The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  ‘You realise that I am here on a mission of utmost importance to the security of England, and to the Empire? To withhold information pertinent to my investigation would be… unwise.’ I channelled the very tone that Tsun Pen had thus far taken with me, to make it clear that there would be repercussions if he did not comply. He looked unflustered.

  ‘Captain, there is no need for this dance of words. I have willingly helped every servant of the Crown ever to pass through my doors… oh yes, you are not the first, despite what you may have heard.’ Had he somehow sensed my surprise? ‘Look around you, Captain Hardwick. These are not the trappings of a man of unimaginable wealth, luxuriating in comfort provided by the British government. These are adequate lodgings for a man of… modest means. I ask a fair price for my talents, and I resist permanent employment by your superiors because I am… unwell, and wish to be left alone. I keep my own counsel, and if my intelligence is to be believed, you would be wise to do the same when you and I part company.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Only that, for a man on the trail of a secret organisation, you seem terribly trusting of everyone you meet. Have you stopped to think about the number of agencies already involved in your investigation? Have you stopped to truly consider who you can trust?’

  ‘This man is notorious for his lies, sir,’ Boggis whispered to me, not quietly enough.

  ‘Indeed?’ asked the Artist. ‘When you return to your club, Captain Hardwick, I urge you to look at the list of members. Why not ask Mr. Ruskin about his dealings with me, and how much I have spoken the truth—truth that has assisted your order in many affairs. If I am so untrustworthy, why do the authorities not only allow my presence in the city, but facilitate business transactions between myself and certain notable figures in society? What if I were to tell you that I am paid well by the likes of Lord Hartington, Henry Irving, and even Gladstone, for information that has proven time and again invaluable to them? What if—’

  But the Artist was cut short. Before I knew what was happening, Boggis had leapt to his feet and launched himself across the table. There was something gleaming in his hand—a pocket pistol. He must have had up his sleeve one of those contraptions so beloved of sneak thieves and roguish gamblers, and the tiny gun had been propelled into his hand by means of a spring-loaded mechanism. Boggis had planned for this moment, and he was going for the Artist with murder in his heart. In that dream-like room, everything seemed to happen too slowly. I called out, but Boggis paid no heed. I saw one of the bodyguards fling himself in Boggis’ path as the teapot and cups flew across the floor. The other guard hauled the Artist backwards whilst the first wrestled with the policeman. The pistol went off, fired into the air. There could be no more than two bullets in such a concealed weapon, but Boggis quickly sank the celestial who grappled with him with a low blow, and took aim at the Artist.

  I have no idea how I came to be on my feet. I do not remember standing, nor leaping at Boggis. I do not know why I knocked his arm aside as he pulled the trigger, or why I dealt the man a blow across the face that sent him reeling backwards. None of those actions seemed my own; I was driven by instinct, and I prayed that my instinct was right.

  The Artist was cowering in the corner of the room, cushions scattered around him. The guard who had been with him at once joined the other one, and the pair of them restrained Boggis. Even as they did so, the door was thrown open and Larry Ecclestone tumbled through it, two more guards holding onto his arms and doing a poor job of restraining him.

  ‘Gerroff me!’ he roared. ‘I’ll bloody do for the lot of yer!’

  ‘Larry, stop!’ I shouted. ‘Boggis has tried to kill the Artist, and unless you want to be up for treason too, you’d better stand down.’ I commanded him as I would have done a member of my company back East, and it seemed to do the trick.

  Larry looked around the room and took stock of the situation, then straightened up and shrugged off the attentions of the guards. I saw Clegg peering through the door behind them, indecisively.

  ‘Did you have any part of this, Larry?’ I asked. He shook his head, and gawped at the Artist. I realised that to Larry, Tsun Pen was a ghost—a fable of the East End streets, and a terrible thing to behold.

  ‘Tsun Pen,’ I said, turning to the man who was trying to compose himself after the shock of the attack, ‘I must beg your forgiveness. Neither I nor my other companions had any idea of Sergeant Boggis’ intentions. I promise you there will be a full inquest into the matter, but we must conclude our business today. Lives depend on it.’ It wasn’t much of a persuasive argument, but it was all I could think of in the moment.

  Another guard went over to Tsun Pen, and helped him to his feet. I stepped backwards involuntarily when the Artist stood, for he no longer seemed the frail, small man he had previously appeared. The low ceiling perhaps flattered my host, but the Artist now appeared a giant of a man. He moved awkwardly, and I presumed that he suffered from an ailment of the joints that so often afflicts those of prodigious height.

  ‘Captain Hardwick, I have been a gracious host, have I not? I always try to extend the hospitality that my forebears pride themselves upon, and yet I fear that this is not the first attempt on my life. Remember that I told you to be careful whom you trust. There are agencies who would stop at nothing to learn the things that I know, or to silence me once and for all. Some of those agencies are in allegiance with your own. Others are not entirely… on our side.’

  He stressed those words, and I shuddered. He knew.

  ‘This man… this “Boggis”; I know not whom he works for, but I can hazard several guesses. Perhaps my old friend William Melville has sent his compliments this day; or perhaps this man is one of them.’

  My heart sank. What a fool I’d been—if these Othersiders could infiltrate our world with relative ease, then how much had I confided in the wrong people? I thought of Ambrose, of Jim Denny, Arthur Furnival… even Sir Toby himself. I had embraced these people who were virtual strangers to me, latched onto them because I felt like a stranger in my own country. My naivety mighthave cost me dear. I looked at Boggis with disappointment in my eyes, but he had only venom in his.

  ‘I’m no traitor,’ he snarled. ‘Captain, if you trust this man you’re a bigger fool than I took you for. He’s a viper, and we’ll all be dead before the night’s through if you let them take me away.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said the Artist, and he sounded sincere. ‘Captain Hardwick, despite this interruption I will conclude our business. But I must insist that your men are placed under guard while we talk. When our business is concluded, you will all leave the House of Zhengming. I never break a contract.’

  I nodded. Boggis’ head dropped. I turned to Larry.

  ‘Constable, I need you to do as these men say. And keep an eye on Boggis—no funny business, you understand? We have to complete these negotiations. Nothing else matters.’ Larry nodded, and stepped aside as the Artist left the room. He had acquired a silver-tipped cane from somewhere, and leaned heavily upon it as he walked.

  The small woman appeared again, and Tsun Pen said only: ‘Make arrangements for our guests, and bring the Captain to my rooms.’

  Once I was satisfied that Boggis, Ecclestone and Clegg were not going to cause more trouble, I turned to the woman, and she led the way through another door. Tsun Pen was nowhere to be seen. Before us stretched a longer corridor, lit by green-glassed lanterns. At the end was a steep stair, shrouded in darkness. I had taken no more than two steps forward when I realised that to my right was not a solid wall, as I had thought, but an old vaulted arch. I hazarded a look into the gloomy opening, and was horrified to see that the cellar had been converted into an extension of the opium den. At the foot of a half-dozen broad steps was a cold, flag-stoned room, with niches in the walls like those in a mausoleum. An old, milky-eyed Chinaman sat cross-legged in the centre of the room. In most of the niches lay a patron. At first glance they would have been mistaken for corpses—so ghas
tly was their appearance and so immobile their bodies—but they were not dead. This was the underworld equivalent of a theatre cheap-seat; these poor sops had been here for God knows how long, their bodies wasting away faster than their purses had emptied. They were forgotten to the world; forgotten to all except the crippled, shrivelled celestial who watched over them.

  That could have been my fate, I thought. I clenched my fists tight. The shakes had returned, so thick with drug-smoke was the air in this place. The woman pushed past me, and urged me to follow.

  ‘You come now. Quick, quick,’ she said.

  I took one glance back down into the cellar before I followed. I could have sworn that the old man was grinning, and staring at me with his sightless eyes.

  * * *

  I had been made to wait for an interminable time in a draughty upstairs corridor, but was eventually admitted to an attic office, the pitched ceiling sloping towards a small dormer window, through which I could see little but an inky blackness and beads of drizzle.

  The Artist stood before us, hunched over his cane, his head almost touching the beams that ran across the ceiling.

  ‘Captain Hardwick, do come in,’ he said. ‘I apologise for the humble surroundings, but I feel more at home here, and safer, too. Please, be seated.’

  A hook-handed guard locked the door behind us. A second guard stood near the Artist, blocking another door, which was the only other exit from the room. I took a seat on the chair behind me. I was not comfortable in the company of these dangerous men, and wanted nothing more than to be on my feet, ready for anything. The guards slouched against the doors, arms folded, and the Artist, Tsun Pen, sat opposite me.

  ‘My dear Captain, let me speak plainly. The events of the evening have left me somewhat shaken, and I am afraid I must risk cutting our new-found friendship short for the sake of my nerves. I have what you need, and I have no intention of withholding any information from you—as long as the proper price is paid. And I know that you bear the fee, do you not?’

  His manner had changed, and I felt it was more than nerves. There was something unsettling about his sudden transformation from timid invalid to imposing intelligence-broker.

  ‘I shall pay the price. And you will answer my questions.’

  The Artist grinned. He held out a hand, and I reached into my breast pocket for the envelope I had carried with me all the way from Scotland Yard. It contained four hundred pounds, a small fortune. The two guards stood bolt upright, watching my hand for any glimpse of a weapon. When I produced the envelope from my jacket, they relaxed, and the burly Chinese guard took it from me with his good hand, and passed it to his master.

  ‘Thank you, Hu,’ said Tsun Pen to the guard. He placed the envelope on his desk, unopened. ‘I trust it is all here,’ he said. ‘And so, you will want to hear all I know of the mysterious agents from the other side.’

  His glee was evident; Tsun Pen had confirmed that he knew about the nature of the Othersiders. So there were those outside the club who believed the incredible tale of invaders from another world, and yet still I felt complicit in some maddening lie, some fable with which to scare children in the darkness. Beyond all of that, regardless of my incredulity on the matter, I was on my guard; if even half of what I knew about the Artist was true, then he was a master of lies, and would say anything to turn a profit.

  ‘We will talk in my studio, Captain Hardwick, for I will best be able to show you what you are dealing with there.’

  With a nod, the guard opened the door and we followed the Artist into a large, austere room. It seemed to be both art studio and bedroom—the far end of the chamber was a mass of canvases on stretchers and easels, some covered in dust sheets, some half-finished, and others wrapped in brown paper as if ready to be posted. Indeed three of them bore address labels on them, and I tried my best to take a surreptitious look at the recipients; I recognised only one of the names: that of a senior figure at Whitehall. The paintings ranged in size from small studies to huge scenes taller than a man. It was difficult to make out any details, as most of the room was shrouded in gloomy half-light. I could see another door that presumably led to a servants’ stair, while a small closet door led off the far corner of the room. I note these observations because, even at the time, I found it a trifle strange—I was certain that the upper floor should not have been so spacious, and wondered if the opium smoke had disorientated me.

  I was given some freedom to move about the room, and I took the opportunity to look more closely at the uncovered paintings. I could not discern the subject matter clearly, but determined that the pieces varied greatly in style and scale. Indeed, if Tsun Pen was the creator of those works, I would have considered him either a master of many artistic disciplines, or else suffering from some form of conversion disorder, the product of a fractured mind. Not least of my worries was how a blind man could have produced such works at all.

  I was about to lift the sheet that covered the largest canvas in the room, so as to glean a better look in the wan lantern light, when I was distracted by a loud scratching and the jangling of chains coming from the closet door. The Artist was too quick to interject, almost as if he had seen my reaction.

  ‘Worry not, Captain; it is merely my pets, my muses—I have not fed them this evening, and they grow restless. I will tend to them when our business is concluded. For now, pray take a seat, and perhaps I can offer you some refreshment?’ The Artist offered me a seat on a chaise, and he sat on the edge of the bed, a four-poster draped in fine silk sheets. I accepted the Artist’s hospitality, taking a small sherry from the guard as it was offered. ‘I hope you will find that, despite these modest surroundings, we are not uncivilised.’ At this, Tsun Pen raised his own glass to me, and drank. I sipped my sherry to be polite.

  ‘The paintings… are they all yours?’ I asked.

  ‘Why of course. They do not call me the Artist for nothing. You think it strange that a blind man can paint?’

  ‘I confess I do, though I have often heard of men doing remarkable things when they have lost one or more of the senses.’

  ‘Oh?’ he prompted. I was on unsteady ground now—I did not wish to offend my host further by discussing his disability, but I had to proceed. I was eager to get on with business, for I had already spent longer than I would have liked in that place.

  ‘Indeed, sir. I knew several men in India who lost limbs, and were rehabilitated with startling rapidity. Most remarkable of all, a comrade lost his right hand to the surgeon’s knife, and yet was writing and sketching with his left within a fortnight, when formerly that hand had been clumsy.’ I glanced at the hook-handed guard, cursing yet another faux pas, but he did not bat an eyelid.

  ‘Ah, would that I had lost a hand, that I may know such courage,’ said the Artist, and I understood not his remark. ‘Tell me, Captain, you did not serve just in India did you? I detect something in your manner that speaks of the Far East; my father’s homeland perhaps?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said, puzzled. ‘I served briefly in China, and ended my tour in Burma.’

  ‘Burma is a hard country, Captain. One that I have visited, and where I am in fact known well. I do not think I would be welcome there now, of course, given my… shall we say… affiliation with the British.’

  ‘You spied for us?’

  ‘I detest the word “spy”, Captain Hardwick. I prefer “entrepreneur”.’

  So, he had been paid for his efforts in Burma. Of course, I hardly needed him to say as much. I was fast coming to the conclusion that, though he was blindfolded like Lady Justice, he was the very image of duplicity.

  ‘Is it really so obvious that I spent time in the East?’ I asked. I was being drawn into his banal chatter. My head was fuzzy, I guessed from the opium smoke, and I struggled to get back to the business that I had come for.

  ‘Oh, to one such as me, yes. But I confess, I have heard all about you, Captain. I have heard how you found yourself in an altercation recently with some ruffians.
Near your own home, too; how disrespectful of them. I heard also that you fought them quite bravely.’ Tsun Pen sipped his drink, before his smile returned.

  ‘How could you know this? Do you know who was responsible?’

  ‘Perhaps, Captain. But that is not the matter you are here to discuss, is it? I only grant one wish for one fee. Additional answers come at a price, and I fear that price will be too rich for your blood.’

  Now he really was being mercenary. I could have throttled the man, but could not find the reason in it. And so I pushed such thoughts from my mind, and set about instilling some urgency into proceedings.

  ‘To business, then. You clearly have knowledge of the agents who are attacking our city, and I need to know everything that you know about them. Who are they? What is their goal? Most important of all, where will they strike next?’

  ‘Captain, I warned you to consider your questions carefully. However, since you are unaccustomed to our ways, and since you have been such good company, I shall help you. I am a man of my word, and I always honour a bargain once it has been struck. First of all, you already know who these agents are, and what they want. William James has surely shared as much with you, yes?’

  ‘He has shared a theory, nothing more.’

  ‘Then let us assume his theory is correct,’ Tsun Pen said, finishing his sherry and handing his glass to the nearest guard. ‘They want your world, Captain, and you will risk much if you wish to stop them. If you are not prepared, you will be consumed. You have felt it, yes?’ The Artist rose, leaning on his cane, and shuffled past me towards his paintings. I turned in my chair, and began to feel more light-headed. The subdued light, the sherry, the smoke—especially the smoke—they must have been taking a toll. I tried to push the thought from my mind, squeezing a fist tightly to stop from trembling. I could not afford to betray any weakness in front of this man.