Ephraim Ward and Maximilian Braun were buried during a steady downpour. The graves in the military cemetery at Paco were half filled with water and the lowered coffins floated for a second before submerging with a syrupy gurgle. Caramel bubbles floated on the surface for a moment before the first shovelfuls of mud and gravel splashed in. Carriscant took the envelope containing the men’s death certificates from his pocket and passed it to Paton Bobby.
“Before I forget,” he said.
Bobby tucked the envelope away in his jacket. “Thanks,” he said. “Uplifting little ceremony.”
Apart from the burial party and the army chaplain, Carriscant and Bobby were the only others present. They trudged back through the puddles past the mildewed rows of wooden crosses to Bobby’s motor car, a new acquisition for the constabulary, a neat little Charron 628, and climbed inside where they sat morosely while the burial party filled the grave and hammered in two fresh and sappy wooden crosses. Bobby waved a goodbye to the chaplain as his carriage pulled out of the cemetery and headed off down the road that would take him back to the barracks at Pasay, a mile or so distant.
Bobby took out a cigar and lit it, a disgruntled expression on his face. Beyond the tattered screen of banana trees that marked the northern boundary of the cemetery was the long thin shape of the Concordia cigar factory. For an idle moment Carriscant wondered if the cigar Bobby was smoking had been made there and wondered further if there was any significance to be drawn from this morbid conjunction of factory, smoker and graveyard. His tired brain could not come up with one so he let it drop.
“It annoys me,” Bobby said slowly, “it annoys me intensely that we couldn’t pin these killings on anyone. Those are two murdered American boys lying in their graves in this godforsaken hole and the killers are still out there.” He paused. “And that fucking annoys me.”
Carriscant shrugged. “You did your best,” he said. “It was an impossible case to solve. No one could criticise you.”
“Yeah, well…Did you bury the woman?”
“Last week. Nobody claimed her.”
“That’s what really finished me. I mean, where’s the connection there? How do you make that fit?”
“You don’t. I don’t think the woman’s death had anything to do with the other two.”
“Yeah, well,” Bobby said grumpily. He looked uncomfortable again and Carriscant wondered anew why Bobby had placed his scalpel by the body. He looked round at the sound of carriage wheels as a victoria with its canopy up turned into the cemetery and pulled up beside them.
Sieverance leaned out. “I guess I’m too late,” he said. “Sorry.”
They watched him go to the graveside and bow his head for a minute or two before he rejoined them at the motor. He looked suitably pious.
“Great shame,” he said. “Braun was a fine soldier. Real professional. You know, it kind of makes you sick. You survive everything the plains Indians can throw at you then you get cut up by some damned gu-gu.” His outrage seemed a little willed, Carriscant thought, a little cooked up. They listened patiently as Sieverance outlined some of Braun’s military exploits against the Oglalas and the Unkpapa Sioux.
“It’s a fucking disgrace,” Bobby said, with feeling. “A damn fucking disgrace.”
“I’d better get along,” said Sieverance. “By the way, Carriscant, Mrs Sieverance is feeling fine, in fine fettle.”
“I’m so pleased.”
They watched him go. Bobby took a long slow draw on his cigar. “It never ceases to amaze me,” he said, “how some pissant little cocksucker like that gets to be a full colonel.”
“I suppose if your Daddy’s a general and a friend of Teddy Roosevelt that might have something to do with it.”
“You don’t say…”
“Did you tell him we were burying the men?”
“Sure. I figured he’d need to inform Taft.”
“Yes…” Carriscant thought further. “Did you ever tell him that the Brown we found was the Braun who used to be in his regiment?”
“No. No, I don’t think so,” Bobby said reflectively. “I guess he must have made enquiries. Why?”
“Just curious.”
When he returned to Manila Carriscant found a note from Pantaleon on his desk. There had been some further problems with the Flanquin engine. The attempted flight on 13 May was now postponed: the new day set was to be 15 May.