morality, acceptable morality like the ten commandants, didn't apply to special people. The handbook of the Golden Dawn, stated that to achieve enlightment one had to set about, 'deliberately defying one's own morality', Ricky thought for bit. Suppose it would take a complete absence of morality to have sex with a boy, then sacrifice him, bleed him into a bucket, drink his blood and then cut him into pieces. Surely, sex and love went together. Was this the so-called key to the Cosmic, if that was the key, what door or gate where they going through, a back gate, some secret path to the power of the cosmic. God's will, where did will fit in, Ricky thought for a bit, stretched out, put the blue folder with all his certificates to one side and scratched through a pile of papers the he and Prof had sorted out, reading material for the voyage. He found what he looking for. Robert Hammerling, the poet philosopher had said in Atomistik des Willens (The Atomism of will) It is true, man can do what he wills, but he cannot will what he wills, because his will is determined by motives. The concept of motive is inseparably connected with that of willing. Ricky thought for a bit. So that meant what you willed had to have a reason, a motive, even if it was a hidden motive, you still had to have a motive, a desire for willing something. Everyone spoke of the Will of God, God therefore had to have a motive, and agenda, a desire even, otherwise he would be unable to will anything. Therefore, by extension, all of humanity was merely obeying God's will, but nobody even knew God's real motive. Ricky shook his head at the thought. If what happened on the planet was God's will, what was Gods motive for all the atrocities, down the ages? You do not kill thousands of children because you are nice chap.

It was while his eyes were closed he noticed a shadow fall over him. He sprang to his feet instantly.

Kurt Walters waved his left hand to clear the cordite smoke, then he learned over the desk, Paul Weck had crashed forward, bumped his head on the edge of the table and now lay in an untidy heap on the threadbare carpet. Kurt grimaced at the bright red blood splatter on his desk, then at the wall, it was sprayed with blood and brain matter, he turned his nose up in disgust. He looked down to see if Paul Weck was still breathing, satisfied that he saw no movement, he plopped back into his worn chair, and squeaked himself towards the phone. He whirred the handset. The operator answered, Kurt spoke, 'Wilhelm 565, bitte schone.' After a bit, a voice squawked down the line.

'Ja, it is me, we have a problem.' There were more squawks down the line. 'Ja, ja I know but this is urgent, I need help.'

The voice on the other end was shouting. Kurt shouted back. 'I don't care about your appointments, this is important, a very urgent story, some fellow in Cape Town, South Africa, a Colonel, by the name of Revington Smyth is dead, shot by the British Army, and a boy, almost killed, one of our Senior Diplomats is er, was involved, six people, German people, have been arrested.'

There was total silence from the other end, for a long time.

'Hullo, hullo, are you there, hullo, yes and I have another problem, I have er him here, he is dead. Yes, yes the diplomat, I shot him.'

Kurt Walters explained what had happened. There was another long pause.

'Yes I am alone; Marta will not be back until three. Yes okay Mueller you say, okay then I will wait for him, okay three o'clock, I will start cleaning up so long, I will see you by the bench in the Gardens.'

At precisely 3:00 that afternoon, Kurt Walters approached the bench in a side path in the Englischen Garten, the English Garden. Beautiful gardens in the center of Munich. The sky was dull, laden with clouds. Sitting at the bench was Otto Zimmerman, a tall stately looking man, impeccably dressed in a dark overcoat. He looked older than his thirty-eight years; he had blue eyes and blond hair, now going a little grey at the side. He had a hat on, set at a jaunty angle; it had a feather in the side. He rose as Kurt Walters approached and they fell into step, down the path towards the Kleinhesseloher See, a beautiful lake.

Kurt Walters spoke as they walked, the birds singing in the trees. 'You are well.'

Otto Zimmerman nodded.

'Good, I have a problem.'

Kurt told him the story. Otto Zimmerman looked at him. 'Es ist ja Wahnsinn, net?' (It is crazy, no.)

'What do you want me to do?'

'Nothing, do nothing. Verstehst.'

'Good Heavens, how can you say that, the man is, was, a senior diplomat, there is bound to be repercussions.'

'Kurt, calm yourself.'

'Calm myself, a senior British Officer is shot dead, by their own men, six people have been arrested, mostly Germans, a young boy, sounds like a German boy, is carried out, a senior diplomat is involved, a séance, the Engelse are trying to cover it up, Paul Weck knew all about us, human sacrifices, a young boy, Godd in Hemel, can it be, if this gets into the papers it is the end of us, we don't do things like that.'

The tall man shook his head and laughed. 'Kurt, my dear Kurt, you are so excitable, such a Bavarian, we don't sacrifice boys, that is disgusting, but before you do or say anything to anybody, let me check, see what this is about.'

'But that could take days.'

'Kurt I promise you, it won't. I will call a council meeting tonight; let you have an answer, as soon as I can.'

'Do you know of a Lodge in South Africa?'

Otto Zimmerman shook his head slowly. 'They must be some group trying to copy us.'

They walked for a bit, and then Kurt Walters spoke. 'And what is to happen, about the remains.'

'Mueller was there.'

'Yes he called a van, I cleaned up. I am sorry, I was so upset, you know, I couldn't let him go, God knows who else he might have gone to.'

'No you did the right thing, your time in the Army, it left you with an excellent sense of honor.'

Kurt shrugged. 'The cause is much greater than one individual, his death is meaningless, he was a traitor.'

Otto nodded. 'Ah faith, you have such good faith, my friend, but don't worry I will think up something, we will look after you. Don't worry.'

They walked around the park, talking; they got to the big green wrought iron gates, and then shook hands. Otto Zimmerman walked slowly along Koniginstrasse thinking deeply, his face etched in worry. Last month the Director of Munich Police had called him into his office, he had a telegram from the Chief Constable of the Metropolitan Police in London, warning them that a sex ring had been uncovered in Cape Town; he had done nothing about it, now suddenly this. What had gone on in Cape Town? What had gone wrong? Why had the lodge collapsed? He was saddened, deeply saddened, he knew Douglas Revington-Smythe well, better than well.

Otto Zimmerman had been born of a Military family, he had attended Cadet School at Karlruhe, then later been accepted in the prestigious Chief Cadet School in Gross-Licterfelde in Berlin. After that he had gone to War School, in Metz, he had graduated top of his class after passing his Reifeprufung. He was given the rank of Oberleutnant. (Lieutenant) He was chosen to be seconded to the Kaiser's regiment in England for part of his Officers training. The 1st Royal Dragoons, at Shorncliffe. Then a Lieutenant, Douglas Revington-Smythe had been one of the instructors, and they had hit it off immediately. On their first weekend pass, they had gone down to London to Douglas' apartment. They had been like two minks, that weekend. He smiled remembering. Every weekend pass they got after that, they had gone down to London. Dinner parties with Douglas's friends, clubs in London and pubs in the East End, some nights they had been so drunk that he did not even remember getting back to Douglas's apartment. He smiled remembering. Douglas was the most intelligent person he had ever met in his life, the things he knew, the deepness of the man, the spirituality, the learning. Then his smile became a scowl. It was that swine Horst von Vlanders who had seen them one night, at a pub in the East End of London, and had guessed something was going on between the two of them, and had started whispering to his fellow officers. They had waited until Otto was back in Germany, then the following day his Officer Commanding had called him in, and asked for his resignation of his commission. He was stunned, the Wermacht was his life, his father before him, had been an Oberst, (Colonel) and they could not do this to his family. Of course, because of his father, it had been all covered up. He had moved to Bavaria and joined the police. Bastards, absolute Pifke (Prussian) bastards. He had not spoken to his father since, his father had disowned him.

Ricky stood all his senses alert. A girl, a bit older than him, was standing, in a long dress, ankle length, with a bonnet on. She was standing with her back to the sun.

'Whoa sorry, didn't mean to frighten you. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to sit in the sun; it'll ruin your skin.'

Ricky sighed, had to shade his eyes, to see. 'Didn't your mother ever tell you not to speak to strange men?'

'You are a monkey, a half nude monkey, not a man, who else eats peanuts.'

Ricky smiled. She went on. 'And you are throwing them all over the deck, so you are untidy monkey as well.'

Ricky looked down, there a few shells next to his chair, he pointed to the sky, she looked up. He put his finger to his lips. 'Shh, don't tell anybody, I place them carefully around my chair, to stop vultures from attacking me.'

She frowned looking around. 'Vultures, vultures, there are no vultures.'

Ricky smiled. 'Yeah, I know, works well, doesn't it.'

She laughed. 'And you drink whisky by the case.'

Ricky turned and looked at the box. 'No, it's er, for the seagulls. Look.'

Ricky pointed to the sky. She laughed. 'I am not looking up.'

Ricky shrugged. 'Please yourself, but they really are terrible alcoholics.'

'You are insane.'

Ricky nodded sadly. 'I know, my Mother only lets me out for an hour or two a day.'

'Shame, poor boy, what you reading?'

'Don't want to be rude, but I don't think you would understand.'

She stamped her foot. 'Just because I am a girl that means I'm stupid well I'll have you know mister short pants.'

'Oh my God, you're a girl, a girl, why didn't you tell me, I go catatonic when I see girls that's why my Mother locks me up.'

Ricky clenched his teeth, and suddenly went ramrod stiff and started shaking all over. He opened one eye and looked at her. She smiled. 'You can stop acting; I did charity work at a hospital, that's not a catatonic state.'

Ricky grimaced. 'Damn.'

'So apart from being a rude uncultured peanut eating moron, who has a morbid fear of vultures, who feeds seagulls alcohol, and who is suffering from an as yet undiagnosed form of catatonic spasms, who are you.'

'Oh, I'm a farm boy.'

'Oh right, a farm boy who reads Rudolf Steiner, and, she bent her head, and, and…'

'Goethe.'

'…I really believe you.'

Ricky shrugged. 'Did you come up with the lift or the stairs?'

'The stairs.'

'Oh was there no one there.'

'Er no, wasn't I supposed to be here.'

'Not really, but it's okay.'

'Thank you so very much Sir, my father paid you know, not as if I'm a stowaway.'

She looked around. 'May I sit?'

'Oops, sorry, wasn't expecting company.'

He bowed, using both arms to direct her to his deck chair. She sat on the edge of the chair, looked around.

'You not a servant are you, is this the servants quarters?'

Ricky sat on the deck, legs crossed, smiling wide. 'No not really.'

'Oh it's small.'

She looked at him. 'Do you gym.'

'Run, I run.'

'Oh you look very er fit. How do you get your stomach to look like that?'

Ricky smiled, lent back. pulling his stomach taught. 'Oh that's from loading hay, digging all day long. Picking fruit. Rounding up cattle.'

'Yeah, yeah, I believe you; you really look like a farmer.'

She looked over to the box. Saw the pink folder, picked it up, a whole pile of papers slid out.

'Sorry is this like private.'

'Not really, it's school stuff.'

'Oh can I, what school do you go to, where.'

'In Cape Town, Rondebosch Boys High.'

She began paging through. 'Never heard of it. You going to Standard Nine.'

Ricky nodded. Her face changed, she spoke. 'Wow, wow…'

She held up some papers. 'Did you really win all these awards?'

'Suppose.'

'And you're a straight A student, you don't look like one.'

Ricky smiled. 'Oh, how do they look?'

'Well they're all nerdy.'

Ricky hung his head, opened his mouth. She looked at him, shaking her head. 'You're strange.' She closed the folder. 'I haven't seen you before; you don't eat in third class or the lower decks, do you.'

Ricky shook his head. She frowned. 'How did you get here?'

Ricky smiled. 'Here, as on this planet, here as on this boat, or here as on this deck.'

She burst out laughing.

Otto Zimmerman walked into Police Headquarters and opened the one side of the big double door, and walked into the stylish wood paneled interior, he nodded at the young constable on duty. The constable greeted him, 'Guter Nachmittag Herr-Chefinspektor.'

Otto Zimmerman gave an almost imperceptible nod. He walked up the stairs to his office on the first floor and sat behind his desk, and pulled a foolscap pad over and picked up a pencil. He wrote down Paul Weck's address, before he forgot it, torn off the sheet and then he wrote down Kurt Walters and his address, and torn off that sheet. Then he wrote young boy, blond curly hair and blue eyes, German? Arresting Officer, Major MacLain. He sighed; he knew Douglas had a weakness for young men with blond hair and blue eyes. He scratched in his in-tray for some time, and then brought out the telegram from the Chief Constable of London. He looked at the name, read it through slowly, his English was not perfect, but he could get by. He turned to a new page, wrote on his pad.

Sir Anthony Sharp

Chief Constable

Scotland Yard

London

RE: YOUR REQUEST TO MR OVERBURGER PRESIDENT OF POLICE MUNICH

MR OVERBURGER HAS REQUESTED ME TO TAKE PERSONAL CHARGE OF YOUR REQUEST IF WE RECEIVE ANY INFORMATION I WILL FORWARD IT TO YOU WITH IMMEDIATE HASTE PLEASE FORWARD THIS TO YOUR SENIOR OFFICER AND REQUEST HIM TO LET ME HAVE ANY DETAILS OF MISSING BOYS FROM CAPE TOWN THAT COULD ASSIST ME.

I REMAIN YOURS ETC OTTO ZIMMERMAN DETECTIVE CHIEF INSPECTOR

He read it through again slowly, and it sounded okay. He delved into his inside jacket pocket and took out a slim green, leather bound notebook, began paging though, he found what he was looking for. He torn off the sheet and wrote another telegram, copying the details from his notebook, this time to Sergeant Swart, c/o The South Africa Police, Wynberg, Cape Town, South Africa. He turned to the back of his notebook, and then started cross matching letters. After about ten minutes, he had a telegram that was just a list of meaningless letters. He then tore that off, folded it carefully, and put it in his inside jacket pocket. When he finished, he shouted.

'Sergeant Bock.'

The door opened ten seconds later. 'You called Herr-Chefinspektor.'

A tall good-looking young man, Sergeant 'Bockie' Bock, very well built, with pale blue eyes and auburn hair stood, he was dressed in the black and green uniform of a Munich Police Sergeant.

'Send this off immediately.'

He handed him the draft of the telegram to Sir Sharp.

'Yes Herr-Chefinspektor.'

Bockie took the paper, left the room, and walked down the passage to the communications room. Arschloch he thought to himself as he walked down the passage. (Arsehole)

Otto Zimmerman sat back in his chair thinking. From his pocket, he took a lozenge, sat sucking, after a bit he closed his eyes, and sat back for some time, breathing in and out slowly. Then he lent forward and with his pencil, he crossed out Paul Weck's name, and then did the same to Kurt Walter's name. He hesitated above young boy blond curly hair and blue eyes…German? What had gone wrong, is Douglas really dead, does this mean no more packages, what became of Douglas's money, the Lodge he had begun; he sighed. He picked up the phone, 'Ja Skakebord, get me the Truppenamt (The General Staff of the Army)' he sat waiting. 'Gode tag, Oberst (Colonel) Theiss,' he waited some more, tapping his finger on the desk. 'Ja Hans, Gode tag, alles gut, you are well, gut, gut, no very well. Hans, the lodge needs a favor, a personal favor; you are still friends with the fellows at the Jaeger (Infantry) Battalion here in Munchen, aren't you.'

There were noises down the line. 'Yes I know, but can you come down personally.'

'Ja, the fast train, ja, good see you day after tomorrow, Ja Hofbrauhuis eight o' clock, (a famous beer house in Munich), Danke schon, Auf Weideshan.' He hung up. Smiled and spoke to the ceiling. 'The Wermacht might be finished with me, but I am not finished with the Wermacht.

Otto Zimmerman had down the years used his friends he had made in the Wermacht viscously. Youthful imprudence, at Military School, and then later at College, more serious short lived liaisons with the fit adolescent student officers, had left him a small pool of officers, now twenty years later, highly placed, and respectability married, who would not have liked their past youthful sexual experiments known. He put the pencil down and sat thinking.

He stood, patting his pocket, checking that the note was there, he did not want that telegram sent via the Police Cable system, he would have to go to the Imperial Post and Telegraph Company. He grabbed his hat from the hat stand, and walked out the office, locking it carefully, and now walked, heels clicking, on the polished wooden floor down the long passage. Outside the communications room Bockie was standing smoking, chatting to the girl in communications. You could plainly hear laughter. As Otto Zimmerman approached, he spoke. 'Sergeant Bock don't you have work to do, surely you have something better to do, than idle your life away in the passage chatting up girls and smoking.'

Bockie stood up straight. 'Jawohl Herr-Chefinspektor.'

Otto Zimmerman went on walking, he spoke. 'When Mueller gets in, tell him to meet me at Café Heck.'

'Jawohl Herr-Chefinspektor.'

Bockie waited until he was out of earshot. 'Swear that bloke is, you know.'

The girl smiled at Bockie. 'He is married to the police force.'

Bockie smiled. 'How boring.'

She giggled. Bockie smiled and looked out the window, dur Chef, as he was called, was going to get sopping wet, it was pouring with rain. Munich was having a bad winter.

In the ornate first class dining hall, lunch was being served, Cynthia Mainwaring cut a piece of smoked Scottish Salmon, chewed slowly. George Mainwaring, her father, worked for Barclay Bank D.C.&.O (Dominium, Colonial, and Overseas) he was General Manager (Colonial) at London Head Office. He was on his way back to London, to report to the Board of Barclays. He had been sent to South Africa, to investigate the plausibility of opening branches there. A lot of the Army personal now in South Africa had accounts with Barclays in London, Barclays was virtually obliged to open a branch. It had not taken George Mainwaring long to realize that there was a lot of money to be made in South Africa. George Mainwaring wanted the new position being created, in South Africa, General Manager (Africa). One of Barclay's biggest investors, particularly in the new divisions, was the Royal Bank of Scotland. Cynthia spoke. 'Daddy who is Rudolf Steiner.'

'He is a German Philosopher, darling.'

'Oh and Goethe.'

'Also a German Philosopher and playwright, have you…'

'No, just wanted to know.'

'Oh good because it would be very heavy going.'

'Meaning.'

Her Father shrugged. 'Definitely not your average school read, type of thing, scholars would read.'

'Oh.'

Cynthia went on eating for a bit. 'They wouldn't be in English then.'

'I don't think so dear. German.'

Her mother spoke from across the table. 'Why the sudden interest, Cyn.'

'Cynthia Mother, Cynthia.'

'Sorry.'

'No, no reason.'

They were waiting for the waiters to clear the table. Cynthia's mother spoke. 'Are you going to the dance tonight, Cynthia?'

'Oh yes, most definitely.'

'Who is going to escort you?'

Cynthia turned to her Father. 'Daddy how would I find out where, I mean which cabin someone is staying in.'

'Oh ask the purser, just give him a name, I'm sure he will know, wait a bit there he is.'

John Manwaring put his hand up and waved to the Purser. 'No Daddy, no Daddy,' trying to pull his arm down.

The Purser came over. 'Good afternoon Sir, can I be of assistance.'

'Yes my good man, I need to extend an invitation, so I would like to know which cabin to address it to, it is a, I presume, young man, Cynthia, Cynthia!'

Cynthia went deep red. 'I, I er forgot his name, he is, he has blond hair, long and he is about my age.'

The Purser smiled. 'Oh yes Miss, he is on the top deck, the private suite.'

Recovering a bit, Cynthia frowned, 'sorry, private suite?'

'Yes Miss, it is reserved for the Directors of the Union Castle Line. That entire area is unfortunately out of bounds.'

Cynthia Manwaring went deep red again.

After they had served coffee, Cynthia Manwaring was staring deep in thought out the large firmly shut windows of the dining hall. A heavy sea breeze had come up, as it does, in the tropics, in the early afternoon. Outside a seagull landed on the handrail and rocked back and forth, trying to get its balance, buffeted by the breeze. Cynthia Manwaring's eyes went wide. The seagull looked drunk out of its mind.

Ricky was sitting up in bed reading. He looked out the porthole it was pitch dark, he checked his watch, and then he rubbed his eyes. It was a quarter past eleven. He stretched, although he was tired, he was not sleepy. Ricky had read some other papers written by the Prof on a group called the SS or the Silver Star, there object was to express the true self, so that the adherent could 'live in accordance with his will, create a new universe in accordance to his will', here was that will bit again. Ricky thought of the Crusaders and their God will's it and under God's will, they could perform the most horrendous atrocities with total impunity. Now all of sudden they did not need God as an excuse they could do anything they liked because they had willed it, was God merely an excuse, or rather a suborned motive for their own will. God was blamed for everything, if it rained to hard and flooded, God was blamed, if it didn't rain, everyone prayed to God, for rain. Is that where the statement God willing came from; were the rain or the drought or the death of 30,000 women and children, God's will. This will, or the ability to will was supposed to be the highest mode of attainment, enlighten, the Nirvana, the Shangri La, a new type of magic wand you could wave up whatever you wanted. He smiled, the Prof had written afterwards in his big bold hand, Before enlightenment, chop wood, fetch water, after enlightenment, chop wood, fetch water, (Ancient Chinese saying) Ricky laughed to himself.

He started undressing for bed. Half way through he thought again and going to the cupboard, took out his old brown corduroy trousers, although they were a bit short, they were worn nice and soft by age, he selected an old woolen tartan shirt. He looked at his legs, as he pulled his pants on, they were still a red from the sun, and he needed to wear something soft. He knew the main kitchen would be closed by now and main dining hall as well, at the back of the dining hall Ricky had seen a piano. He had been down once or twice to play.

Ricky sat behind the piano playing, whenever he felt down, he found playing would soon lift his mood. He was missing home. He thought of Chris, and wished that he could be with, how his life had changed. Harry Lauder, a very popular music hall singer had recently recorded a song, it was an instant hit. Ricky had the 78 rpm record. He began singing.

Two little boys

Had two little toys

Each had a wooden horse

Gaily they played

Each summer's day

Warriors both of course

One little chap

Then had a mishap

Broke off his horse's head

Wept for his toy then cried with joy

As his young playmate said

Did you think I would leave you crying

When there's room on my horse for two

Climb up here Jack and don't be crying

I can go just as fast with two

When we grow up we'll both be soldiers

And our horses will not be toys

And I wonder if we'll remember

When we were two little boys

Long years had passed, war came so fast

Bravely they marched away

Cannon roared loud, and in the mad crowd

Wounded and dying lay

Up goes a shout, a horse dashes out

Out from the ranks so blue

Gallops away to where Joe lay

Then came a voice he knew

Did you think I would leave you dying

When there's room on my horse for two

Climb up here Joe, we'll soon be flying

I can go just as fast with two

Did you see Joe I'm all a-tremble

Perhaps it's the battle's noise

But I think it's that I remember

When we were two little boys

He heard a soft keening sound behind him as he finished. Cynthia Manwaring came over and stood in the pool of light caused by the stripe light above the piano. She had tears cascading down her face, she was sobbing. Ricky stood. He had tears in his eyes as well. He coughed. 'Don't cry.'

She looked at him, fumbled in her sleeve and took out a hanky, and wiped her eyes. 'That was so, so beautiful.'

Ricky looked down. 'Er thank you.'

'No truly, that was probably the saddest song, I've ever heard.'

Ricky looked up shrugged. 'Not really, sad, love isn't sad.' Ricky sighed, 'the song is about love.'

She nodded, wiping her eyes. She was in brocade maroon evening dress. Ricky looked at her. 'Wow, wow, you look stunning,' he checked his watch, it was ten to twelve, 'you've only got ten minutes left.'

She smiled at the joke. 'You play beautifully, farm boy.'

'Er thank you.'

'No I really mean it, and you sing, you have such a nice voice. You should be on stage.'

Ricky sat with his hands in his lap, he smiled and nodded. She spoke. 'Do you come down here often?'

'A few times.'

'Always late at night.'

Ricky nodded, smiled, 'yes, you know when I manage to escape.'

'Your mother; she must be very wicked.'

Ricky shook his head. 'No not really, bad, just sad.'

'You meant that, didn't you? Your mother never comes down, I mean for meals?'

'Bit difficult, she's in London.'

'You are German.'

'No, yes, half, half, don't know which half.'

'Are you a director, or a directors son?'

Ricky shook his head, looked at his watch. 'Times up, damn, they must have lied to me about Father Christmas as well.'

'Do you always turn everything into a joke, do you always change the subject.'

Ricky shrugged. She went on talking. 'Why didn't you come to the dance tonight, you must like music, do you dance, didn't you know there was a dance, there was a sack race today, don't you know how to have fun?'

'That's like six questions in one breath.'

'Everything with you, is like a mystery, I tried to walk up the stairs again, but it was all locked with a big gate, why lock it, and why doesn't the lift work, I wanted to er tell you, about the dance, why do you dress like that; you are not poor, are you.'

Ricky smiled. 'Don't they teach punctuation at your school?'

'Why are you all locked away?'

'Er security.'

'Who all are you with, I mean.'

'Oh couple of chaps, Aristotle, Plato, Hegel and some others.'

She shook her head. 'I'm going.'

She turned and walked to the lounge doors. She stopped and whispered from there. 'Can I come and listen to you play again. Sometime?'

'Yes of course you can.'

She nodded her head, and walked towards the door. Ricky spoke as she walked. 'Just make sure you don't bring your aunt and your ugly sisters.'

She pulled her tongue out at him and walked out the door. Ricky went on playing, thinking about the girl, she looked very nice and friendly, he sighed, went on playing. Girls were so different, they were far more loving than men were, they didn't like fighting and death. He decided that he would take a walk around the decks tomorrow and maybe join in a bit. He went on playing.

Try as he may, he could not get what was going on his mind out, were these psycho mystics, as the Prof called them, or are they a bunch of sick hierophants, as Michael Hilton Fraser described them in his paper, or were they just power seekers. The seal of the Golden Dawn announced to the world Do what thou wilt, that meant you could do anything you wanted to do, was this the big secret. Did they really have the secret of the universe as they claimed? Ricky stopped playing, running the texts of the Order of the SS, Golden Dawn and Argenteum Astrum, through his mind, it suddenly hit him, not once in any of their passages, rites, convocations, monographs, in fact anywhere, had they ever mentioned the word compassion or empathy; everything was about taking, getting, not giving, he shook his head, he, stopped playing, put his hands together and said softly under his breath, 'Thank you my Papa, I love you, and I miss you, more than you could ever know.'

It was much later that night that Cynthia Manwaring, alone in bed in her ornate first class cabin, in bright pink satin pajamas was writing in her diary.

'Dear Diary

I have just discovered a boy, all to myself, a Prince, a Handsome Prince Charming, at last someone with looks and intelligence. He is tall and has long blonde curly hair and has the most divine blue, blue eyes, and a beautiful body, he has cute dimples and little freckles over his nose and he plays the piano, sings beautifully, reads philosophy, is a straight A student, and won a whole heap of prizes and eats PEANUTS? And he is so, so funny, but strange. PS. I think I am in love.'

She looked out the porthole, the moon was rising over the sea, it looked like a golden apple cut in half, the sea dark blue, glinted, little orange lights seemed to flash off and on, sparkling on the water, as the boat throbbed gently through the night.

Otto Zimmerman walked slowly down Goethestrasse, it was late at night, the jauntiness was gone from his step, he turned up Bayerstasse, up just outside the Munich Hauptbanhof, it was snowing and the streets were covered in slush and ice, he crossed the street into the new area for taxi's and motor-cars and he made for the stairs. He stepped up the stairs, missed his footing, and stumbled a bit. Otto Zimmerman was drunk and was trying very hard to act sober. He was also deeply depressed, the loss of his best friend had hit him hard, the High Council meeting, which he had been to earlier, had not gone well, there was a rumor that someone else knew of what had gone on in Cape Town, Paul Weck must have visited more than one newspaper editor. It also meant no more 'packages' would be coming through from South Africa. Berlin Lodge and Nuremberg Lodge had been shattered by the death of their founder; they were lost without their Supreme Grand Master. He walked into to the main station hall with its massive steel riveted arches and grey walls, he weaved a bit, and headed for some grey doors on his left, they were marked HERREN. He stood near the clock tower, watching for some time, noticing men going in and coming out, he knew this was one of Munich's prime 'pick up' points.

After about half an hour a young boy walked into the toilets. Otto followed, his footsteps echoing off the cold grey cement floor, he fumbled in his back pocket, took out his wallet. He checked, his Police Identification was there, and he slid the wallet back into his pocket and pushed the swing door.

The toilets were dimly lit, dirty bare globes, hanging; the stalls down one side and washbasins and the mirrors on the others, Otto Zimmerman went and stood in front of the washbasin and looked in the mirror, seemed to be examining his face. He looked down at the washbasin, it was filthy. He turned the tap and let the water run, pretending to wash his hands. He looked up there was an old man washing his hands and a young boy, at the far basin against the wall combing his hair. Otto waited.

After a bit the old man left, Otto turned and examined the stalls; they were all empty at this time. He coughed. The boy looked over at him and smiled. He had very short mousy colored hair, it was dirty and greasy, his pale blue eyes were blood shot. Otto Zimmerman spoke. 'You are out late.'

The boy looked at him and nodded. Otto Zimmerman slurred slightly. 'Ja, are you alone.'

The boy nodded.

'Are you from around here?'

The boy shook his head; he had been approached by men once or twice before, he was not stupid. 'No, from Bruckheimer.'

'Ah yes beautiful place. This is your first time in Munich.'

The boy smiled then. 'Yes.'

'Ah and your parents.'

The young man blushed then and spoke. 'You don't perhaps have a two mark to lend me.'

'Ech so you are a beggar.'

The boy went deep red. Whispered almost shyly. 'No I am not; I just can't find a job.'

Otto walked over to the boy, his hand in his pocket as though searching for money. Suddenly Otto grabbed him by the throat, slammed him against the wall, almost choking him, the boy's face started turning red, Otto squeezed harder, the boy tried desperately to break free, twisting and turning, pushing, but he was no match for Otto's strength.

Otto stretched back, with his other hand took out his wallet, and opened it. The boy was now bright red in the face, blue eyes wide, not understanding what was going on.

Otto showed his identification card to the young man, right in front of his face. He lowered his wallet, and learned forward, pushing hard on his throat, looking at him almost eye to eye, spoke, slurring badly now. 'You are under arrest for soliciting.'

The young man, coughing, his face suddenly pure white with fear, managed to stammer. 'I didn't do a thing; it was you, trying to chat me up, I am not queer.'

'Shut up, where you staying.'

'Let me go I can't breathe.'

Otto smiled at him. 'What's your name boy?'

'Alexei, Alexei Vasalelov.'

Otto let up the pressure a bit and began talking again, while he talked Alexei looked down, coughing, Otto's leg was in line, Alexei picked up his leg and swung it back and kicked Otto as hard as he could on the shin, his thick soled boot connected perfectly.

Otto howled with pain, letting go, Alexei ducked and ran flat out for the door.

"And the will lieth therein, which dieth not. Who knoweth the mysteries of the will and vigour? For God is but a great will pervading all things by nature of it's of its intentness. Man doth not yield himself to the Angels nor to death utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will."

(Seventeenth Century Philosopher Joseph Glanvill)

"The next great principal of Western Magic is that the human will, properly trained, is literally capable of anything."

(Rites of Modern Occult Magic: Francis King)

Chapter 2

The Policeman

Military Police Barracks, Camp Street, Wynberg, Cape Town, South Africa.

Wednesday, 09:45 am, 18th December 1901. (8 days previously)

Police Sergeant 'Blackie' Swart trudged up past the Dutch Reformed Church, crossed the intersection, and walked into Camp Street Wynberg. He was puffing slightly; it was a long walk from the South African Police Station near the Wynberg Railway station all the way up Wynberg hill to the Military Camp. He cursed; he did not have spare money for a cab. It was hot; already close on one hundred and five degrees, the sky was clear, not a cloud in sight.

He walked up the cobbled street and walked into the Military Police Barracks, Perky Perkins was on duty. Perky smiled as Blackie draped his big frame over the counter. Blackie Swart was not by any extension of the word nice looking, he was in fact ugly. He was fat, had a beer paunch, and had pitch-black hair and sideburns, and shifty dark eyes, and he did not shave that often. Blackie's fingers where stained bright yellow by the fifty pack of Springbok Cigarettes he chain-smoked daily. Perky did not like him, but then most people did not, but if you wanted something done at Wynberg Police Station, Blackie was your man. Unfortunately, it usually cost.

''ollo Blackie what brings you to this part of town?'

'Morning Perky how's the British Army.'

'Same old, same old, and how's the South African Police.'

'Underpaid and overworked, as usual.'

He looked around the Barracks. 'Is Major Mac here?'

'It's Colonel McLain you are after, my man.'

'Oh hell, he's now a big deal, eh.'

'No, Mac's the same, but he's not here, something I can do for you.'

'Yes, yes heard something, something about a shooting, a boy and Mac.'

Perky Perkins laughed. 'Good Heavens you chaps must be months behind, you must have really shitty caseloads.'

'Don't even talk about it, worries me sick.'

'Chuck the docket to one side, Blackie, or pack it away or whatever you chaps do with cold cases.'

'Why?'

'Well the Colonel that was the suspect, got shot, resisting arrest; so dead suspect, dead case.'

'This was that Revington-Smythe bloke.'

'Yeah, you know about it.'

'Word gets out, Perky, word gets out. How did he manage to get shot?'

'Er, that's not for broadcast, sorry.'

'Oh come on Perky, I've got to put something on the docket.'

'I can't Blackie, this was Mac's case, and you really, really don't want to mess with Mac.'

Blackie scowled. 'Well at least tell me where I can find the boy.'

Perky laughed. Shook his head. 'That's Mac's boy, you really don't want to go there, mate, you really don't want to.'

'Oh didn't know Mac had a son.'

'Blackie I was a cop, for a long time, don't try one on me, and it's not Mac's son.'

'Okay Mr Military Policeman, what do I put on the docket.'

'I don't know Blackie; put down the boy left for England, untraceable.'

'You telling me the truth.'

Perky smiled. Wide. 'Blackie, you're a policeman, would I lie to you.'

Blackie Swart left ten minutes later, as he walked down the road, he checked his watch, if he hurried, he could catch a train to Cape Town. He had already decided that that bloody 'Englesman' would lie to his own mother, if he needed to. He tried to remember where the Union Castle building was in Cape Town.

Two hours later Blackie Swart was sitting at reception at the Union Castle Building in Adderley Street Cape Town, he had demanded to see the Manager. His uniform was by now more than slightly creased, but he was feeling very chuffed with himself. He dabbed his brow with a very scruffy and stained handkerchief. He had only received the telegram yesterday, from Munich. He had remembered operating a roadblock, with the Military Police in Rondebosch, some time ago, and he had met Mac. He remembered his red hair and him being bloody big, and Mac had been down to the station once or twice with some queries. He decided that he liked Mac, bit dumb, but a good copper. What he liked the most about Mac he was not all haughty-taughty like the other British Officers. Although they told the public at the roadblock they were looking for contraband and firearms, Mac was the only one that admitted that they were looking for deserters. Mac himself had mentioned a shooting, saying that he suspected deserters.

Blackie Swart racked his brain, Mac had mentioned the boy's name, but he could not remember. He distinctly remembered Mac saying the boy had blonde hair, and then he suddenly remembered, Mac saying that if his girlfriend and the boy walked down the road you would think they were brother and sister; both had blonde hair and blue eyes. He checked his watch, he needed a drink. A chap walked over to where he was sitting and after a bit of a discussion, Blackie Swart realized his mission to the Union Castle Line had been fruitless. The manager had told him, sarcastically, with almost three hundred people leaving every week for England just how was he supposed find a blonde haired boy with blue eyes in the passenger lists. The manager chap had walked away shaking his head. Blackie Swart thought he was bloody rude. Ten minutes later Blackie Swart was nursing a double brandy in a bar in Long Street, cursing his luck. This was his favorite bar. It was here that he had met Commander Smith some time ago, he had been sitting like now, minding his own business, off duty, in civvies, when two chaps, quite well dressed, had been further along the bar counter. All of sudden one chap had got up, punched the other, and walked out the pub, very fast, the other chap, bright red, had sat nursing his jaw. Blackie being a shrewd cop and the pub being in Long Street Cape Town, a known street for 'pick ups' had guessed what was going on. He had gone over and bought the bloke a beer, pretending to commiserate, after a bit Blackie had let it be known he was a policeman. The chap had brought out fifty pounds and popped it into Blackie's top jacket pocket, they had been friends ever since. Blackie shook his head remembering, swilled his drink, and downed his brandy.

After the third drink, the promise of a hundred pounds from Munich seemed to be disappearing about as fast as the sun was setting. He sat on the barstool, staring blankly onto the street, the people, and the cabs, going past. After the fifth drink he was decidedly depressed, he needed that money urgently, he was broke. Suddenly it hit him, Mac had said Rondebosch, the barman was hovering, he looked at the barman, holding up his empty glass.

'Boys go to school, don't they?'

The barman nodded, he was tired, he had been on the go since nine o' clock that morning. The barman put his drink down in front of him. Blackie Swart was smiling as he reached for some money. 'You know my mother always said, better to be born clever than good looking.'

The barman nodded, smiled, 'you must be very clever.'

Blackie nodded sagely in agreement. Blackie took a sip from his drink, promising himself that it was the last drink, when suddenly he recalled Perky talking about throw the docket away; shit; the police must have been there, it must have been a normal criminal case; Rondebosch police must still have the docket, witnesses, names everything he needed. He cursed his luck again. He held his glass up, 'one more for the road, Meneer Barman,' he said to the barman. The barman nodded, he had heard that one before, many times.

The next morning at nine o'clock, Blackie Swart was at Rondebosch Police Station. He shouted in Afrikaans, holding his head as he did so.

'Maar dis voken ontmoontlik.' (But, that is fucking impossible.)

'But Blackie, there was no charge laid.'

'Ja but still.'

Sergeant van Dyk, the desk sergeant that had attended the shooting at the Lilacs where Ricky had shot the two villains who had attempted to assassinate him and Mac, was arguing with Blackie Swart.

'Still what, you are not hearing me, Blackie, nobody ever brought a charge, and there was no case, so no docket.'

'But you must have made notes.'

'Yes I opened a docket, but I never gave it a case number, there was no case, Blackie.'

'You should have.'

'I didn't bother; I got a telegram for that Scottish bloke.'

'MacLain.'

'Ja MacLain, he said the Army would take it further, let the fucking Army sort it out, not my problem. I have enough on my plate, there is a war on, you know.'

'And the docket.'

'Hell I don't know Blackie, probably threw it away, might be in the records room.'

Blackie sighed; if the records room at Rondebosch looked anything like the records room at Wynberg, he did not want to spend the day looking for one docket.

'And you don't remember the boy's name.'

'He was a boy for God sake, Blackie, but he shot them.'

'HE SHOT THEM.'

'Ja and he was a bloody good shot as well.'

Blackie starred at him. 'Dead, vrek.'

Sergeant van Dyk nodded. 'Very vrek.'

'Engelse seun.'

'Yes think so, but he spoke perfect Afrikaans and Dutch.'

Blackie shook his head. Went on. 'Ever hear of a Colonel Revington-Smythe, who got shot.'

'These were two chaps, no colonels.'

'No colonels.'

Sergeant van Dyk shook his head, sighed, 'sorry, no, not in my area.'

Sergeant van Dyk leaned forward. 'Look go to the School, Rondebosch Boys', it's up the road, the principals name is er, er Fields no, Mr Meadows, speak to him, he will help, I am sure. Oh shit.'

'What oh shit?'

'Just remembered its school holidays, um, well go down there anyway, bound to be someone there, I saw kids there this morning when I came on duty.'

Blackie Swart walked out into the hot sunshine, this didn't sound right, the telegram had said, something about a colonel getting shot, as he walked he tried to recall the words he had decoded in the telegram.

An hour later, Grassy Meadows was staring at the wall in his office; he sat like that for some time. It was the first time in his life he had lied, deliberately, and to a policeman at that, he wondered if he could be charged for that. Instinctively he had not liked Blackie Swart, he looked a very cool customer, with a very glib mouth, when he had started asking questions about Ricky, alarm bells started going off in Grassy's head. Grassy stood slowly, Lord Campbell had said that he had things planned for Rickman, and had told Grassy to keep an eye on him, after all that had happened, this could not be coincidental, he checked the clock on the wall, damn he had a class, he shook his head as he walked to the door. He went through to the main hall, spoke softly to Miss Johnson. 'I have to send an urgent telegram, please take my class; I am just running down to the Post Office, I will be back as soon as possible.'

A steam train roared past, the steam whistle shrill, the brown wooden carriages clattering past, Blackie Swart was in Station Road Rondebosch, he desperately needed a beer a regmaker (a 'rightmaker', in Afrikaans) but he did not want to go back to the police station in Wynberg, smelling of booze. He walked slowly, head down towards the grey ticket office on the station. He had a throbbing headache, and he was feeling very sorry for himself. As he looked up, he saw across the road, near the taxi rank, an Indian café; he sauntered over and bought a steak and kidney pie and a Marshall's Mineral Water and a headache powder. He strolled out the café, taking the headache powder, using the cool drink to swill it down. He sat on a bench near the taxi rank eating his pie and drinking his cool drink. He checked his watch. It was just after one o'clock. He did not want to be late again to book out from his shift; he had not booked out last night. He was still a bit confused about exactly which shooting the telegram had referred to, but he was convinced he was on the right track. A couple of boys ran past, he idly watched them, and he looked at the uniform, noticed Rondebosch Boys Prep School. The headmaster had said that the boy in question had left for England shortly after the incident in question, months ago, and yes, he did have blonde hair and his name was Michael Saunders. He had a funny feeling the headmaster was lying, covering up, as Perky Perkins had been lying. He called a passing boy over. The boy doffed his cap. 'Yes Sir.'

'Where you come from?'

'Battersea.'

'Huh.'

'Battersea, England, Sir.

'No man, I mean now.'

'School Sir.'

'Rondebosch Boys.'

'Yes Sir,' the boy half turned to display the badge on his blazer.

'Where you going.'

'I'm going home, Sir.'

'Already.'

'I'm in Sub B Sir, we go home at one.'

'Oh, and the bigger boys.'

'Three