The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  I could believe it. Sir Toby may have been old, but he still looked formidable.

  ‘As his son,’ the old man continued, ‘I know there is more to you than meets the eye. In fact, a letter found its way to me last week from Colonel Swinburne in Rangoon. He writes that you showed remarkable fortitude in the face of indescribable hardships; that you survived where lesser men would have perished; and that he is confident that, through it all, you betrayed no secrets of any value to the enemy. That, my boy, is not the description of an officer who has never distinguished himself. It is the description of an exceptional soldier, and a dutiful one at that.’

  ‘This is all rather a lot to take in, Sir Toby,’ I said, wavering.

  ‘Indeed it is. And I will tell you all that you need to know in good time—about your father, and the work that he did. But for now, Captain Hardwick, I must have an answer. Are you with us?’

  When I next spoke, his eyes fair glittered with triumph. He knew he had me.

  ‘Supposing I take the job. To whom will I report, sir, if I may be so bold?’ I addressed him as if he were my senior officer, quite deliberately.

  ‘This is not an orthodox position I am offering you, Captain Hardwick. There will be no headquarters, no barracks, nor even an office. You will have considerable freedom to conduct your enquiries as you see fit, without the need to hand in reports every five minutes. To assist you, all the resources of this club will be at your disposal. If you accept the post you may consider yourself an honorary member and come and go as you please. Your membership will remain active as long as you get results; after all, in order to keep you on the books indefinitely, some other poor so-and-so will be blackballed. We can’t sponsor you out of charity.’ He paused for a moment, smiling to himself. It is lucky that I took no offence, as he was not about to apologise. ‘Some of the other members will be engaged in similar duties to yourself,’ he continued, ‘and these will make themselves known to you in good time. Such men are of the highest calibre—some even have the ear of the Palace—so you can be sure they can be trusted. Discuss the case with them freely, ask for their aid when necessary, and report to me only when you feel you cannot proceed alone. I shall put my trust in you to do your duty in this matter.’

  ‘Then you presume that I will accept?’ I said, trying to maintain all due respect and not a little composure in my tone. Sir Toby had given me very little in the way of explanation as to the nature of this new venture, and yet he turned his head to me, with a flicker of a smile on his lips as if I had said something amusing.

  ‘My dear boy,’ he said, ‘how could you refuse?’

  * * *

  Sir Toby suggested that I familiarise myself with the club immediately. To that end, Holdsworth introduced me to the club secretary, Albert Carrington, in order to have my honorary membership ratified. Carrington was an officious man in his late middle ages, and such a stickler for procedure as I had never encountered outside the army stores. I was told that I would have to wait at least a week for my papers and business cards, including a certificate of my induction into ‘Sir Toby’s order’; however, Carrington signed a docket endorsing a temporary membership, allowing me free run of the magnificent building in the meantime.

  After regaling me with a list of benefits of membership and club rules, some fascinating, others tedious, Carrington informed me that I was to dine with an established member of ‘the order’, and that this man would ‘show me the ropes’. It was a minor imposition, but I was eager to have answers to some of the many questions that were filling my mind, not to mention the fact that I was famished after a busy day.

  * * *

  My first impression of Ambrose Hanlocke, my dinner companion that evening, was not entirely a favourable one. I had expected a military man, one of Sir Toby’s stiff-collared ‘warriors’ of Apollo, but the man sitting in the formal dining room was anything but. He was no older than me, I guessed, tall and rakish, with oiled black hair and a well-groomed moustache. He was immaculately dressed in fine evening wear, though he appeared a little too debonair for the austere, Regency refinement of the surroundings. From the moment he spoke, I decided that Ambrose Hanlocke was a rogue, albeit a likeable one. It would not be long before I discovered just how right I was.

  The dinner was magnificent; fine food prepared by a French chef in four courses, with good wine. It was the best meal I had eaten in many a year, and I think perhaps it showed. Ambrose leaned over to pass comment during the fish course.

  ‘That’s the thing about the club,’ he said, waving his knife to indicate the surroundings, ‘cheap to those who can afford it, off limits to those who can’t. I eat like a king in here at least once a week, for no more than the cost of my membership—in other words, John, such luxury is free to the likes of you and me.’

  I smiled politely. Ambrose made no real effort to keep his voice down, and I was sure he was being more crude than would be considered acceptable by the clientele.

  ‘Mind you, it wasn’t so long ago that the quality of the food in here was rum, to say the least,’ he continued. ‘Positively rag and famish; may as well have dined at the bloody Reform Club. Still, this new Frenchie knows how to cook. Parisian, you see; bit too much sauce for my tastes, but bloody good all the same.’

  ‘Have you been a member for long?’ I asked, hoping to turn Ambrose from his bullish course of conversation.

  ‘Six years,’ he replied, before stuffing a forkful of sole into his mouth. ‘Or is it seven? I forget—a while, anyhow.’ He mumbled his words, his mouth half full of food.

  ‘And you make regular use of the facilities?’

  ‘Too right old chap, and I recommend you do the same!’ he remarked. ‘The Apollonian is like a palace—in fact, I’ll wager it’s better than most palaces; all Portland stone, marble, electric chandeliers and plush ottomans. Imagine the cost of running such a home—yet for ten guineas a year we have joint proprietorship of all this. The library, coffee rooms and fine dining… everything. We have footmen in livery, mosaic floors and antique silverware. We can order wine from the stores that would cause the head waiter at the Savoy to question the extravagance. In short, John, everything is of the best, and it costs next to nothing.’ He grinned, and finished off his fish with gusto.

  ‘It all seems rather more decadent than I am used to,’ I said, ‘and, if I’m honest, I would feel that I was taking advantage were I to use these facilities too frequently.’

  ‘Well, it looks as if I’ve finally found a real gentleman in London,’ he laughed. ‘I can only assume that you retire of an evening to a palace fit for a Maharaja, surrounded by servants, silk cushions and gilded statues. No? Well, let me tell you this: a man can make his club his home if he is of a mind. I live and lounge luxuriously here as I please. I graze upon the masterworks of the best-equipped private library in the land; I enjoy conversation with some of the most dazzling wits of our time; I often sleep here in the rooms provided. In fact, the only thing I ever need to get through life is a toothbrush. And I’ve earned it.’ His jovial tone dropped to a more serious, conspiratorial whisper—the first sign that he had any sense of decorum whatsoever. ‘I have earned it, John, in the same way that you will earn it; because I am a member of Apollo Lycea, the inner sanctum of the club. When I use the order’s seal to endorse a report, it would not surprise me if the Queen herself took an interest in its contents. When I investigate a heinous crime, I put my life on the line for the good of the Empire. Do you see?’

  I nodded. Ambrose was keen to jest, but he had come to the crux of the matter. There was a momentary pause in the conversation as the waiter came to clear away our plates.

  ‘You are not what I expected,’ I said, when the interruption was over. ‘Meaning no disrespect, Sir Toby described the order as “warriors”.’

  ‘Oh, we are!’ Ambrose exclaimed. ‘What you really mean is that I am no soldier, unlike you. So you are wondering what exactly it is that I do?’

  ‘I would not have put it
so bluntly.’

  ‘Of course not, because of your breeding and military bearing and fine feeling.’ There was a twinkle in Ambrose’s eye—he was evidently intent on needling me. ‘I’ll tell you what I do for Queen and country, Captain Hardwick. I listen, I sneak, I skulk and even steal. I whore and I drink. The last two things I do more than I ought. Oh, and they aren’t actually part of the job, but you get the gist.’

  Ambrose must have registered the look of disapproval on my face. He looked unabashed, and savoured the moment as the waiter placed the main course in front of us, and topped up our iced water and glasses of wine to the sound of distant violins.

  ‘Don’t worry, John,’ he went on, gulping his wine, ‘You won’t be expected to do any of the unsavoury stuff. We are all recruited for our own unique talents. I’m an adventurer of the worst kind—I was in all kinds of bother before Sir Toby ever found me, and I might add that he got me out of an awful pickle. You are… well, you’re an honest man, which makes you something of a rarity in this nest of vipers. Let me raise a toast. To the last Honest Man in London!’

  He raised his voice along with his glass of claret, and I felt myself turning nearly as red as the wine as several sage old heads turned to look at us, frowning. Ambrose beamed. I leaned back in my chair, trying to cover my face with one hand whilst clinking Ambrose’s glass. He giggled to himself like a naughty schoolboy and resumed his meal.

  I realised that Ambrose must have drunk most of the bottle of wine himself already, and started to understand why he seemed so free of inhibitions. I steered the conversation to more serious matters as best I could while Ambrose devoured his filet mignons, washing them down with more Château Brane-Mouton.

  ‘We should talk about this business with the Dynamiters,’ I said eventually. ‘I have no real idea of what’s been happening, and I suppose I must make a start on the investigation straight away.’

  ‘Indeed,’ replied Ambrose. ‘Won’t do to keep the old bird waiting—he’ll be after results. I’m sure he didn’t hire you for your wit, charm and God-given grace, abundant as those gifts are.’

  ‘I presume it’s not the done thing to admit the likes of me to the Apollonian?’ I asked.

  ‘The likes of us, you mean?’ Ambrose winked. ‘No, not done at all. The Apollonian has a reputation to uphold, one of intellectual pursuits, the nurturing of celebrated minds, respectability and episcopacy. There used to be a sixteen-year waiting list for membership. I hear Sir Toby has a daily struggle with the committee about the order; they never seem quite sure who he’s granting membership to. In fact, even I don’t know how many of us there are. So you’re right, old chap, best get results and soon. Tell you what, let’s eat pudding and I’ll take you to the library and show you the case files.’

  I could eat no more, my body still not having adapted to large portions of rich food, so I sipped a cup of strong black coffee as Ambrose wolfed down his fine French dessert, before draining the last dregs of wine from his glass, stifling a hiccup at every pause. When we were finished, he stood abruptly.

  ‘Onwards and upwards, old chap!’ he announced. ‘No time for sitting around; we have work to do.’

  As we wove our way through the elegant dining room, all marble and crystal, and ivory table-linen, I tried to blank out the sound of those sage old clubmen tutting and muttering censoriously. I feared I would have to get used to that.

  * * *

  The library of the Apollonian was every bit as grand as I had hoped, and as well stocked as its reputation suggested. Tens of thousands of volumes, on every subject one could imagine, were lined up on three levels of bookshelves to which wrought-iron spiral stairs granted access. Rare volumes were displayed in locked glass cabinets, and at a glance I spied some philosophical and theological texts that must have been hundreds of years old. A few men sat quietly in the leather armchairs near to the two fireplaces at either end of the room. In fact, the only sound came from the log fires, which crackled softly. The smell of old leather, stale tobacco and musty tomes was pleasant to me, bringing back many memories.

  As a boy I had loved books. When my father was away—a frequent occurrence—I had lost myself in tales of adventure, travel and exploration. I had dreamed of owning a good library one day. I started when Ambrose thrust several weighty books and a large rolled map into my arms.

  ‘We might need these. Come along.’

  I followed him to a door at the back of the venerable old library, noticing that Ambrose was not carrying any books whilst I struggled with an armful of leather-bound volumes. He fumbled in his jacket pocket, produced a small key and unlocked the door. The outside of the door was decorated with a discreet brass plaque, a cameo of Apollo, with bow in hand. Ambrose stepped into the room and held the door open for me with a foot whilst he lit a pair of paraffin lamps—there were no electric lights in this room. I squeezed between two armchairs and put the books on the desk in the centre of the room while Ambrose locked the door.

  ‘Now, I’m a teeny bit worse for wear, old chap,’ said Ambrose, stating the obvious. ‘But I have more than enough wherewithal to take you through the case.’

  I listened as Ambrose brought me up to speed in his own inimitable style. He unrolled the map—a large-scale street map of London—and pointed out the sites of the most recent dynamite attacks. As he described the events leading up to the attacks, he referred me to the books I had brought in with me. There was a book on the history of Ireland, including the most recent Troubles, a gazetteer of London, and a military handbook of weapons and tactics from around the world. Ambrose remained startlingly lucid, only slurring the occasional word, and I was impressed at his constitution. Finally, he rifled through the files in the office and pulled out several dossiers pertaining to the case.

  ‘Thought as much,’ he said. ‘Old Toby’s had these sent down for you.’

  I was surprised to discover that the perpetrators of the Bond Street attack had been pursued across London, and that a gunfight had ensued at Marble Arch. How details of the engagement had gone unreported was beyond me; the sheer number of people who must have borne witness, even in the early hours of the morning, would have made concealing the facts from the press a logistical nightmare. Ambrose assured me that such things were ‘par for the course’ in Apollo Lycea, and I began to wonder just how many strings Sir Toby was able to pull in the pursuit of the Queen’s justice. The other bombings had occurred during the night, only hours apart, first at Kensington and then at Lisson Grove, and these had led to the authorities picking up the trail of the suspects.

  ‘Sir Toby’s especially keen to get to the bottom of this case, because these bombings were far too close to the Palace,’ said Ambrose. ‘Queen Vic may well have heard the explosion from her bedchamber. Worse still, they were even closer to the club. Bloody anarchists are getting too big for their britches.’

  ‘According to this, one of them was a woman,’ I said, raising an eyebrow as I scanned the reports.

  ‘Apparently so. Even the bloody anarchists seem to have embraced suffrage these days,’ said Ambrose, disdainfully.

  ‘And what happened to these anarchists?’ I enquired. The dossier was not forthcoming on the matter, and read as though several pages were missing from the anonymous report.

  ‘They got away,’ said Ambrose. ‘Although one of them was wounded. We found a few things that he must have dropped during his flight.’

  Ambrose handed me a small, battered pocketbook and a scrap of paper, which looked as if it had been torn from a brown envelope. The piece of paper contained a scrawled note—four rows of six barely legible symbols, which looked strangely familiar. The notebook contained some forty-odd pages, each with one or two neatly scribed paragraphs, all of which were rendered in similar symbols to those on the note. This time I did recognise what was written, and I stared at the book dumbfounded.

  ‘You won’t get anywhere with that lot,’ I was faintly aware of Ambrose saying. ‘Some kind of Arabic, maybe, although some
of our experts believe it’s ancient Chinese or Japanese. Lord knows why the bloody bog-trotters would use that kind of language. We’ve had our men look at it, but it’s all gibberish. We’re going through a selection process currently, to find some folk who we can trust to translate it.’

  I had been quiet for too long, and Ambrose must have registered my look of bewilderment and, perhaps, horror.

  ‘Are you all right, old chap?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s not Chinese, Ambrose.’ I said, quietly. ‘It’s Myanmar.’

  ‘My what?’

  ‘Burmese. It’s written in Burmese.’

  * * *

  Ambrose had been understandably surprised at my sudden insight. I told him how I had come to serve in Burma, recounting much as was pertinent, but omitting the story of my capture during a routine patrol, and the beginning of my own personal hell. The night drew on as I sat in feverish study of the two artefacts. Ambrose tried to make himself useful, bringing coffee to sustain me whilst I pored over books of linguistics and applied my own knowledge of the language that brought back so many painful memories. In some strange way I hoped that perhaps ardent study of those fearful Burmese characters would go some way to banishing the ghosts of my past. The oil lamp flickered and I became lost to time. Ambrose grew bored, but duty kept him by my side for the most part. He went off to stretch his legs from time to time, but at least tried to look interested. After several hours I had my breakthrough, and my exclamation snapped Ambrose back into wakefulness.

  ‘What is it? Have you cracked it?’ he asked.

  ‘I believe I have,’ I said. ‘It’s not simply written in Burmese, which is why it took me so long to work out what I was looking at. Once you translate it into English, it still looks like gibberish—a jumble of words and phrases—that is, until you realise that it is a code.’

  ‘Code? And can you read it?’

  ‘Almost. I believe I can work out a cipher for it, and then we’ll crack it.’