The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  ‘Yes, yes. You see it too, don’t you, my pets; my muses? This is most unexpected. The picture shows us what will come to pass, but how should one interpret such an image? If I am right, then it is all happening rather sooner than expected.’ He paused to throw more meat into the closet. Chains rattled as his pets scrabbled for the titbits.

  ‘What am I to do with this information, do you think? Who can I trust?’ His ears pricked up as a low murmuring began. He smiled as one of his pets struggled to make a noise—first a gurgling, then a mumble.

  ‘L… L… Lazarussss,’ came the weak reply. The Artist’s smile broadened with pleasure.

  ‘Yes, my sweet. I rather thought you’d say that. Who’s a clever girl?’

  PART 1

  The world was never made;

  It will change, but it will not fade.

  So let the wind range;

  For even and morn

  Ever will be

  Through eternity.

  Nothing was born;

  Nothing will die;

  All things will change.

  ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

  ONE

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF JOHN HARDWICK

  3rd January 1891

  As I sit here at my desk to write this narrative, outside my window the night draws in all too quickly, and the orange-hued London fog that so characterises winter in this great city has dropped. It is at once enveloping, smothering and yet oddly comforting; comforting because it means that I am home at last. Little less than a year ago I never would have dreamt that it could be so.

  The events I am about to record are true insofar as my memory allows. When reading the memoirs and monographs of others, it has often occurred to me that the recorded facts contained within cannot be wholly accurate. The human brain, after all, can only store so much information before it becomes fragmented or distorted. Therefore I have set down in writing every relevant detail as faithfully as I am humanly able, such as my skill with words will allow. I testify to you that this tale is true and in earnest. Though you might well think this story odd, or impolitic, or even unbelievable, it must be told—for who could believe that this document is anything but a work of fiction after reading it? I can scarcely believe it myself, and I wish it were not the truth. For what this ‘adventure’ has taught me is that there truly are more things in heaven and earth—to misquote the Bard—than one can dream of. And precious few of them are wholesome. I am changed, quite irrevocably, by my experiences. I have learned, this past year, what fear truly is, and I doubt if I shall ever sleep well again knowing it.

  This then, is my story; the true and honest testimony of John Hardwick.

  28th March 1890

  My arrival in London had been unceremonious, but nonetheless long awaited. I had spent forty days at sea with but two brief stops, and no hardship that may have lain in store for me could have dampened my enthusiasm for dry land. Of course, the English weather and the grimy London docks conspired to do just that, but it seemed like paradise to me. I disembarked the Navy steam cutter, HMS Gannet, for what I hoped was the final time, finding myself peering through thick swirls of mist on a drear and chilly morning. I closed my eyes to drink in the sounds and smells of London—labourers and ships’ captains calling out and barking orders; bells tolling from departing ships across the mist-wreathed Thames; the creaking of ropes and timbers; the clanking of chains, winches and pulleys; the smell of tobacco, coffee, rum and sugar drifting from containers, and mingling with the salty air and smoky London particular. This, then, was home. A home that I had not seen in some six years, yet which still burned brightly in my memories.

  My escort awaited me at the gates, and he was not quite what I had been expecting. Not that I’d really known what to expect. Captain James Denny of the Royal Horse Guards was a young, thin-faced man with a surprisingly garrulous nature and easy sense of humour. He and the two soldiers he had brought with him were not in uniform, but presented me with salutes regardless. When I returned the honour, Denny winked and said, ‘Oh no, sir. You’re a civilian now.’ I cracked a smile, albeit a humourless one.

  Captain Denny, who insisted I call him Jim, was under instruction to meet me and help me get my bearings. He was at my disposal for a day or two, and whilst I initially felt irked that Horse Guards had sent a nursemaid for a man of my experience, I quickly became at ease in Jim’s company and was glad of the companionship. No sooner had we stepped outside the main gateway to the docklands than my head swam. Any sense of relief I felt at the British weather, the cobbled streets and plain architecture was immediately countered by my confusion. I had hoped for a swift return to a more familiar district of the city and, as if reading my mind, Jim showed me to a waiting cab. The soldiers took my few bags—a great relief, for I was still gaunt and weak from my long convalescence—and secured them on the cab’s stowage, and in a trice we were away.

  My first task, and one of no small importance, was to find somewhere to live. My father had spent so much of his later life on the move that anything resembling a family home had long since been lost to me. After Mother had died my father had grudgingly supported me, but even then I had been unable to lay down roots whilst my studies took up most of my time. What had become of our old properties after Father’s death remained a mystery to me.

  When I remarked that I had no idea where I would room, Captain Denny became quite animated.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ he exclaimed, ‘it seems the world is your oyster! You must ride with us to Westminster and seek suitable accommodation.’

  I baulked at the idea, and he realised almost before he had finished speaking that lodging in Westminster was beyond my means. Not that I truly understood what my means were, but the bookkeeping would also have to wait for now.

  ‘Of course, if you desire something more, ah, “homely” while you become acclimatised to the city,’ he continued, correcting himself as he went along, ‘then I can show you some marvellous guesthouses. Let’s get you some rooms, courtesy of Her Majesty’s armed forces, eh? I know a good place in Bloomsbury if it suits.’

  He smiled warmly, and I could detect no real snobbishness. The army looks after its own, and until I had seen the state of my accounts I was rather glad of someone to pick up the bills and organise things for me. I accepted his offer, and he instructed the driver to take us to the north end of Gower Street. I knew the area of Bloomsbury to be an unassuming district, with a reputation for being frequented by intellectuals, artists and dreamy dilettantes, and I was sure it was a place in which I could be anonymous. I craved peace and quiet, at least for a while, without the pressure of keeping up appearances. I felt agoraphobic, like an animal too long in captivity, uncertain of the conditions of its release. I tried to put aside such foolishness but, as we rode, I confided in Denny that there was more to my choice of lodgings than just assets.

  ‘In truth,’ I explained, ‘I do want somewhere homely, as you put it. I’ve been away for too long, Jim; experienced more than anyone’s fair share out East. I don’t mind telling you that I was already feeling stifled when I reached the embassy in Hong Kong—every dinner a formal one, every conversation stuffy and centred on politics. I just want to lay my head on a soft pillow and eat some hearty food that hasn’t been prepared by the finest chefs money can buy. A comfortable boarding house sounds far more appealing to me right now than a stuffy hotel or large, empty townhouse. Does that make any kind of sense?’

  Jim tipped his head back and laughed. ‘Not really, old boy, I’d live in first-rate hotels all my life given half a chance—but I think if I were in your shoes I wouldn’t make much sense either.’ I couldn’t help but laugh with him, and yet I wondered what would happen to him if he were sent out to the front line, far away from the finer things in life to which he was so obviously accustomed. Would he be so ready with a jest if he’d seen all that I had?

  * * *

  The growler rattled its way along cobbled streets, the sound of the horses’ hooves almost drowned
out by the rhythmic clattering caused by the steel-rimmed wheels of the carriage. I gazed out of the small window as Jim prattled on about all that was current in London; the latest stage shows, museum exhibitions, fashionable writers and society scandals. He was rarely serious, and I wondered how on earth he could command the respect of his men. One soldier rode with us, whilst the other accompanied the driver. The man in our cab was a youthful private, not a day over eighteen I guessed, conspicuous by his silence.

  ‘You know,’ said Jim, ‘our fathers knew each other. Colonel Denny often talked about Brigadier Hardwick. He was a good soldier, by all accounts.’

  ‘Yes, he was. It was all he knew. And Colonel Denny? Is he…?’

  ‘Oh, he’s very much alive, the old goat,’ Jim laughed. ‘Terrorising the servants, running the old house like a military academy.’

  ‘I know that part,’ I said, staring out of the window. ‘I often think I should have just given in, and joined up sooner.’

  ‘But you had other dreams. Fathers always want their sons to follow in their footsteps, whether they want to or not. I’ve seen it before—luckily, when I was a boy, I just wanted to be a cavalryman; and here I am.’

  ‘I wish you more luck than I’ve had,’ I said, earnestly. ‘Following in my father’s footsteps hasn’t been quite what I’d expected.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I heard you had a rough time of it. Wounded? Or captured?’ He looked as though he regretted the question as soon as it escaped his lips.

  ‘Captured. Six months, near as damn it.’ Jim looked at me, partly pityingly, partly in wonder.

  ‘I hear conditions out there…’ Jim stopped short.

  ‘The Burmese rebels have methods of torture that are alien to an Englishman. Even now the memories are… well, let’s just say I don’t like to dwell on it. It was only after my release that I discovered how long I had been imprisoned.’

  ‘I don’t mean to pry, old boy…’ Jim said.

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, somewhat disingenuously. I wondered if Jim had been ordered to coax answers from me. I had experienced plenty of that recently, but I had no desire to hide anything from the army, no matter how painful the memories.

  ‘Why did the rebels release you? Did you ever find out?’ Jim asked.

  ‘No one knows. It was sudden and unexpected—maybe they realised I wasn’t going to talk, and decided that they should get some value from me rather than kill me. The rebels contacted the Burmese police only on the morning of my release, and arranged an exchange—six captured rebel fighters for me. Thankfully, a British corporal had been stationed nearby with local forces, and had sanctioned the deal—otherwise I would probably still be languishing in a cell, or dead of malnutrition, or worse. I don’t even remember being transferred to their care. In fact, I barely remember anything before I reached Rangoon almost two weeks afterwards. My old commanding officer, Colonel Swinburne, was waiting for me. It took three weeks before I was able to walk without a cane. I remember strolling with him in the grounds of the barracks, smoking cigars and taking a glass of brandy, when he told me that my tour of duty was over; that I was going home. Despite ten years’ service, six of those spent overseas, I put up no resistance. Once the colonel decided I was well enough to travel, I donned my uniform for the last time and headed overland to our territory in China.’

  ‘And then in Hong Kong… you were discharged with full honours? Must have been a relief, after everything.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I smiled unconvincingly. ‘At Hong Kong I spent a single day and night in the company of a group of British officers at the embassy, and that was the end of my service to the Crown. I took ship the next day as a civilian. I cannot feign disappointment—after everything I had been through I must confess that I’d found it difficult to look to my future career in the army. But now here I am at home, and I have no idea what to do with myself.’

  Jim looked at me sympathetically. I avoided his gaze. My honourable discharge from the army had left me reeling. I knew that I would receive a fair pension, and that I had at least a small income from my father’s old holdings, though I expected no inheritance from him. But I had known little except a military life, and with no family or property to speak of, I knew it would be hard work to carve a niche for myself back in England. I suppose the prospect was daunting, for I had spent months outside anything resembling normality, and the last few weeks in a sort of dream-like state where my convalescence could happily have taken for ever.

  ‘After all that—you miss it, don’t you?’ Jim asked.

  ‘It made me sad in a way that I can’t really explain. Yes—I miss it. Out there a soldier can make a difference, if only he does his duty. Here… I don’t know what a soldier can do here. And I’m not even a soldier any more, am I?’

  Jim patted me on the arm. ‘This is London, dear boy, seat of the Empire; greatest city in the world. You can do anything you put your mind to. Write your memoirs, make your fortune. You’ll soon find your feet, you’ll see. And besides, the army looks out for its own. We’ll help you find your feet.’

  From that point on, Jim seemed determined to talk about other things, and to take my mind off the past. Jim was a bit of a dilettante, perhaps, but he was a cheerful sort, and he helped the journey pass quickly. We followed the great curve of the Thames from the docks at Wapping to the City proper. We passed the yawning, open mouth of London Bridge, which was already busy with traffic even before seven in the morning. Great overladen carts rumbled towards the many docks with their goods, while omnibuses trundled behind, early morning workers stuck behind the trade traffic in their bid to get to their shops and offices on the opposite side of the river.

  We entered the quieter streets of Blackfriars and the tree-lined Victoria Embankment, before sweeping northwards past Whitehall and up Tottenham Court Road. The great thoroughfare was like an avenue passing through several towns—so many high streets, each with their own character. On some, the fishmongers were gathered outside with their stalls of fresh fish from the early deliveries. On others, tailors, cobblers and haberdashers were setting up shop, and on others still were costermongers selling fruit, vegetables, salted pork and more. Young boys in flat caps ran back and forth with messages, parcels and bundles of newspapers. It seemed the further up the road we travelled, the livelier and busier London became, as the morning broke.

  Just as I thought the traffic up ahead would delay us, the driver veered along a side street and finally out onto our destination, which was not Gower Street as I’d expected, but George Street to the north. I shot a quizzical look at Jim.

  ‘Oh, yes. It’s not quite as run-down as you expected, eh? I wouldn’t do that to you. It’s a top-drawer lodging, but the proximity to Euston makes the rent a snip.’ He grinned.

  I laughed, and made work of climbing down from the growler. I was about to get my bags, but the two soldiers were there before me.

  ‘Now,’ said Jim, ‘I must introduce you to your landlady, Mrs. Whitinger. Let me do the talking; if she sees you with that beard at this hour I’m sure she’ll think you’ve come to rob her. You must shave it off at your earliest convenience, by the way—it’s simply not the fashion for the younger man.’

  I started to understand Jim’s character. I imagined that, in his dress uniform, medals, sabre and hat he cut a fine figure at society balls. I didn’t fancy his chances in battle, but I also did not hold that against him. Let him make japes and dance, and woo the eligible young ladies while he could, as perhaps I should have done a decade ago.

  ‘Are you sure Mrs. Whitinger will have rooms?’ I asked uncertainly.

  ‘Oh, quite sure. She keeps the middle apartment free for officers in need. The last tenant was my friend Daniel, but he got a promotion last month and moved out. Been vacant ever since.’ That wink again. ‘The flat, that is, not Dan.’

  We stepped onto the broad stone steps to the entrance of 11 George Street. It was an unassuming terraced house of dark brick, with large sash windows on eac
h of its three floors. The front door was clean and looked as new, and the window boxes outside the ground-floor windows were tidy, and full of daffodils in bloom, betokening a house-proud occupant. The frosted glass rose above the door glowed with the light from within. Thus seeing that at least one resident was indeed up and about, Jim rapped firmly at the door. We waited less than half a minute before hearing the sound of the bolt being drawn back, and the door opened. Before us stood a small yet stern-looking lady of advancing years, wearing a cornflower-blue dress and a white linen apron. Her silver hair was scraped back into a bun, and her grey eyes looked us over keenly.

  ‘My dear Mrs. Whitinger,’ said Jim, ‘I hope you are well on this fine morning.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you Master James. I wasn’t sure you’d be coming, least not yet. Have you brought me a new lodger?’

  ‘I have indeed my good lady. This is Captain John Hardwick, retired.’ He announced me with exaggerated grandeur, and as he had intimated to me earlier she eyed me with suspicion.

  ‘Do not worry, Mrs. Whitinger, I can assure you Captain Hardwick is a gentleman born. He has just returned from a tediously long sea voyage after many years abroad, and is in need of comfortable rooms, a good breakfast, and a long-awaited brush and shave.’ Jim turned and gave a wink, and looking past him I saw that Mrs. Whitinger’s demeanour had softened.

  She invited us inside, and bade the two privates take my few bags up to the first-floor landing. She clearly had an affection for Jim, who chastised her with a laugh for calling him Master James. ‘I’m a grown man now, Mrs. Whitinger, and a captain of Horse Guards. Really, John,’ he said, turning to me, ‘I despair. I believe I will always be a fresh-faced ensign to Mrs. Whitinger.’