The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  ‘Though it was tempting to step outside and call for a policeman,’ Dr. Billing went on, ‘I gathered my wits and decided to investigate. After all, it would be a desperate individual indeed who would knowingly attack a man of the cloth. I crept to the crypt door, with Michael close behind, glancing back towards the front door now and then in case anyone else should enter. As we reached the entrance to the crypt, I am sure I heard a strange whistling sort of noise, which once more threatened to set my nerves jangling. But I steeled myself, and with a muttered prayer I pulled open the door. As I did so, a great and sudden draught blew out my candle, and there came a flash of light—although Michael and I cannot agree on that point entirely. We found ourselves standing in pitch darkness, staring into a dark, silent crypt. There was no longer a whistling noise, or any sign of habitation.

  ‘It took the two of us some time to pluck up the courage to enter the crypt, I can tell you. But when we did, and had lit every wall-sconce and candle, we found nothing. No signs of any disturbance at all. All we could think was that it must have been the wind, and eventually we laughed about it and remarked what sorry souls we would have looked had anyone seen us. With the fright over, we conducted a full search of the building, until we were satisfied that the church was secure. We stayed a full hour after that, but no one came seeking sanctuary or counsel, and so we left for the night.’

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, not because the rector’s tale was related in the manner of an old ghost story, but because I recognised some parallels with my own experiences, and knew that were close on the trail of our anarchists.

  ‘Is there any other way out of the crypt?’ Ambrose asked.

  ‘Technically, yes, but it is not possible that the exit was used.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘There is a very old passage that leads to the churchyard—an old catacomb, I suppose, which would have been used to bring remains in and out—but it has been blocked up for many years. The doors at either end are chained shut and have not been used in living memory. They were secure when I checked. They also adjoin the vaults, which descend even further beneath the porch, but these have long been emptied and there is no exit from those either.’

  At this, Ambrose and I naturally investigated the crypt, finding a doorway at the far end of the vaulted chamber. The rector said that the door had once led to a passageway to the churchyard, but that it had long been filled in and now led only to a brick wall. After a thorough search, we at last made a breakthrough.

  Though the signs were faint, they were unmistakeable, and when Ambrose came back to see what so fixated me, he saw them too. Around the stone frame of the door—the door which led to nowhere—was a crisp, pale marking; a thin line of bright, clean stone, perfectly straight, following the curvature of the archway all around its interior. The line was less than half an inch thick, flanked on one side by the commonplace grime of the ages, while on the side closest the door were greyish marks, like soot stains or scorch-marks. These flecked the stones, growing less distinct the further from the linear mark they travelled. It was as though someone had scoured clean the aged stone with meticulous precision, but to what end we could not fathom. It had to be linked to the Marble Arch incident somehow, for the coincidence was too great.

  We obfuscated our findings, for we had no idea what to make of them ourselves, and our mission was a covert one. Instead, we assured the good Dr. Billing that nothing was amiss, and that we would eliminate the clergy of Christ Church from our enquiries.

  I hailed a cab as soon as we left the church, and we prepared for a lengthy journey as the roads were horribly congested. It was the end of the working day for many, and we had no choice but to join the slow procession of carts, cabs and omnibuses that seemed to characterise this part of the East End. Even the cab was shabby and tired-looking, with bare wooden seats, a grimy floor covered in cigarette butts and an odour of stale smoke.

  After three-quarters of an hour we were still in Whitechapel. Ambrose’s belly-aching began to grate on my nerves, for, having partaken of too much wine and beer already, and having grown sleepy in the comfortable environs of Billing’s vestry, he was now of the opinion that we should repair to the club and continue our investigations the following day. I would have none of it; we had learned much, even if we had yet to unravel the mystery, and I was eager to press on despite my throbbing head and aching bones. We still had not visited Chelsea Hospital, which, if my ‘triangle theory’ had any credence, would bear similar fruit to Marble Arch and Christ Church.

  By the time we reached the hospital it was dark, and the heavens had opened again for good measure. We could find no one at that immense complex who could even recall where they had been on the morning of 15 November 1889, let alone whether or not they saw anyone suspicious. As Jim had forewarned me, the case was too old, and the trail had gone cold.

  Ambrose and I made a cursory search of the grounds and principal buildings as the rain intensified. Although there were many large gateways, arches and entrance porticos that could have borne similarities to the sites at Christ Church and Marble Arch, we could find no unusual characteristics or markings on any of them, and after several hours gave up our sleuthing, our spirits as dampened as our rain-drenched clothes.

  As our cab plodded and rocked towards home, we talked in hushed tones of the strange markings in the archway of the crypt, and of the mysterious people in black who were plaguing this great city. Who they were, and what their intent was, seemed more obscure than ever, but our progress was tangible. This was a puzzle we had to solve, and time was of the essence.

  FIVE

  ‘Jim? I mean, Captain Denny?’ I corrected myself as soon as I noticed another man present, a colonel in full uniform, staring thoughtfully out of the library’s large sash window at the lashing rain beyond.

  Holdsworth, who had shown me in, bowed and backed out of the club library, closing the doors as he went. Jim came and shook me firmly by the hand.

  ‘John, good to see you’re well. May I present Colonel Stirling of the Royal Horse Guards.’

  The older man turned and nodded. He looked the grim sort, straight-backed and firm-jawed.

  ‘Honoured, sir,’ he said. ‘Heard a lot about you.’ He turned back to the window, as if the drear weather were of infinitely more interest than the company.

  ‘What brings you to the Apollonian, Captain?’ I asked Jim. His presence had thrown me off-guard. Sir Toby’s ‘special meeting’ was, I had believed, for members of the order only. As far as I knew, my exchanges with Jim regarding the London Dynamiters case had been confidential, but I could see no other reason why he would be here.

  ‘Looks as if your fellows here are ready to involve the army in… whatever it is you’re involved in,’ Jim said. ‘Colonel Stirling was invited as a representative of Whitehall, and he brought me as his aide. Small world, eh?’ It was perhaps my imagination, but I felt Jim looked uncomfortable as he spoke, eyes downcast, feet shifting.

  ‘It’s a strange choice for a man of your history to make,’ the colonel said, interrupting without moving from his regimented position. ‘One might think, if you were fit for active duty, you might have re-enlisted with the Sixteenth. Might I ask why we find you on this side of the line?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of any “line” sir,’ I said, suspicious and slightly resentful of the remark. ‘In fact, I had never intended to serve again when I returned home. An opportunity presented itself, and I felt duty bound to take it. That is all.’

  ‘Hmm,’ was all the reply the Colonel offered, and the room fell at once awkwardly silent.

  ‘Awful weather we’re having,’ Jim said at last. ‘I bet you didn’t miss this part of London life.’

  ‘On the contrary,’ I said, ‘I find it comforting, in a nostalgic sort of way. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Colonel Stirling almost growled again, though quietly. I did not know if it was aimed at me or at some internal m
onologue he was having—his face, as I could see it reflected in the glass of the window, was as stone.

  At this, Jim looked at his feet, and then stepped away to the bookshelves, making a play of gazing interestedly at gold-leafed spines. I shuffled the newspapers on the nearest table, but every headline screamed of police incompetence and the dynamiters’ reign of terror, and I could not bear to read them. And so I waited in uncomfortable silence, checking my pocket-watch often and wondering why on earth I’d arrived early for Sir Toby’s meeting. On my watch-chain was clipped a key, recently acquired, the very sight of which, thankfully, made my mind wander from the rudeness of the colonel.

  Early that afternoon I had received a letter from Mr. Fairclough, my solicitor, containing information and sundry legal documents pertaining to the old farmhouse in Kent, along with a key to the property and the name of the estate manager, a certain Mr. Baxter, of Boughton & Sons Estates, Faversham. The key had stirred such emotion within me that I had immediately felt a yearning to see the old place again, though I knew it could not be until my present assignment was complete. In any case, just being able to hold the key in my hands was a rare pleasure, and I had stood in my room clasping it tight, trying to picture a happier time, but the images would not come. I’d had fleeting senses of a childish playfulness, from a carefree summer spent with a loving family, but I could not picture the house, my sister, my mother, or my place in it. Only my father stayed clear in my memories, always a figure of authority, chiding and reproachful. I half wondered if I should return to the house at all, that perhaps nostalgia was playing me false, and that I would find no nurturing, homely old place in which to live out my days when my duty was done. But I clung to hope, and had clipped the iron key to my chain, feeling some small comfort for having it with me.

  I was still squeezing the key tightly in my hand when, to my considerable relief, Holdsworth returned to the library. The straight-backed porter cleared his throat before addressing us.

  ‘Sirs—the guests are assembled and your presence is required in the committee room. If you would care to follow me.’

  We took Holdsworth’s lead to the upper storey, along the dark-panelled corridor, to a long, narrow room, bathed in the warm light of gas jets and a crackling fire. As we entered we saw before us a long, oval table of polished mahogany, around which were a dozen or so high-backed chairs. A projection box was positioned on a side-table at one end of the room, shining its yellowish light onto a white screen that had been placed against the opposite wall.

  Holdsworth announced us to the gentlemen who were already seated and deep in discussion, save for Ambrose Hanlocke, who alone was disengaged from the conversation. I was more than a little surprised to find Ambrose arrived ahead of me. Sir Toby rose from his seat at the head of the table, dismissed Holdsworth, and showed the three of us to our seats. He introduced each of the other guests in turn: Sir Arthur Furnival, William Melville of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch, and a Mr William James. Ambrose Hanlocke, of course, I already knew, though when he stood and shook hands with the two military men beside me, I could not help but feel a frostiness between him and Jim, and Jim took a seat as far from Ambrose as was possible. As William James extended a greeting to us, I realised from his accent not only that he was an American, but also exactly who he was.

  ‘Mr. James, I did not recognise you; you are the brother of—’

  ‘Of Henry? Yes, Captain, I am. My brother takes all the plaudits while I do all the thinking.’ He seemed serious, and for a moment I feared I had caused offence by comparing him to his more famous brother, but his thickly bearded face creased into a warm smile, and he laughed and shook my hand firmly. ‘Don’t look so frightened, sir. My brother has been here so long that it’s a natural reaction whenever I meet an Englishman.’

  Of the other members of the group, Sir Toby was his usual stern self; Sir Arthur was a rake-thin man of perhaps forty, with a pale complexion and nervous disposition. Finally there was Melville, whom I knew only by his somewhat fearsome reputation. Though he had built a career on being an uncompromising opponent to terrorists and assassins the world over, protecting London from Fenian plots and even foiling an assassination attempt on the Queen herself, I found him to be a soft-spoken, thoughtful man with a gentle Irish lilt to his voice. Yet there was something in the way he carried himself and the steel of his pale eyes that betokened an inner strength. In all, this was a coalition of powerful men, into which I, Jim and Ambrose did not seem to fit.

  We quickly settled into our places, with Sir Toby at the head of the table. It was only then that I became aware of another man, sitting in the shadows behind Sir Toby; a man who had not been introduced, and in fact was being ignored by all. I discounted him at once as a servant of the order.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Sir Toby began, ‘now that the formalities are done, I would like to get straight to business. For those of you who are not aware, everyone seated at this table is an agent of Apollo Lycea, and what you are about to hear is beyond state secrets. Outside of the Royal administration, the Prime Minister, and this room, there are few men who have even the slightest inkling of what we are about to discuss, and it must remain so. No one else in the country merits further disclosure at this time.’ Sir Toby’s eyes met mine fixedly, and his intent was clear. He knows about my meetings with Jim, I thought. I knew full well that I should not have confided in anyone outside of the club, but I had been caught in the moment, my thirst for knowledge and adventure clouding my judgement.

  ‘There are also those present who are fairly new to the order,’ Sir Toby continued, ‘or who have no prior knowledge of the wider implications of this case: the case of the “London Dynamiters” as it has become known. However, everyone here has investigated this matter in one capacity or another, and the time has come for full and frank disclosure of all the facts that we have gathered. Our intelligence has ever been shared on a “need to know” basis—well, gentlemen, everyone around this table needs to know this.’ He paused to pour himself a glass of water. My mind turned back to the ‘servant’ seated behind Sir Toby. I squinted against the darkness; was it my imagination, or was the man dressed as a gentleman, and too old to be a porter or valet?

  ‘What you are about to hear will stretch your credulity to the very limit, and perhaps beyond,’ said Sir Toby. ‘But the very survival of our way of life depends upon your faith; because that is what it will boil down to: faith. You have my word that, regardless of how unbelievable it will sound, Mr. James is about to reveal to you the truth of the matter, and the gravity of our situation is beyond comparison. To explain further, Mr. James is recently arrived in London, and comes to us bearing extraordinary news. He is here, gentlemen, because he understands the dynamiters better than anyone alive. I give you William James.’

  I sat more upright. That anyone could have made greater progress on the case than even Ambrose and me was of singular interest, and from across the Atlantic?

  The American bowed his head and thanked Sir Toby. He was not a large man, but he had a serious and imposing look about him, perhaps enhanced by his bushy black beard, flecked with grey, and a wrinkled, permanently furrowed brow.

  ‘Let me begin by saying that “truth”, as Sir Toby puts it, is in the eye of the beholder.’ His colonial accent was noticeable, though not strong. ‘As a philosopher, I always say that truth is whatever version of events has the most cash value. I guess the story I’m about to tell you is of such import that it has real currency; whether you believe it or not is up to you. What you can believe is that many thousands of lives will depend upon us all acting upon it. Most of you will want to hear “hard facts”. I confess I do not have many of those. What I am asking of you is to set aside your intellectual loyalty to hard facts for a moment, for what we are facing is not easily explained away—it is embedded in the unseen and, if I dare even say it, the metaphysical. I am asking you to believe.’ At this point I was lost, and I noticed that a frown had found its way onto the features of M
elville in particular.

  ‘You are all familiar, I expect, with the ideas of spiritualism, and the widespread practice of the mystical and theosophical arts? These ideas have grown steadily in strength and popularity for the last four decades or so, and it is hard to find a district in London or New York without a whole community of believers, mediums and fortune-tellers. Before you start to question my ideas and beliefs, and thus my words, let me point out that I am not a spiritualist, but a rationalist. I have studied the spiritualist movement for many years—both the confidence tricksters and the inexplicably gifted. In my quest to learn more about the power and nature of the soul, I was led on a path of discovery, a quest to uncover measurable, quintessential truths. But what I found was not what I had expected to find.

  ‘Throughout the ages, religion has taught us that the universe is morally ambiguous—at best ambivalent, at worst indifferent. Good and evil exist simultaneously, and we learn from the Bible that we cannot have one without the other. The world that we know is shaped by the actions of men, and those actions are informed by their beliefs, their morality. What spiritualism teaches is that a man’s choices and actions do not cease when he goes to his grave, but rather live on. But where do they live on? If a spiritualist can contact the spirits of the dead, then where do those spirits reside?

  ‘I believe that there may be more to the spirit than is visible, that some obfuscating veil must exist between this world and some other, unseen world. The universe that we know and in which we believe is a mere surface-show for not one, but myriad other states of being. Somewhere, intangible, and tantalisingly out of reach, is a multiverse—an infinite number of places where ideas, beliefs and morality take form. Imagine that, running parallel to our world right now, passing through us like light through water, are other existences; veridical planes inhabited by people just like us—people who are us, but who have made very different choices in life. Some planes may be inhabited by the dead, or by creatures that our most celebrated authors could only dream of, or ghosts, or devils, or angels… my point is that we are not alone. We merely sit behind a recondite, invisible wall and think ourselves safe from forces beyond our control.’