The Apollonian Case Files

by Mark A. Latham

  ‘It hardly matters. I am Colonel Hardwick, of Apollo Lycea. When the Order calls upon me, which these days is rarely if they know what is good for them, I…’ He paused, and gave a rueful smile. ‘As you said. I do my duty.’

  For a moment, Hardwick looked ashamed, but then his shoulders squared again, his head lifted, and he was the grizzled, resolute soldier once more. Jim noted, for the first time in their turbulent acquaintanceship, how very much John Hardwick looked like Lazarus.

  ‘So will you tell me now, Captain,’ Hardwick said, ‘what your instructions are? Why are you here?’

  Jim knew not what to say. His deepest secrets were Hardwick’s to keep, just as Hardwick’s were his. Their past friendship had allowed them to say, finally, that which had for so long gone unsaid; and yet it had made no difference. There would be no reconciliation, not here.

  ‘I am to escort you back to London… Colonel Hardwick.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘To ensure your safety, until the nature of this new threat is ascertained.’

  ‘The Artist, back from the dead?’

  ‘We have no evidence that it is any more than a new gang lord bearing Tsun Pen’s name,’ Jim said. ‘But the threat is real nevertheless.’

  ‘I can’t possibly come to London at such short notice. What will happen to Gregor?’ Hardwick nodded to the dog.

  ‘For pity’s sake…’ Jim muttered. ‘He can stay at Horse Guards if it’s so important to you, with the regimental hounds.’

  Gregor cocked his head to one side, as though he knew he was being talked about. Jim fancied that the brute was well suited to its master. Alert, dutiful, and dangerous.

  ‘Very well. But there is really no need for an escort.’

  Jim fished an envelope from his breast pocket, and handed it over. ‘I have my orders, and now you have yours. Sir Toby thought perhaps you could not ignore them if I handed them to you in person. I don’t intend to leave Kent without you… sir.’

  Hardwick gave a sardonic glance to Jim, before tearing open the envelope. He skimmed the contents of the letter, crumpled up both note and envelope, and tossed them into the fire.

  ‘It appears Sir Toby is more certain than you about what we face,’ Hardwick said. ‘Trust me, Captain, I am not summoned to London for my safety.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘These days I am summoned only when someone needs to be killed, and our people lack the means to see it done. This is the first time, however, that I have had to execute a man twice. Wait here, Captain Denny. I shall pack a bag.’

  TEN

  Saturday, 19th December 1891

  HAMPSTEAD, LONDON

  Jim half-rolled, half-crawled out of bed, rubbing at his head that felt full of mush. He grasped about the bedside table for his pocket-watch, and groaned when he flicked open the case and saw that it was almost noon.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  Jim felt the hand at his back, followed by a tug at his arm. ‘I’m late, old boy. Very, very late,’ he replied.

  ‘Ah, for your next tryst? You’re positively awful. They will call you a cad.’

  ‘They should call me worse than that if they knew,’ Jim said, turning to gaze into Algie’s dark eyes. ‘So they’d better not find out.’ He pulled away from Algie’s embrace, and began rifling through the pile of clothes on the hotel room floor.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Algie groaned. ‘You are at her beck and call. Come back to bed and be done with it.’

  ‘In case it had escaped your attention,’ Jim said, pulling on his creased trousers, ‘this is no tryst. Jane is my fiancée.’

  Algie touched the back of his hand to his head and said theatrically, ‘Cherchez la femme,’ before collapsing back onto the pillows.

  ‘Besides, it is almost Christmas and she will be expecting my undivided attention. That means no more of… this.’

  Algie sat bolt upright. ‘Don’t be preposterous! Married life won’t suit you.’

  ‘How would you know what suits me?’ Jim snapped. Algie’s endless hedonism had a surprising way of becoming monotonous.

  ‘I know you better than you know yourself. I know, for instance, that you are not going to spend the afternoon with Jane Pennyforth at all. You will offer her some lie about being called back to barracks, when really you are going to work for that stuffy old club of yours. The lovely Jane is the excuse you give to me, the army is the excuse you give to her, and the club is the real subject of your devotion. You break both our hearts, James Denny.’

  Jim fastened his cufflinks. ‘You knew the rules of this game when you got involved, old boy.’

  ‘Ah yes, the romantic life of a spy’s lover.’ He reclined on one elbow, languidly. ‘How lucky I am to know the dashing Captain Denny, with a girl in every port, and a youth in every alley. The things I have heard of you – let alone the things I’ve seen – would curl poor Miss Pennyforth’s delicate toes.’

  Jim flew to the bed and grabbed Algie by the jaw, squeezing his chiselled face into unflattering jowls. ‘But you would not tell her, would you? Because we both dance with the devil here, you and I. If my life is ruined by the word of a mandrake, you will face two years’ hard labour also. I would ensure that much.’ He kissed Algie hard on the mouth, and pulled away.

  Algie laughed, somewhat fiendishly. ‘You know, James, I could make you a better offer than the club today.’

  ‘I doubt that, Algie. Duty to the Queen, and all that.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. But Brennan has one of his games on tonight, and I know how you love a roll of the dice. Lucius will be there, and that French strumpet with the enviable taste in wine. Marga-reet.’

  Jim sighed. ‘Not tonight. My business may delay me too long. Only… Where is it?’

  ‘A secret. I am expecting a missive this afternoon with the gory details.’

  ‘Then that’s settled. You will have to count me out.’

  ‘Preposterous! Where will you be later… say seven o’clock? I’ll meet you in a cab.’

  ‘I can’t tell you that, Algie.’ Jim felt the pull of the gaming tables, and struggled against their call.

  ‘You can count on my discretion, James. Heaven knows, we’ve been playing this game long enough. Name a place you can get to easily. Finish your business, and I shall be there. Then it’s off to the secret den, and a night of music and merriment and getting filthy rich.’

  Jim sighed. He knew he could not resist; this was not to be the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. ‘You know the St George on Belgrave Road?’

  ‘The Pimlico cabaret!’ Algie cried with glee.

  ‘That’s the one. My duty takes me to the vicinity. I shall do my best to meet you, but if I’m not there by half-past seven, go on without me, and take temptation with you.’

  LETTER, CPT. JAMES DENNY TO MISS JANE PENNYFORTH

  Dearest Jane,

  Again, and with a heavy heart, I am afraid I must cancel our engagement for afternoon tea today. It is beastly of me, I know, and I wish there were some way to circumvent the commitments that keep me from your presence. The Army is an unforgiving master, it seems, and I must attend to business that will detain me well into the evening.

  I shall send word tomorrow, and doubt not that we shall make fresh arrangements, for every second away from you is a chore.

  With eternal fondness,

  James

  LETTER, MISS JANE PENNYFORTH TO CPT. JAMES DENNY

  Darling James,

  Of course, you must do as duty dictates – your devotion to Queen and country is one of the things that drew me to you after all. It may even be for the best, for I have not been feeling quite myself of late. Mother thinks I should send for the doctor, but really it is nothing more than a chill. I shall be right as rain when next you call. And, my love, do not make me wait too long, for my heart aches when we are parted.

  Your ever loving,

  Jane

  * * *

  Thursday, 14th January, 1892

 
; KNIGHTSBRIDGE

  Jim woke covered in cold sweat, alone in a Knightsbridge hotel room. He was still clothed. His head pounded.

  Ever since London Bridge, he’d had nightmares, but nothing like this. Now the demons of his mind’s eye heralded new terrors. They showed him the last moments of his betrothed, sick and desperate in her bed, calling out for a fiancé who would never come. And they showed him the dark eyes of a beautiful youth, his Algie, falling backwards from a rooftop as Jim had tried in vain to save him.

  But had he? Had he really tried? Jim asked himself that question every time the nightmare fug cleared. Algie had played him for a fool, yes. But he had also held incriminating evidence over Jim. There was no scenario in which Jim’s erstwhile lover could have escaped that rooftop without Jim finding himself either imprisoned, or in thrall to the Othersiders by means of blackmail.

  He told himself that he had done everything he could. He told himself a good many things these days; not all of them were true.

  Jim rolled out of bed. He patted down his waistcoat, which was damp from sweat and reeked of gin, and checked his pocket-watch. It was past ten.

  He groaned. He had scant time to go home and dress, hopefully avoiding his father into the bargain. He had a funeral to attend.

  * * *

  Snow fell, slowly, settling upon the ridges of tombstones and the boughs of skeletal trees, and over the shoulders and hats of the circle of mourners beside the grave. The vicar commended the soul of Jane Pennyforth to God, and yet Jim knew the tear-raw eyes of the flock were not on the coffin, but on him. He could not look up. He felt their eyes boring into him, turning his insides to knots. He could barely focus on the service. The words became a drone. Jim thought he might faint.

  ‘…We therefore commit her body to the ground: earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to…’

  Frozen dirt scratched upon the coffin-top. It sounded like skittering claws. Jim wanted to be sick.

  ‘…Who died, was buried, and rose again for us. To Him be glory for ever.’

  ‘Amen,’ all said in unison.

  The chorus of voices brought Jim to some semblance of lucidity. He turned about in a daze, mumbling condolences to those around him, despairing as people turned their back upon him.

  He saw Jane’s younger brother, Samuel; thirteen years old, the boy had idolised Jim from the first visit, dressed in uniform like one of his tin soldiers. Jim made for the boy, and offered his hand. He did not really know why. Samuel looked up to him; perhaps Jim’s favour might lend him strength at this difficult time. Other mourners shuffled away. Samuel looked shaken, angry.

  ‘Get away,’ the boy said.

  ‘Sam, come now. I’m so sorry –’

  ‘Get away. If I were a man I would fight you, Captain Denny. I would fight you.’

  Tears welled in Sam’s eyes. His father placed a hand on his shoulder and pulled him away. Samuel Pennyforth the elder had never looked more stern. Gone was the beaming face of the prospective father-in-law. Now he looked hawk-like and austere, his sharp features pecking from beneath a black hat, eyes full of weariness, and bitterness.

  ‘You heard my son, Captain,’ he said quietly, seething. ‘If only half of what we have heard is true, you bring shame to my daughter’s graveside. The absentee lover, the gallivanter, they say. The shame should be on you! My daughter worshipped the ground you walked on, and yet you did not…’ He could not get the words out. He visibly shook.

  Jim tried to speak; the words would not come. He was still holding out his hand, stupidly, in some hope of reconciliation. He saw Jane’s mother over Samuel’s shoulder. Eyes ringed with red, heartbreak writ large upon her aspect. Jim wished a second grave would open up beneath him and swallow him. There was no such mercy.

  ‘Do not stand there and gawp,’ Dr Pennyforth said. ‘Do not stand before me as a friend. You should not be here. You are not welcome here.’ The pitch and volume of his voice began to rise. Jim stepped away. Mourners who had been on their way to the chapel turned to see who had antagonised the bereaved family on this of all days. ‘You are not welcome at my house again,’ Dr Pennyforth said. ‘Never again –’

  He stopped as Jim’s father came between them. Colonel Denny, craggy and imposing as ever, turned Jim away from the family, and muttered some words to Pennyforth that seemed to calm him. Jim let himself be led away. He did not have it in him to resist.

  By the time he came to his senses, he was standing on the pavement outside the wrought-iron cemetery gates, and his father was waving for a cab.

  ‘I’m sorry. Father, I am so very sorry,’ Jim managed.

  ‘It’s too late for that, boy,’ the colonel said. ‘Listen to me. You are to go straight home, pack your things, and leave my house. This very day. I am going back in there, and I am going to make things right. Later, I shall call in some small favours to see that the rumours going around about you are nipped in the bud. It is the last favour I shall do for you. You are a bloody disgrace. That club has… No. Perhaps it is not the Apollonian. Perhaps this is who you are. I had hoped the barracks would make an officer and a gentleman of you, but you turned your back on Horse Guards just as you turned your back on that girl. Well, I hope you are happy. You are free.’

  ‘Father… that is not what I wanted. None of this is. I did love her.’ Jim’s words sounded feeble to his own ears. He could not help it. He only knew what he had lost now it was gone. The wounds of Algie’s betrayal had barely healed, and yet they paled in comparison to this. He had failed Jane at the very end. What kind of man did that make him?

  ‘Do not speak of love now, like some doe-eyed schoolboy,’ his father growled. ‘It is too late. Far too late. Go and drown your sorrows; it’s what you are good at. It is all you’re good for! And when I return home tonight, I had better not find you there, or so help me I shall have you thrown out on your ear.’

  Jim tried to protest, but his words were lost in thickening snow, and were spoken only to the vanishing back of his father.

  He half staggered to the hansom. He felt the questioning eyes of the cabbie upon him. In the end, he could do nothing but climb aboard.

  ‘Drive,’ he said to the cabbie.

  ‘Where to, guv?’

  ‘I don’t care. Anywhere. Just away from here.’

  ELEVEN

  Wednesday, 4th October 1893

  NR. FAVERSHAM, KENT

  It was dark by the time the hansom swept around St James’s Square, coming to a stop outside the Apollonian Club. The streets were busy, with the smart set out en masse despite the bracing cold of the evening.

  John Hardwick alighted onto a frost-glistening pavement, leaving Denny to pay the cabbie. He looked up at the noble façade of the club, recalling how in awe he had been the first time he had been admitted. That was just three years ago, when he had felt undeserving of any place on the membership list of such a famous gentlemen’s club; now he was wary of it. Now, he could see this place as nothing more than a headquarters for the Order; a den of lies. He almost envied the old clubmen who moved, shadow-like, behind those great windows, knowing little if anything of Apollo Lycea; of the many secrets it harboured behind the walls of this estimable establishment. Of the many lives it ruined.

  John ascended the steps, and the doors swung open for him. A servant took John’s small bag and his rifle case.

  The familiar figure of Holdsworth stood before John, and nodded respectfully. ‘It is good to see you, Colonel. Am I to make up a room for your stay?’

  John thought there was some sincerity to the head porter’s greeting, though it cheered him little to see the man, who had always in John’s mind represented the secret functions of the club.

  ‘No, thank you, Holdsworth. I imagine I shall stay at the Army & Navy tonight.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’ Holdsworth nodded to a servant to take John’s hat and coat, and Captain Denny’s too. ‘You are expected, sir. If you and Captain Denny would care
to follow me.’

  Holdsworth acted as though John had simply returned from a short holiday. For John, however, it had been too long. It felt strange. He felt like a dog left too long in the wild, returned home and expected to behave as it always had. He knew what he must look like to these fine people, the great and the good. He saw it in their eyes – furtive glances flicked his way from finely dressed gentlemen; whispered rumours echoed in John’s ears, deafening. He swore he heard the refrain, ‘The last honest man in London,’ the nickname given him by Agent Hanlocke. The nickname that had followed him, picked away at him, ever since. For a moment, the bright lights of the electric chandelier and the surreptitious attentions of the assembled clubmen conspired to overwhelm John’s senses. He had grown unused to attention, to society. He had tried to remove himself from the world, but the world, it seemed, was not done with him.

  ‘Colonel Hardwick?’

  John realised his eyes had been closed tight. He opened them to see a young woman. The owner of the voice that had interrupted his thoughts. An American voice.

  The intense light that had clouded John’s vision subsided. The whispers that had become like an incessant buzzing in his head were gone. The clubmen seemed to be chattering about other business.

  ‘Colonel?’ The woman spoke again, a look of concern on her face.

  ‘I… Yes,’ John managed, and at last composed himself. ‘You must be Miss Furnival. Captain Denny here has told me much about you.’

  ‘Has he? Nothing bad, I hope.’ The comment was in jest, but barbed, as was the look she flashed over John’s shoulder at Denny.

  ‘Not at all,’ John said. ‘Nothing at all, really, though he said that you are an exceptionally fine shot, and a rather expert hunter.’

  Marie Furnival afforded him a slight smile. ‘I hear you are a fine marksman yourself, Colonel. Perhaps we could hunt together some time.’

  ‘That depends on how long I am in London, I’m sure,’ John said. As he spoke, a strange sense began to creep up his spine, spreading out like pins and needles. It was a sense he had long learned not to ignore. Not a sixth sense, as the girl’s eccentric uncle would surely have it, but certainly an intuition. He stared at Miss Furnival perhaps more fixedly than he intended. There was an air of familiarity about her, and yet one of extreme… oddness. Only when she shifted uncomfortably did John check himself. ‘You are joining us, I presume?’