The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  ‘A storm is coming. You must come down from there. Do not provoke the tempest!’

  I laughed with great mirth, and to my puny father it must have seemed like a ferocious roar, for he stopped in his tracks and looked at me afeared.

  ‘Do not fret for me,’ I growled. ‘I am the dragon. I fear no storm; I fear nothing!’

  My father’s expression changed. He no longer looked afraid, or even angry. He looked disappointed. He shook his head slowly and I saw that he was not in awe of me, despite my power. He pitied me. I was a failure in his eyes just as I had always been. In that moment I knew that he did not deserve my mercy, and I breathed deep before spitting out a torrent of flame that smote him where he stood. My rage was so great that I flew around in ever-increasing circles, setting to flame the whole world until all was red ruin.

  * * *

  I woke violently, crying out. I was near certain that I was in my bedroom at Mrs. Whitinger’s boarding house, but the room refused to stop spinning long enough for me to tell for sure. Light streamed in at the small sash window, though I had no idea what time it was, nor even what day. The door flew open almost immediately, and Ambrose Hanlocke rushed in, looking concerned. He mouthed some words of comfort to me, but I could not hear him, for my body pained me and my mind was confused. I was in a dreadful fug, and gripped the bedsheets tightly as I tried to compose myself.

  ‘Can you hear me, old chap?’ asked Ambrose. ‘I said you’re home, and you’re going to be all right.’

  Another man entered the room behind him. He was young but grave-looking, well-dressed and clean-shaven. He carried a Gladstone bag, which he set down on my bedside table and started rifling through.

  ‘This is McGrath, John; from the club,’ said Ambrose, although my head swam so much I could barely comprehend him. ‘He’s a medical man. He’s going to give you something for the pain.’

  The young man prepared a hypodermic syringe, and something deep in my subconscious must have alerted me to a hidden danger. My fears were confirmed as the man rolled up my sleeve and tapped on my vein.

  ‘Don’t worry, Captain Hardwick,’ he said. ‘Just a bit of morphine.’

  I snapped to immediately, and knocked the syringe violently from his hand. Ambrose made a poor job of restraining me as I lurched upright. The glare from the sunlight outside stung my eyes as surely as if pins had been thrust into them. I was vaguely aware of McGrath crying out in alarm.

  ‘Don’t put any more of that bloody stuff in me!’ I barked, in the tone of a drillmaster.

  I slipped my legs out of the bed and tried to stand, and found that I was too dizzy. The morphine fug was still upon me—that they had dosed me while I was unconscious was now certain, and I felt a disconcerting mixture of sickness and delight at the thought of it. Both men helped me return to a seated position before I did myself further injury.

  ‘Captain Hardwick,’ the young man said, ‘I only wish to help you. If opiates are not to your liking for… ahem… whatever reason, then I can give you something else.’

  Ambrose reacted before I did, sensing an embarrassment and seeking to assist, with uncharacteristic gallantry.

  ‘That would be excellent, McGrath. It is no reflection on your bedside manner, I am sure—it’s just that the captain had a torrid time in service in the East, a damned torrid time, and it is best to avoid anything that reminds him of that place.’

  McGrath nodded. I believe he understood all too well why I railed against the morphine, but said nothing. If he had administered any drugs to me earlier, he must surely have seen the needle-marks from previous injections on my arms, legs or even my belly; although he may have dismissed them along with the myriad other scars that made my skin look like a map of the constellations. Why else he would have pressed ahead and administered the hated drug was beyond me. Inexperience, perhaps? McGrath instead mixed a few potions and powders, which he offered to me, assuring me that there were no opiates present. I drank the tincture gratefully. My head seemed to have stopped spinning, although the throb of a headache plagued me. I knew that if I moved too much I would give myself away with my shaking hands and sluggish perception. My addiction had been fed, and I prayed God I had the strength to resist its call the next time.

  * * *

  I was instructed to take a hot bath and thence returned to my room to breakfast with Ambrose and his companion, where a small but welcome fire crackled in the hearth. It was almost eleven o’clock in the morning, and Mrs. Whitinger had prepared us a large tray of toast, eggs and black pudding, evidently under duress—when she had knocked on my door, Ambrose had answered, and I had overheard a sharp exchange between them. He had remonstrated with her that I was in no fit state for visitors, but she had still made her point, and requested a word with me as soon as I was well enough. After reminding Ambrose that she was my landlady, not my housekeeper, she had retreated indignantly back to her own rooms, before Ambrose returned to us sheepishly.

  ‘Deuced formidable woman that landlady of yours. I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when you’re well enough to wear them.’ He nudged McGrath and they both laughed. I think I managed to muster a smile, though I did not feel like it.

  The young man, whom I had taken for a doctor, was Archibald McGrath, actually a surgeon recently inducted into the Apollonian. As is the tradition in his profession, he preferred ‘Mister’ to ‘Doctor’, and Ambrose jokingly reassured me that McGrath had taken all the relevant examinations, and was no charlatan. I gathered that I was not the first agent to be attended by the young surgeon. As well as working at St Bartholomew’s Hospital, his study of the developing field of forensic medicine gave him a unique perspective on club cases. As can be assumed of such a knowledgeable and hard-working young surgeon, Archibald—or Archie—was serious and fastidious. He had a trustworthy manner about him; I learned too that he was a loyal clubman and keen cricketer. Ambrose made one too many wise-cracks at Archie’s expense, I thought, as was his way.

  Between them, Ambrose and Archie gave me a fairly complete account of what had happened the previous night. I had been assailed by a group of thugs not far from the boarding house, and had been injured as I fought them off. Ambrose had had a change of heart about letting me walk home, especially as I mightn’t have been aware of which streets were safe and which were not, and so he had instructed his driver to retrace his path, heading for Mrs. Whitinger’s house. When I could not be found along the main route, he became concerned and eventually happened upon my predicament. Once the thugs had been sent packing, I had been brought home and McGrath had been sent for. I had been delirious for some time. Archie had put a few stitches in my leg and had, regrettably, given me laudanum for the pain so that I could sleep. By all accounts I had caused quite a commotion, and Mrs. Whitinger was sore that such an upset had been brought to her door.

  ‘How did you manage to overcome the brutes?’ I asked Ambrose. ‘I seem to recall a sword being drawn, but I don’t remember you being armed last night.’

  ‘I am always armed, dear boy,’ Ambrose replied. He took up his walking cane from by the side of his chair and pulled the monogrammed silver knob away a few inches to reveal a tempered steel blade within. ‘A nasty surprise for any vagabond, eh? And I have a fair few fencing lessons under my belt, too.’

  ‘And that is not the only type of fencing you practise, by all accounts,’ said Archie, taking a sip of his tea to disguise his smug grin.

  ‘Good Lord!’ exclaimed Ambrose in mock disbelief. ‘John, take a note: on this day Archibald McGrath attempted a witticism. I’m not sure anyone would believe it were I to tell them.’ I laughed along with them, but soon I was forced to sober the mood.

  ‘The man you stabbed, Ambrose—do you believe the wound was a mortal one?’

  ‘Gracious no,’ Ambrose protested. ‘I snagged the tip of my foil in his jacket, and I believe his imagination did the rest. A flesh wound at best. More’s the pity, for if he had been seriously wounded he would have been a damned sight e
asier to trace. Still, the jails are full to bursting with cutpurses and common louts as it is, so I doubt Scotland Yard would thank me overmuch for delivering another such ne’er-do-well to their door.’

  ‘Cutpurses? Louts? So you believe the attack to be a random one?’ I queried.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘The Chinaman with the ugly knife,’ I said. ‘He called me “Captain”, just as he was about to slit my throat. He meant for me to die, and he knew me.’

  ‘Are you certain?’ asked Archie. ‘Good heavens… could this mean the club is compromised? Or perhaps you have enemies from your time in the service?’

  ‘Oh, come now, stop being so melodramatic.’ Ambrose threw his hands up. ‘You were insensible last night, John. You were raving about the Chinaman being a torturer from Burma—Mung, or Ming or somesuch.’

  ‘Maung,’ I said, sullenly.

  ‘Maung, Ming, what’s the difference? The fact is, something sent your mind back to that terrible place, and you became confused. Are you sure it was the Chinaman who called you by your rank? Or are you simply confused from the fever?’

  ‘I… I think it was him.’ I paused and thought on it for a moment. ‘I can’t be sure.’

  ‘There you go,’ said Ambrose, with a tone of satisfaction. ‘Your imagination was running riot, and the celestial reminded you of painful times past. The only other explanation is that someone knew of your involvement with the Apollonian, and that is highly unlikely, especially at this early stage. Did you tell anyone of your membership before leaving there with me last night?’

  ‘No,’ I said. I was distracted, trying to go over the events of the previous night, trying to convince myself that I was rational and sane. But Ambrose had made a strong case to the contrary.

  ‘There we are, then. Don’t worry about it any longer. Those ruffians will doubtless wash up in the Thames sooner rather than later; their kind always do.’

  * * *

  It had not been easy to convince Ambrose and Archie to allow me back to work, but I was determined to continue the investigation, and in truth a bath and breakfast had been just the ticket. Ambrose proved himself a valuable ally once again when, realising that I would not be satisfied by further bed rest, he took my side and persuaded McGrath to relent. Archie gave me his card, and made me swear that I would send a messenger to him if I felt any pain or discomfort whatsoever. I could not tell him that my real discomfort was the gnawing hollow inside me, which he himself had caused with his medication; better, I thought, to plunge straight into my work and leave no time for solitary reflection.

  Once Archie had taken his leave, I had faced a brief meeting with Mrs. Whitinger, whose formidable demeanour clashed with her obvious concern for my well-being. She stressed that the neighbourhood was a respectable one, and out of earshot of Ambrose told me that she’d never heard of such a thing happening within miles of her door previously. She seemed to bear the burden as though she herself were responsible for my misfortune. I apologised profusely for any upset I may have caused her, and she had accepted my apology graciously, becoming utterly considerate once she realised the extent of my physical injuries. I confess I was touched by her kindness, and determined that I would find some way to repay her as soon as I could.

  I was annoyed by the loss of my new suit, which was mostly damaged beyond repair. I asked Mrs. Whitinger to send the jacket to the menders, threw the shirt and trousers away, and wrote an instruction to a messenger boy for my tailor to provide an identical formal suit by the end of the week—goodness knows what the old fellow would think. I produced a sixpence to speed the boy along, before summoning a hansom and heading for Marble Arch with Ambrose in tow once again. I had dressed in a suit of everyday clothes of dark brown linen with a pale grey waistcoat. The clothes were of good quality and well tailored, so I would pass muster were we to pay a visit to the club, but they were austere enough not to attract the attention of more rogues and cutpurses. To my shame, as it was another drizzly day, I was forced to wear my only overcoat again, which still carried moss-stains and pulls from my scrapes the previous night.

  ‘As you said yourself, old chap,’ said Ambrose, encouragingly, ‘no unwanted attention. And that coat should certainly do the trick.’

  Ambrose was apparently never without some degree of finery, and looked dapper as always in his grey fitted suit, silk cravat, top hat and fine ebony cane—an item which I now knew was also a deadly weapon. I made a poor-looking companion for him, I’m sure, with my black eye, bruises and limp, but he kept any further quips to himself.

  ‘This bloody rain is quite intolerable,’ said Ambrose, gazing forlornly from the carriage window. ‘If it doesn’t stop soon I think the Thames might burst its banks.’ I glanced up at the pale grey sky, hoping for better fortune today than the weather portended.

  * * *

  At Marble Arch, we found it difficult to inspect the scene of the earlier crime due to the great number of people milling about. Situated as it was at a busy exchange between Oxford Street, Edgware Road and Hyde Park it seemed that every type of street-seller, foreign tourist, pickpocket, cab driver and house servant was going about his or her business at once. The people of London were unperturbed by a bit of drizzle. Street entertainers attracted large crowds, ruddy-faced children raced around like wild creatures, costermongers and newspapermen were lending their voices to a deafening throng, whilst courting couples and their chaperones tried to avoid the commotion to take their strolls through the gardens, harassed every step of the way by flower girls and portrait painters. The press of beggars and street-sellers was such that Ambrose was obliged to find a policeman to help move some of them away from the inner arch itself, using some bogus credentials and garrulous nature to convince the constable to place himself at our service. I ignored Hanlocke’s duplicity, assuming it was all in the name of secrecy for our agency. Even then, as I examined the smooth white surface of the arch, we could do nothing to stop folk gawping at us as we searched for clues. Ambrose pulled a small magnifier from his jacket pocket, and handed it to me to assist in my scrutiny, before proceeding to watch me as interestedly as the common crowd.

  ‘They searched the interior rooms at the time, I assume?’ I asked Ambrose.

  ‘Of course. Special Branch were there. They may be heavy handed, but they’re nothing if not thorough. There were no anarchists hiding upstairs.’

  ‘And the gates were closed?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I looked up at the formidable bronze gates. They were not impossible to climb, though it would certainly be arduous, and there was nowhere to go beyond them but to an empty courtyard.

  ‘I am afraid the search may be fruitless. Too many people have walked through here since the anarchists escaped, and the walls appear spotless,’ I said, resignedly.

  ‘Should think so too,’ said Ambrose. ‘National treasure, this. I expect it’s been washed down a fair few times since then—mind you, they’ve made a poor fist of it. Look at that mildew around the base there. Needs a good scrub if you ask me—I should inform the Department of Works.’

  Something in Ambrose’s tone told me that he would do no such thing. But his remark did cause me to look more closely at the mildewed area, and that is when I made a small discovery.

  ‘Good Lord, Ambrose, I think you’re onto something.’

  ‘Eh? Found some incriminating moss, have you?

  ‘You scoff, but perhaps I have.’ I drew Ambrose closer, and he knelt on the flagstones with a look of distaste before examining my find. ‘See here—there’s a discernible line in the mildew, no more than a quarter of an inch wide. And look, see, it occurs on the opposite side too.’

  The yellow-green mildew ran just a few inches up the inside of the arch from the pavement, where it must have escaped the brushes of the street cleaners. At roughly the centre point of the thick inner wall, on either side of the arch, there was a narrow, clean line where the mildew no longer grew. Either side of that line, the growth was
pale and yellow for several inches, as though it was dead. It was certainly curious, if not exactly earth-shattering, and Ambrose dismissed the discovery out of hand. However, using the magnifier I followed the mark up the wall, and did my best to trace its path upwards towards the ceiling of the arch, whereupon it soon became too indistinct to see. I squinted at the apex, feeling certain that I could trace the faintest line all the way around the arch’s interior curve. To me it looked as though a huge board or pane of glass had once stood in the exact centre of the archway, sitting flush with its smooth marble walls. Ambrose was at a loss.

  ‘I very much doubt this has anything to do with the case,’ he said. ‘I expected you’d be searching for manhole covers or… well, something else.’

  ‘That’s already been done, Ambrose,’ I replied, patiently. ‘We have sworn statements from reliable witnesses, not least a police sergeant, that the area was secure and that the anarchists escaped by unknown means. I am simply exploring every possible avenue.’

  ‘Very well. And what conclusions have you drawn?’

  I rapped firmly on the wall of the arch near the marks, and, finding it solid and ignoring Ambrose’s suppressed snicker, I got to my feet and looked around at the throng of people going about their business. Those who had stopped to watch us had by now grown bored and wandered off.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I think we should go back to the club and review the case notes, bearing in mind this information. But first, I need to visit one of those booksellers.’

  I marched through the crowds, to where I had earlier seen a bookseller with his cart. Ambrose thanked the policeman for his time and followed me. The trader was a middle-aged man with more wrinkles than he had a right to. He instantly went into his sales patter, trying to sell me volumes on everything from French law to river angling, in a cockney drawl that made me doubt he could actually read any more than the titles of his many volumes.