The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part 1

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Part 2

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Part 3

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Addendum

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  The Lazarus Gate

  Print edition ISBN: 9781783296804

  E-book ISBN: 9781783296811

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  First edition: September 2015

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  © 2015 by Mark A. Latham

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  To Alison, for ensuring every day that I never grow up.

  PROLOGUE

  13th January 1890, 6.00 a.m.

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  The sound of the explosion had barely stopped ringing in the sergeant’s ears when he snatched a glimpse of the thin man once again, vanishing around the corner. Somewhere nearby, three harsh trills of a police whistle sounded and, shaking his head to clear his senses, Sergeant Clegg snatched up his hat and steeled himself to join the pursuit.

  Moments ago, Clegg had been in a daze, dabbing at his bleeding forehead whilst slumped against the portico of a coffee house. Now he was able to take stock of the situation, and was relieved that few people had been injured in the blast. It was early morning, and but for a few street traders laying out their stalls, street sweepers, and some eager clerks trying to get ahead of the day’s work, it seemed that casualties would be limited. The same could not be said of his detail; he had counted three officers unconscious, and a further two groaning in agony by the side of the road. Smoke drifted across the street, and charred debris was spilled over the cobbles like coal from a scuttle. Shopfronts were splintered and smashed.

  Clegg’s shift had been long and wearying, and by rights it should have come to an end over an hour ago. But police work had a way of pressing a man beyond his limits, and Clegg now found himself pursuing these so-called anarchists through the streets of the West End. He was only dimly aware of the chaos unfurling around him, and of his colleagues dashing after him along Bond Street.

  Threep-threep-threep! Constable Harris’s whistle snapped Clegg from his reverie, and he squinted to clear his vision, in time to see the stocky policeman charging along the road, waving and whistling as he went, heading towards the junction of Oxford Street. Clegg shouted to any officers who were uninjured to follow him, and staggered off in pursuit. Had Harris seen the anarchists? If he had, there’d be hell to pay.

  There were four of them now, with Harris in the lead. Constables Gleghorn and Regis seemed only lightly injured, and had picked themselves up after hearing the commotion. The sergeant’s mind raced. Why would dynamiters target a near-empty street? What could be the point?

  The sky overhead was a deep indigo, and the gaslights still burned, though they struggled to penetrate the remnants of last night’s particular and the palls of grey smoke from the explosion. This didn’t make any sense. Clegg pushed these thoughts aside, and reached deep inside himself for reserves of energy, redoubling his efforts to catch up with Constable Harris and whomever he was chasing. The policemen had no sooner reached the end of the road when the sound of clattering hooves filled the air, and a Black Maria approached them at speed from the right, skittering out of a side-street that led to Hanover Square. The two horses pulling it sweated and snorted, their exertions clear to see. The police coach slowed to turn onto New Bond Street and join the chase, and the man seated next to the driver shouted instructions to Clegg. It was the detective from Special Branch, the man in black who had sent them on this assignment just hours ago. Clegg had no idea how the man had requisitioned a police coach so quickly, but he was glad to see reinforcements regardless.

  ‘That’s it man, keep going!’ shouted the detective, in his Irish lilt. ‘We almost have them.’

  Clegg urged his legs to keep pace with the Maria, but the events of the day were starting to take their toll on the stout sergeant. His lungs felt raw and his chest pounded. The heavy uniform, cape and helmet felt more and more like a suit of armour.

  When Clegg rounded the bend at the end of New Bond Street, the rising sun glared at him along the wide open thoroughfare of Oxford Street. His vision blurred, and his fatigue got the better of him. He pulled up sharply and squinted at the road ahead. Gleghorn and Regis overtook him, their youthful enthusiasm and desire for justice outweighing their bodies’ requirements for rest. Sergeant Clegg took a deep breath, and pushed onwards, albeit at a slow jog. He could hear one of his men calling back to him, ‘Come on, Sarge. There’s three of ’em. We’ve got the bastards!’

  The Black Maria was up ahead, stationary now, and there were more policemen at the scene. He could hear shouts and cries, and then a gunshot rang out into the early morning air. The few people who had seen fit to walk along Oxford Street at this hour scattered away from the commotion, and Clegg forgot about his tired legs and dry throat and raced towards the fight. Another gunshot rang out. Clegg reached the Maria, and was just about to rush into the fray when a dazzling flash of light saturated the area, accompanied by a high-pitched humming noise. No sooner had Clegg checked his run than Harris flew past him, like a rag doll, landing in a heap ten feet away on the cobbled stones. The horses at the front of the Black Maria whinnied and reared, and broke free of their driver’s control. They bolted, taking the police coach with them, and headed back along Oxford Street as fast as they could go. Clegg was scared now. He took one look at the burly lad on the ground, clenched his teeth, and turned to face the danger. The coach was gone and with it his only cover, but he was still aware of the constables around him, and of the Special Branch man. Ahead of him was the Marble Arch, and the remaining policemen were fanning out, brandishing their truncheons menacingly, whilst the detective pointed a stubby pistol towards the archway. Clegg took his place in the line, in time to see the thin man—the man they’d pursued all over the West End this morning—waving a gun in the direction of his colleagues with menace. The leg of a second fugitive disappeared through the arch, and Sergeant Clegg squinted in puzzlement for an instant. Hadn’t the leg of the running anarchist been rather slender? Had he really seen the flash of lace at the stockinged ankle? A woman! Clegg pushed such thoughts aside, for surely his mind was playing tricks on him. In any case there was no way out for them now. The sadistic buggers would take cover in the archway, behind those walls of thick white marble, but they’d have to give it up eventually. They were in the middle of an exposed stone square—a courtyard surrounded by wide roads—and the archway was gated secure. This was their last stand.

  There was another flash of light, altho
ugh not as bright as before, and definitely coming from the arch this time. The thin man winked at them, turned his back and darted into the archway. But the detective had other ideas, and fired his gun again, this time finding his mark. The thin man dropped to the ground, the back of his skull a bloody mess.

  ‘Come on!’ shouted the detective, and darted towards the arch. The other officers had surrounded the edifice, but Clegg was afraid—the fugitives were surely armed.

  ‘Hold on, sir!’ Clegg cried, and dashed forwards, hoping to reach his superior before he got himself killed. But he need not have worried. When Clegg and the detective reached the archway, there was but one anarchist, the thin man, and he was dead where he’d been shot. Clegg looked around in every direction, and then stared through the archway. On the other side was Regis, looking dumbfounded. There had been three anarchists, he was sure. So where were they?

  ‘Don’t just stand there gawping, Sergeant,’ the Irish detective snapped. ‘Search the body.’

  Clegg stepped forward to do as he had been instructed. The thin man was sprawled out on the ground in the shadow of the arch, his brains splattered on the cobbles. The sergeant was about to turn the body over, when he noticed something that made him pause. The anarchist had fallen inside the arch, his right hand outstretched towards the bronze gates of the monument. But there was no sign of the gun that he had been wielding just moments ago. In fact, his right hand was mutilated—the fingers seemingly sliced off cleanly, with no trace of blood. Clegg looked around, confused, and saw the detective looming over him. Clegg didn’t need to see his shadowed expression to know that it was as grim as always.

  ‘Search his body,’ the man in black repeated.

  ‘But, sir…’ Clegg tailed off. He couldn’t understand what had just happened; any of it.

  Then he noticed that high-pitched humming noise was starting again, only this time it came from the corpse, and was getting louder. The Special Branch man was looking at his pocketwatch.

  ‘Do it now, man!’ he hissed at Clegg. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  13th January 1890, 3.00 a.m.

  YAMETHIN DISTRICT, BURMA

  The manacles around his wrists and ankles curbed his progress, but nothing could stop John Hardwick from walking out of this hellhole. His matted hair was dirty and lice-ridden, and his beard scratched his chest as his head hung low from fatigue, yet his eyes were cold, determined. He felt the rifle butt push against his back once more, a sign that his captor was tired of his woefully slow shuffling.

  ‘Myan myan lou!’ one of the Burmese guards barked.

  John picked up the pace as best he could. His feet were bare, filthy and bleeding. His prison garb was stained and tattered, and he felt so weak it was painful to walk. When he had first emerged from his confinement, he had felt like Jeremiah released, and probably looked not unlike the prophet either. The warm air felt sweeter than anything he had ever known, though he had to squint even at the moonlight, as his eyes were so unaccustomed to light. How long had he been kept in that squalid cell? He wagered months, but it was hard to tell. This was the first time for as long as he could remember he had seen a guard and not been either beaten or force-fed opium, and his thoughts were confused. He tried to clear his head and take stock of his situation, his military training and experience coming back to him now that he was out of that pit of a cell.

  He was being marched towards the perimeter wall of the tiny prison complex, along a dry dirt path that sloped down a steep hill. Tall, spindly palm trees lined the track on either side, black against the night sky like spectators on a gallows-walk, perhaps. John could just make out the silhouetted huts and rickety tower that passed for a guardhouse here, and by the moon and starlight he could see that there were half a dozen armed guards beside the tall bamboo gates, and some activity outside them. That such small numbers of rebels had proved sufficient to hold this position in a country that was mostly British-ruled was unnerving. This region had been claimed in the name of Her Majesty almost five years hence, and although the local government paid its taxes to the British governor at Rangoon, the hills were still wild and full of bandits and freedom fighters.

  John was flanked by two guards. One set the pace, yanking his chains to hurry him along, the other strolled more nonchalantly. John knew the little bastard only too well, though only as ‘Maung’—an honorific name of sorts, which the sadistic and diminutive rebel was entirely undeserving of. A few hours ago, John had been dragged from his cell for more midnight interrogations. Why they persisted in the charade God only knew—if John had known anything of interest, he’d have told them long ago. In fact, after all the drugs and the beatings, he’d probably have told them many times. He couldn’t be sure. By now his intelligence must be woefully out of date, and yet the Burmese rebels continued to torture and interrogate him, and the other prisoners, on an almost daily basis. John believed truly that they were merely going through the motions to sate their sadistic desires, and that they hadn’t killed him because one day they’d need a British officer to trade. Was this that day? Perhaps, but he was unsure. All he knew was that his torture had ended, for now at least, and he had been brought outside. Outside! This was the first time that he’d breathed the open air for what seemed like an eternity. He refused to let the fact that it was the air of this God-forsaken country sully his pleasure.

  Before he knew it, John was bundled into an ox-cart beside a muscular guard, who grunted at him contemptuously. The cart rumbled away from the prison, flanked by two mounted rebels. John looked back to see Maung spit at the ground in his direction, watching his prisoner’s departure with enmity in his eyes.

  * * *

  By the time the trade was made, the sun was already high in the sky and the day was hot. They were no longer in the foothills of the Yamethin District. The Burmese guards who accompanied him now were not rebels, but liveried servants of the Crown. His manacles were gone, and he was being half-carried by disciplined soldiers into the shade of a small courtyard. John’s head swam. He had passed in and out of consciousness for the whole journey, oblivious to the fact that he must have travelled nearly three hundred miles.

  ‘Welcome back to civilisation, Captain Hardwick. Welcome to Rangoon.’ The Englishman who greeted John smiled broadly. That smile was the last thing John saw before he passed out and was caught by the colonial guards.

  13th January 1890, 12 noon

  LONDON, ENGLAND

  The Artist daubed the last stroke of oil paint onto his canvas and set down his brush. Smiling to himself, he stepped back to admire his handiwork. Any other man would have struggled to see the painting in the wan light of the apartment, but the Artist appeared pleased.

  ‘Another triumph, my sweet pets. But what does it all mean? Shall we meditate upon it, hmm?’ The Artist spoke as if to no one, but turned his head at the sound of movement in the corner of the room, from where his pets looked on.

  The Artist pulled a loose robe of Chinese silk over his tattooed nakedness, tying the cord at the waist before tossing his long black hair free of the garment. He strode across the wood-floored room, his slippered feet making barely a sound. The midday sun struggled to find its way into the austere room through two small, grimy windows that overlooked a half-derelict warren of slums and gambling houses in the dark bosom of the Isle of Dogs. The few rays that pushed through were diffused by the constant swirl of opium smoke from the den below. The Artist walked to his bed and sat down upon it, savouring the feel of the thick mattress and satin bedclothes. Reaching to his nightstand he picked up a large glass pipe, lit it and took a draw, sighing as the opiates entered his system. He closed his eyes momentarily, savouring the sensation, before setting down the pipe and taking up instead a silver-tipped cane. Grasping the head of the cane, he rapped its tip hard against the wooden floor. Almost immediately, he could hear footsteps on the stairs below, racing to his door, followed mere moments later by a quiet knocking.

  ‘Come!’

  A bur
ly Chinese servant entered the room, bringing with him a billow of smoke from the corridor beyond. He bowed low, his black braided hair almost touching the floor as he did so.

  ‘Master,’ he said. ‘I am at your service.’

  The Artist rose from the bed and stepped forward. Tall and lithe, he towered over the servant who himself was not a small man.

  ‘Hu, I have several errands for you.’ The Artist gestured towards a far corner, where six canvases lay wrapped in brown paper beside a lacquered cabinet. ‘Deliver those today, and be sure to insist upon the usual price. I am in no mood for bartering.’

  Hu bowed again in acknowledgement and waited for further instructions, absent-mindedly fingering the wicked hook that passed for his left hand.

  ‘I would also ask of you to call on Mr. Ruskin again. Tell him that his canvas is ready, but it is too large to move with any degree of secrecy. He must come here—it is in his best interests to view the painting before month’s end. And it will be double the usual price. Remember, Hu, that Mr. Ruskin requests the utmost discretion in our dealings. You will be invisible on this errand, understood?’

  Hu nodded.

  ‘That is all for now,’ the Artist concluded.

  Hu moved for the parcels, but hesitated when his eye caught the fresh canvas in the centre of the room.

  ‘What is it, Hu?’ asked the Artist, impatience creeping into his tone.

  ‘Will you require a… buyer for your latest work today, master?’ Hu asked.

  ‘Ah… no. Not today. This is something altogether more interesting than a mere commission.’

  Hu gathered the parcels and bowed again. A bumping and scratching from the closet in the corner caught his attention, and he bowed once more before hurrying backwards in the direction of the door, casting a nervous glance at the corner before heading down the stairs whence he had come. The Artist strode across the room towards the closet, pausing only to take down a jar from a shelf on the wall. When he reached the closet, he reached inside the jar for some strips of dried pork, which he threw down to his pets.