The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  We had prepared ourselves quickly and efficiently, with only the most cursory of briefings from Melville and Sir Toby. At seven o’clock our Black Maria departed New Scotland Yard at Westminster, and carried us east along the Embankment, following the curve of the Thames. There had been little traffic, and our police driver had brusquely waved aside what coaches and wagons crossed our path, or else trilled his whistle. Thus unimpeded, our somewhat uncomfortable coach bumped and trundled its way eastwards, past elegant public buildings, wide open thoroughfares, and vast market-buildings, where the air was scented with salt and fish. I peered out of the small, barred viewport as we passed Tower Hill, the last marker of the City of London, and knew that we were not far from our destination.

  ‘So tell me,’ I said, in an attempt to make conversation, ‘other than Larry here, have any of you men actually met this “Artist” fellow?’ My question was met with a mixture of amusement and surprise.

  ‘Met ’im?’ said Larry, half laughing. ‘Oh no, sir, none of us. Even I ain’t met ’im! As far as the like of us are concerned, he might as well not exist.’

  I frowned. ‘But I was led to believe that you had inside knowledge, Constable. Is that not the case?’

  ‘Oh aye,’ he said. ‘I know the area, and I know the Artist’s den sure enough. I even had a run-in with some o’ his celestials once. But I ain’t never laid eyes on the man ’imself. No one has, s’far as I know.’

  ‘What Constable Ecclestone is saying,’ interjected Boggis, ‘is that you will be the first agent of the Crown ever to set eyes on the most notorious gangster in London. A singular honour, don’t you think?’

  I was unsure what to make of Boggis’ tone, so I simply nodded and sat back on my bench, leaving the men to talk of past ‘collars’, drunken exploits and loose women.

  The Maria veered north along Butcher Row, and Clegg leaned over, disturbing my reverie.

  ‘I’m not sure this is the quickest way to the docks, sir,’ he said, over the drone of Larry’s singing. Boggis overheard and offered a reply.

  ‘Too right! This way avoids the narrows—if we go down there we’ll either get clobbered or else that Chinaman’s spies’ll spot us. Element of surprise, my lad, that’s what we need.’

  The cab slowed as we passed the far end of Commercial Road, which was busy even for the time of day, and then finally we were heading southwards once more, picking up the pace as we neared West India Dock.

  ‘Nearly there, lads,’ Boggis proclaimed. ‘Stow that din, Ecclestone.’ Larry fell silent, and feigned an injured look. ‘The driver’s taking us the long way round, past Canary Wharf. It’s the busiest dock around, and we’ll be in no danger there. But once we’re past the docks I want everyone on their guard.’

  The time was almost at hand, and I felt such anticipation that I wondered how I had gone so long without seeing—or even desiring—action for my country. My hand squeezed at the grip of the pistol in my overcoat pocket, the cold metal offering some small reassurance, reminding me that our business at the Artist’s lair was born of duty to Queen and country. I pushed aside the thoughts of the darkened nooks filled with heady opium smoke that I would doubtless find at journey’s end.

  I peered out of the coach one more time, but the darkness was drawing in about us and street lights were few and far between. I could not imagine there would be many lampmen willing to walk the streets of the Isle of Dogs even if the gaslights were there. All the same, I could hear the sounds of the busy docks echoing from somewhere on the opposite side of the Black Maria. All I could see through the vision slit, however, was a rag-tag outline of commercial buildings interspersed with dilapidated houses and flats, many of which were boarded up and derelict.

  I felt the coach turn a sharp bend, and when I peered out I knew at once that we were almost at our destination. We were in a poor residential neighbourhood, and my senses were assaulted by the scent of raw filth, stale beer, smoke and discarded rubbish. By the wan light from the windows of poorly constructed tenements I saw piles of rotting boxes and waste stacked in the streets, and beside some of them were people—vagrants or drunkards, I supposed—swaddled up in rags and lying on the dirt-encrusted pavement. Or perhaps they were dead. In any case, we had left behind the heart of industry only a dozen yards prior, and now we were in the worst slum I had ever seen. I doubted there was a collection of more squalid, dingy buildings crammed together in such a fashion anywhere else in the world, and yet there they were, slouching haphazardly within London, the jewel of the Empire.

  The Black Maria struggled to wend its way along a pitted street. The sound of its wheels caused a few dull, expressionless faces to peer down at us from upstairs windows. Urchins huddled in doorways, gawping at us with large, dark eyes, like pits of despair. I hoped that we would keep going, but to my dismay the police carriage began to slow, and I realised that the House of Zhengming was a short distance ahead. For a place with a reputation so sinister, situated in so hopeless an environ, I could only shudder at what we were to find there.

  * * *

  Larry stepped menacingly towards a beery-breathed thug whose curiosity had got the better of him. The man took one look at Ecclestone and continued on his way with a muttered expletive. Boggis passed on instructions to the driver, who nodded before flicking the reins and taking the Maria away. With a growing sense of dread, I watched it leave.

  ‘Told ’im to keep moving,’ Boggis explained. ‘Even the coppers ain’t safe round here. He’ll check back now and then. Told ’im if we ain’t done in an hour, he should send for assistance.’

  We stood before the House of Zhengming, which held the appearance of a run-down former tavern, situated on a street corner with a few terraced houses adjoining it. The opium den had, it seemed, grown along with the Artist’s influence, consuming many of the neighbouring tenements, for now every window was shielded by thick red drapes within. The walls of the structure were uneven, and the building did not so much stand on the street corner as loom out from it, as though threatening to devour all who flocked to its doors; in a way, I supposed, that was exactly what it did. It exuded foreboding—and of course, I had my own reasons to fear such a place. More than that, a paper lantern glowed green above the front door, illuminating a sign written in both English and Chinese. My knowledge of that tongue was cursory, but I recognised many of the characters when I saw them. And the sign did not say ‘Zhengming’ at all, but rather ‘Zhi Ming’, which meant something like ‘the time of one’s death’, or ‘fatal hour’, if memory served. We were standing outside the ‘house of the dead’, and my blood ran cold.

  ‘Right then, lads,’ said Boggis, addressing Clegg and Ecclestone, ‘we go in together, and make sure the way is clear for the Captain. I want you two keeping an eye on our exit at all times. I’ll stick to Captain Hardwick like glue. And remember,’ he added in a more hushed tone, ‘you might get asked to surrender your weapons. We should cooperate as far as can be seen, if you get my meaning.’ Boggis added a wink to underline his intent. Larry patted his breast pocket and grinned in response, revealing an incomplete row of uneven teeth as he did so.

  Suitably forewarned, Larry led the way, closely followed by Boggis, with Clegg behind me. We entered the House of Zhengming through a heavy door, and pushed through a bead curtain into a dark vestibule. The air seemed thick, and the shadows almost cloying. Faint sounds of chatter and soft laughter droned from somewhere beyond the veil of gloom, but there was no immediate sign of life within. Larry took a few steps towards the end of the short corridor, and our complacence was shattered by an ear-piercing screech that caused us all to flinch, and Clegg to cry out, startled. To the left of the vestibule was a tall cage, set back into the wall in what was doubtless once an old store-cupboard. From the pitch black, half a dozen screeching monkeys were making enough noise to wake the dead, throwing themselves at the mesh of their prison and baring their teeth at us. Boggis was the first to react, lashing out at the cage with a clenched fist and frighten
ing the tiny brutes back into the darkness, whence they continued to chatter at us from a safe distance.

  ‘Well,’ said Boggis, ‘I suppose we’ve lost the element of surprise.’

  We pressed on, pushing through a heavy velvet curtain into a large room that I supposed was once a bar, now a waiting room for clients. Red drapes covered every wall, and even the windows. Six or seven green Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a flickering light across the room. We were greeted curtly by a short woman in a brocade dress, who stood behind an old lectern that had been pressed into service as a desk. Two burly Chinese guards flanked a large double doorway across from us, eying us disapprovingly.

  ‘We’re here to see the boss,’ glowered Boggis.

  ‘The master is not to be disturbed,’ replied the woman, in stilted English.

  ‘He’ll be bloody disturbed, love, whether he likes it or not.’

  The woman glanced over towards the guards, who responded by straightening themselves up and looking lively. I stepped to the lectern and drew my card.

  ‘My good woman,’ I said, ‘we are here on urgent business for the Crown. “The master” is doubtless expecting us. If you would be so kind as to alert him to our presence, I am sure it will be in his best interest to grant us an interview and avoid any… unpleasantness… that may upset your clients.’

  She considered this for a moment. ‘We rely on happy clients. We do not wish unpleasantness… I will send a message to the master, but if he say no, you will leave.’

  ‘Send the message then,’ I said, ignoring the last part of her statement. ‘We will wait here for his reply.’

  She took my card and left the room, leaving us in the company of the guards, who said not a word, even when Larry attempted to engage them in conversation. I hoped they did not speak much English, because Larry could not have failed to offend them in some capacity. In any case, they simply looked upon us impassively until the woman returned.

  ‘The master, he say he will see you, Captain John Hardwick, but you alone,’ she said. ‘Your friends will wait here.’

  ‘Bugger that. Where he goes, we go,’ snarled Boggis. He stepped towards the woman as he spoke, prompting motion from the two guards for the first time. They reached to their belts in unison, undoubtedly to take up some weapon, and paused to see if their show of aggression would be enough to stay Boggis’ ire. The sergeant stepped back a pace. Larry Ecclestone stepped forwards, reaching into his coat and fixing the largest of the guards with a glare that would turn a charging bull.

  ‘The master was very clear,’ said the Chinese woman, as nervous as I that the situation had escalated so quickly. ‘Captain Hardwick only.’

  ‘All right, wait,’ said Boggis, his arms outstretched in a show of peacemaking. ‘A compromise then. How about you let me in—just me—and the others all wait out here. Under guard, if you like.’ The woman looked suspicious. Boggis tried to explain, speaking slowly so there could be no misunderstanding. ‘Let us two in the den. These men wait here. Get it?’

  She weighed up his words for a moment. ‘Very well, you come in. The other two stay here, and do not cause trouble.’ Only once we had all reluctantly agreed, and Boggis had exchanged muttered words with the other policemen, did the woman beckon us towards the door. An unintelligible barked command bade the guards stand aside, and we stepped through the door into the lion’s den.

  * * *

  We were led through a short corridor, pushed our way through a set of heavy, black drapes, and found ourselves in a true den of iniquity. The room was large, and dimly lit by paper lanterns. The air was thick with smoke from the opium, incense and lanterns—it was as though a London fog was on the rise in the very room. I had seen places like these before, of course, and yet I could not become inured to the sight. Two dozen men, of all ages, lay virtually incapacitated, the wealthier clients on chaises or mattresses, and the poorer ones on simple wooden benches or even just a rug on the floor. Each was attended by a little girl or boy, who held the pipes for the customers and refilled them upon request. I knew that the men who chased the dragon believed themselves in the lap of luxury, in some far-away dream-world, blissfully unaware that their physical bodies languished in a filthy backstreet tavern that crawled with cockroaches and mice. And yet, a part of me would have gladly joined the dreamers still.

  A girl fished around in the pockets of a young man, whose head was lolling back on a moth-eaten velvet pillow as the opium draw hit him. The child produced two shiny shillings, and ran dutifully to an older woman who was watching from a corner of the room. The woman took the coins and nodded assent, at which the girl dashed off to refill the man’s pipe. That was the way of it—those who dreamt too long would find themselves in for a rude awakening when the money ran out. This one would probably wake up on the cobbles some distance from here, ravenously hungry, dehydrated, with little knowledge of how he had lost all of his coin.

  We followed our diminutive host closely. Little niches and corridors ran off haphazardly from the main room, disappearing into the gloom to who-knows-where. I felt disorientated from the very start, for I could not gauge the size of the place. My attempt to gain my bearings was interrupted when we reached a door at the far end of the room, whereupon the woman stopped and gave Boggis a fierce look before opening the door.

  ‘No trouble!’ she warned, and we stepped inside, passing through a beaded curtain into a softly lit room.

  Stepping across the threshold was like moving between night and day. Coloured Chinese lanterns hung from every inch of the low ceiling, casting flickering light around the room in amber, red and green. The smell of the opium was replaced by the smoke of incense, and around us windchimes tinkled musically, disturbed by a breeze from an unknown source. It took me a moment to gather my wits and adjust my eyes to the dreamy setting. The room was small, but decadently furnished, with tapestries and silks covering the walls, and velvet cushions across the floor. In the centre of the room, sitting cross-legged behind a low table, was a man dressed in an opulent robe of Chinese silk. His black hair fell about his shoulders long and loose. He was blind, I presumed, with a silk scarf tied around his head, covering his eyes. And yet not for a moment did I feel that he could not see me. He looked gaunt and frail, and sipped at a cup of tea before awkwardly setting it down on the table. Two guards—both broad of chest and blank of expression—stood flanking the blind man, who I knew must be the mysterious Artist.

  ‘Ah, my guests have arrived,’ said the man, in a thin voice. ‘Won’t you please be seated? Make yourselves comfortable.’

  I sensed that Boggis was about to protest, but I laid a hand on his arm and nodded towards the plump cushions opposite the blind man. He looked irked but sat down with me on the floor.

  ‘Won’t you have some tea?’ asked the Artist, and began to pour it without waiting for our answer. Boggis eyed the greenish liquid suspiciously. ‘Captain Hardwick, is it?’ our host asked.

  The door closed softly behind us. I sized up the two guards in case the meeting turned out to be an elaborate trap.

  ‘You have me at a disadvantage, sir; you are the Artist?’ I asked, though I already knew the answer.

  ‘I am. Though you may call me Tsun Pen.’ His answer threw me—I had lingered under the impression that the Artist never gave his true name to outsiders.

  ‘Your coming was foretold,’ said Tsun Pen, ‘though you have found your way to me sooner than expected. That is to your credit. It shows that you are a tenacious and inquisitive man.’

  ‘I am sorry, sir, but I do not understand. How is it that you know me? And what do you know of my business here?’ It was not lost on me that he was ignoring Boggis entirely.

  Tsun Pen smiled, like a crocodile. ‘Your intentions, Captain, are quite transparent. And you have spent your short time in England blundering around the city getting into all sorts of mischief, have you not? You leave a trail that even a lesser broker of intelligence could follow. As to how I know you… well, sure
ly your employers have confided in you the nature of my relationship with them?’

  ‘There is no “relationship” between you and the Crown,’ said Boggis, irked.

  ‘Oh, come now, officer,’ cooed the Artist, ‘I would wager that whatever agency you work for has at some point received assistance from me.’

  ‘Then you have contact with the authorities?’ I asked, agitated both with the Artist’s coyness and Boggis’ interruption. ‘Are you some kind of agent too?’

  ‘Oh, good heavens no! I am a broker of information, Captain Hardwick, and as such it is my business to know all, before anyone else. Nothing happens in this city without my knowledge. Nothing can happen without my having foreseen it.’

  ‘Do you claim that your web of intelligence is akin to some kind of psychic intuition?’ I knew as I was speaking that I was being led from my original goal, and that I was in danger of breaching etiquette by allowing my annoyance with the man to get the better of me, but something in his manner brought out the worst in me.

  ‘Call it what you will, Captain—the result is the same. Can you imagine what someone in government would pay to learn the location of enemy spies or troop movements abroad? Or the cipher for a particular code? Better yet, what would it be worth to them to learn of the indiscretions of their key rivals? Do you have any idea how many secrets lurk behind every single front door in this city of corruption? And I, Captain Hardwick, see all.’ There was something musical about his softly accented voice, and coupled with the subdued lights and frowsty incense, the effect was almost entrancing. It was difficult to concentrate, but I forced myself to alertness.

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘You ply information for profit, and you also take money to keep information secret. In some circles, that would be called blackmail.’

  ‘I do not doubt. Some of what I do may even be called treason, which in a way is why you are here, Captain, and why you bristle so in my presence. You have come to learn secrets, to which only I am privy. Perhaps, by selling you information of such import, I can redeem myself in your eyes? Or perhaps, by paying the piper, you become more like me.’