by Mark Latham
‘Mr. James,’ said Melville, ‘with all due respect, you are talking of heaven and hell, and you do so without due regard to the teachings of God. Nor do you consider the considerable views of the scientific community.’
‘Mr. Melville, I understand your concerns fully,’ James responded. ‘The Church has long held special meaning for many people throughout history, and still does. But the Church represents religion, or one religion in any case, which in itself is a supernatural concept. Religion attempts to explain that there is everlasting life, in a world unseen, which stretches beyond our mundane experiences.’
‘I am a God-fearing man,’ Melville barked, ‘and you will not convince me that there is more than one afterlife!’
‘I do not say otherwise. But I theorise that there is more than one life—an infinite number of you, an infinite number of me; physical counterparts of every living soul, all living and breathing beyond the veil.’
‘This is nonsense,’ Melville scoffed, his accent sounding more Irish the more flustered he became. ‘Surely you must at least accept that the greatest scientists in the Empire can find no evidence to support your claims.’
‘Science, sir, is a fleeting, new art in the great and long history of the human race. We have discovered a great many things through scientific investigation over the last thousand years, but to think that we know it all is the greatest arrogance. I am sure the next thousand years of science will prove just as fruitful, and will probably even discredit much of our current thinking. Our modern science surely can represent no more than the merest glimpse of the universe’s true nature. Science is but a drop of clear water in a sea of clouded ignorance.’
Melville bristled. At no point did James raise his voice or become even slightly antagonistic, but somehow his calmness and thoughtfulness made his words even more pointed.
‘Consider this,’ James continued. ‘The soul is eternal, and so why shouldn’t hopes and dreams and the power of thought be just as eternal? Maybe they are part of the soul after all. If I were to die in this world, or even if I merely ceased to believe in something important to me, what would that do to the other “me” in another, unseen world? Science teaches us, after all, that energy can never be destroyed, only transformed—does that apply beyond the veil also? Have you ever been possessed of a notion, or a feeling, and not understood why? Or been compelled to action against your better judgement? Have you never felt that sensation of having been somewhere before when you know that you never have; what the French call déjà vu? The multiverse theory goes some way to explaining these things, or rather these things have no explanation but that of the multiverse.’
‘Mr James…’ and before I even knew it, I was speaking up. Even in such company as this I somehow felt compelled to voice my concerns, and given James’s last words the irony was not lost on me, for I would sooner have held my tongue.
‘Yes, Captain?’
‘I… that is,’ I took a breath and composed my thoughts. ‘The idea is a fascinating one, but I am a simple man. I have been a soldier for ten years, and now I am returned to England I find the capital imperilled by an unknown enemy. I do not fully understand your meaning so far, I confess, but with the greatest respect I must ask you this: what has any of this to do with our dynamiters? Are you suggesting that they are driven by unseen forces? Or perhaps you believe that they are come from one of these invisible universes to terrorise us?’ I stopped speaking, realising that all eyes were upon me.
‘My dear boy,’ James said, ‘though you will not and cannot believe it, you have arrived at the pinch of the game—you are more than a simple soldier, that much is clear.’
‘If soldiers are held in such high regard in Apollo Lycea,’ I was surprised to hear Colonel Stirling interject, ‘then perhaps your neighbours at the War Office should have been brought into your confidence earlier.’
‘Hear, hear,’ came a voice from the shadows—the mysterious man whom I had earlier taken for a servant. As far as I could tell, only Sir Toby acknowledged his contribution at all, and even then with but a look of agitation.
‘Sir, might I remind you that I am not a member of the order, nor am I a servant of your Crown,’ William James replied to the colonel. ‘I stand before you offering my assistance in what small way I can; kindly leave me out of any politicking.’
‘Hmm,’ muttered the colonel.
James swiftly picked up where he had left off, becoming more animated, addressing the entire group once again. ‘Captain Hardwick has grasped the nettle. He wants to know where his target lies, and how he can destroy it. The problem is, of course, that finding our unseen assailants is hardly so simple. Three people in this room have set eyes upon the so-called dynamiters—the good Captain, Mr. Hanlocke and Mr. Melville—but in each instance they managed to elude us, and are undoubtedly now returned to their own side of the veil.’
‘I must protest.’ This time it was Melville who spoke out. ‘I listened to some of your hypotheses before the meeting began, but I cannot believe this… this bunkum! What I have seen with my own eyes beggars belief, I agree—but this cannot be the truth of it. It just… cannot be!’
‘And what did Sir Toby say at the start of this meeting? He said we needed faith; to believe. If you have any hope of apprehending these villains, then believe you must! What if I were to tell you that these attacks boil down to religion, superstition and belief? That the power of faith itself has made transportation between two universes possible?’
‘I would say that you were a madman.’ Melville was seething, and it was easy to see how he came by such an uncompromising reputation. His eyes were like dark voids, piercing and inquisitorial, and his voice as calm as still water, yet fierce at the same time. To his credit, William James was unflinching—his cracked-leather face and thick beard were like impassive armour that no amount of insult could penetrate.
‘Then you may say that, but please do me the courtesy of hearing me out first, sir. For it is not conjecture that has led me to these conclusions, but reason, collateral facts, and the burden of proof. ’
‘Gentlemen,’ Sir Toby interjected, ‘it appears that the discussion is becoming somewhat heated. I have the advantage of having heard Mr. James speak on this matter before, and have read his papers on the topic, which have been verified by the Society for Psychical Research. I will make available the dossiers with all of Mr. James’ theories and notes after this meeting, for you to digest at your leisure. For now, I would respectfully ask Mr. James to keep to the useful facts, to give us the information that will allow our agents, and Mr. Melville’s agency, to combat the threat to the Empire in very real terms. Mr. Melville, pray grant us a little more time to put forth all of the evidence to your satisfaction. For now I am afraid I must ask you to set aside your disbelief and assume that what we are dealing with here are agents from another world—people just like us; who may even be us, from a world unseen.’ It was clear that Melville was in no way impressed by this request, nor did he believe what he was being told in the slightest, but he acquiesced at Sir Toby’s insistence. ‘And Mr. James, may I ask you to explain precisely what we are dealing with, in clear terms, so that Captain Hardwick and Mr. Hanlocke may proceed with their duties?’
William James stood, and nodded to both Sir Toby and to Melville.
‘Sirs, I am at your service, and will endeavour to stay on topic.’ He turned to the rest of us. ‘Gentlemen, may I ask that you dim the lights further, because I need to show you some photographic slides.’
He walked to the other end of the table to stand behind the projection box as the room went dark. With a soft clunk the first image flicked onto the white screen. The grainy photograph was instantly recognisable as Marble Arch, and the scene was populated by policemen, while a group of gentlemen gathered around a body, lying prone before the archway.
‘This picture was taken by a police photographer at the scene of the Marble Arch shooting. The gentleman in black in the centre of this photograph is
our own Mr. Melville. The body he is inspecting is one of the anarchists.’
I was stunned—had one of the suspects really been killed at the scene? Hadn’t Ambrose told me that all of the suspects had escaped? The second slide flicked into view.
‘And this is the same scene, less than three minutes later.’ The image was similar to the first—the police officers who were kneeling by the body were in much the same position as before, others had moved around. But there was a very important omission—the body was gone! A murmur went around the small company.
‘It is my firmest belief,’ James continued, ‘that each of the anarchists—these “Othersiders”—carries with them some device that transports them back to their own world in the event of their death. Whether they activate this device themselves, or if it functions of its own accord once their heart stops, we have no way of knowing, for we have yet to recover a device for study. Mr. Melville managed to gather some small items from the body before it vanished into thin air, but that is all.’
‘You know my feelings on the matter, Mr. James,’ seethed Melville.
‘Oh yes. You see, gentlemen, Mr. Melville would rather believe that some cabal of brilliant scientists is behind the whole plot. Perhaps they are stage magicians? Perhaps they used a powerful acid-spraying device to dissolve the body in an instant, or even some kind of advanced molecular transportory system that one might expect to find in the works of Jules Verne. Anything, in fact, other than the notion that these invaders come from another universe in a multiverse created by human thought and faith.’
I was sure that Melville was not the kind of man to read science fiction, and the Irishman’s face supported this idea. I too found the whole thing hard to swallow, and I could see similar opinions writ plainly on the faces of everyone around the table, except perhaps Sir Arthur, who frowned in concentration and nodded sagely.
‘Tell them how the other anarchists got away. Let’s see how your theory holds up then,’ Melville prompted.
‘Oh, it’s really quite simple. Only I wouldn’t call it a theory—this much I’m quite sure of. Thanks to the work of Captain Hardwick here, I have been able to piece together more parts of the puzzle. You see, he first recognised that the so-called dynamite attacks could be plotted on a map of London to form a near-perfect triangle. I believe that the Otherside agents detonate their bombs at a carefully arranged time and place in order to create psychic dissonance—not just an explosion, but a wave of invisible energy—that coincides precisely with the destruction of the exact same corresponding points on their side. The coordinates are meticulously recorded, and the timings are exact, so that the violence of the explosion reaches out across universes, and is felt on both sides. The point in the dead centre of the triangle, which usually takes the form of a door, archway or other portal, then springs to life as a gateway to the other side—for a limited period, that is. The Othersiders prepare their version of the gate with their strange devices, and when it springs to life, powered by the psychic shockwave caused by the explosions, the portal opens on our side too; a literal door between universes.’
‘This is too much…’ muttered Ambrose.
‘But… but…’ I stammered.
‘Yes, Captain?’
‘That is, what I don’t understand,’ I continued, ‘is why they would need such a doorway. If they have the power to activate devices which transport corpses back to another universe, then why go to such lengths to open a doorway?’
‘My point exactly!’ snorted Melville in agreement.
‘There we have two questions in one. The first requires a further leap of logic, I am afraid, and that is: why the doorways? Thankfully, Sir Arthur has helped me with this very issue.’
Sir Arthur Furnival, who had remained silent up to this point, now leaned forward in his chair. As he spoke, William James advanced the slides, to show the crypt door in the vaults of Christ Church, and the wrought-iron front gates of Chelsea Hospital, where Ambrose and I had found nothing.
‘Doors, windows, arches and gates are more than just physical portals from one point to another,’ he said. ‘Over time they collect a psychic resonance—an imprint, if you like—from the countless people who pass through them, because they are perceived by the human mind as gateways to other places. Every time one uses a door a portion of one’s own psychical power is transferred to it, rather like a cat leaving a scent trail on table legs. The more a doorway is used, the stronger the resonance—I believe that, if Mr. James is right about the means of transportation between one universe and the next, then a large, old gateway is vital to the creation of the Othersiders’ portals. It is more than just a way of physically containing the energies involved. The crypt door in Christ Church was used for many years for funeral processions—imagine the solemnity and grief concentrated on that site over time. The gates of Chelsea Hospital are old, and have seen many comings and goings and, notably, intense emotion from patients and loved ones. These doorways are singled out, I believe, because they are fixed points, that stand in both universes, and have a resonance that can transcend physical existence. Given the age and importance of some of these locations, I imagine their use is obvious to the agents of the other universe. Other points may require certain special abilities to pinpoint. Those gifted individuals of a psychic persuasion are doubtless invaluable in this task.’
There was silence when he finished speaking. I do not believe anyone but James wholeheartedly believed what he had said. Melville could not openly ridicule a man of Sir Arthur Furnival’s standing, but the look he gave him said it all—he fancied the baronet a lunatic or an imbecile.
When the silence became uncomfortable, I broke it. ‘You said I had asked two questions, Mr. James?’
‘Oh, yes indeed,’ said James. ‘Why use gateways at all when they have the power to go back home without them? I can only deduce that when one crosses between worlds, a portal provides only one-way travel. While living matter cannot return through a single gate without something unpredictable happening, dead matter can come and go—once the Othersiders die, their bodies are transported back home, probably to hide the evidence of their visit. If they were to use their devices whilst they were still alive, I expect they would be killed—smashed to atoms or somesuch.’
‘You sound very certain.’ This time it was Ambrose who questioned the philosopher.
‘I am confident in my deductions, and have certain… intelligence to support my theories. The energy, effort and coordination required to create a new portal from our side—they would not risk such ventures if they could simply return home with a click of their fingers. Why, Mr. Melville saw with his own eyes a group of anarchists escape through Marble Arch, with nowhere to go. And yet he denies the truth of his own experience.’
‘That is because I have to believe there is another answer. What you speak of is… is… ungodly!’ Melville had come to the end of his tether.
‘I bring you evidence of the greatest wonder in God’s creation, and you call it ungodly? Why? Because it challenges your understanding of creation? You say ungodly, I say miraculous—but it is all truth, nonetheless. Our suspects are not bloody-minded throwbacks to the Fenian movement, nor are they Prussians or Austrians or any other power that we can name; they are soldiers—agents—from another reality. And, by God, we must start dealing with them as such, or they will surely accomplish their infernal mission!’
William James had snapped, and his outburst caused a general clamour. Melville leapt to his feet, pounding his fist on the table as he retorted. Ambrose threw up his hands in exasperation, decrying it all as ‘balderdash and piffle’; Sir Arthur jumped to the defence of the American, whilst Jim and the colonel talked amongst themselves, looking most grave, though I could not hear what they were saying. In the end, Sir Toby called for a recess, and invited us all to take refreshments downstairs. All except Melville and William James, that is—the Irishman and the American followed Sir Toby to his private office for further talks. The mysterious
man in the shadows, however, was already gone.
* * *
With everyone gone their separate ways, Ambrose and I found a table in a corner of the members’ bar and summoned a waiter. I was determined to keep my head clear for the evening’s business, so I ordered coffee. Ambrose, true to form, was on the sherry.
‘Steady on,’ I said. ‘No doubt you’ll be expected to concentrate on more of Mr. James’ theories when we are called back in. What do you make of it all? Are we really under threat from these… “Othersiders”, as James put it?’
‘Balderdash!’
‘Yes, I believe you said that at the time.’
‘Have you ever heard the like?’ Ambrose snorted rhetorically, a little too loudly. I’d gathered that the Apollonian was unused to having its quiet dignity challenged so. I motioned a finger to my lips to hush Ambrose, and he giggled like a schoolboy, before continuing in a softer tone. ‘But really; who could believe such drivel? I find it hard enough to swallow Melville’s suggestions about scientists and acid explosions, or whatever he said. It’s just beyond the pale.’
‘Did you see that fellow hiding in the shadows at the back of the room?’ I asked, changing the subject in the hope that Ambrose would lower his voice just a little. ‘No introductions… I half wondered if it wasn’t someone from the palace.’