by Mark Latham
In the small hours, I got out of bed more than once, and more than once passed by the small wooden box that still sat on the breakfast table. Though I was a bag of nerves, and dared not sleep, I would not—could not—allow myself to succumb to those urges; to undo all of my hard work on the road to recovery. I asked myself, as I so often had on such nights of late: What would my father have done?
‘Not this time,’ I whispered in the darkness, tapping the lid of the box softly. ‘Not yet.’
TWO
It was raining as my hansom drove along Pall Mall towards St. James’s Square that Wednesday. The heavens had opened and what should have been a balmy spring evening was transformed into a sodden and miserable one. The cab drew to a halt, but a stone’s throw from a royal residence, and the war office to boot. I gazed up at the imposing white walls of the Apollonian. A few weak rays of sunlight glinted momentarily from the golden bow brandished by the statue of Apollo above the entrance, before vanishing again, returning the vista to dreary grey gloom. I hopped from the cab, paid the driver and hurried up the stone steps of the classically styled frontage and onto the tiled porch.
The rain dripped from the brim of my hat and ran down my neck. Yet the weather could not dampen my spirits. All those years ago, when I had harboured ambitions of becoming a man of letters, I dreamt of following in the footsteps of those proud members of the Apollonian: Tennyson, Thackeray, Scott—even Dickens was said to have been an occasional visitor. To stand on the threshold that had been trod by such luminaries—and moreover, by invitation—was a singular honour, regardless of what might transpire. As I approached, a servant swung open the doors and greeted me cordially.
I stepped across a vestibule, which opened out into a stately hallway. I presented my letter to the porter, who had already retaken his position behind a lectern-like desk. The servant returned the letter to its envelope, nodded deferentially, and handed it back to me.
‘Very good, Captain Hardwick, I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Holdsworth, the club porter, and I will be happy to assist you in any matter during your visit, no matter how small. If I could take your wet coat? I’ll have it dried for you promptly, sir. Now, if you are unfamiliar with the clubhouse, may I direct you to Sir Toby’s offices?’
I accepted Holdsworth’s offer, and followed him through an archway into the hall. I was instantly glad of my escort, as it quickly became apparent that the clubhouse was larger than it first appeared, and the way was winding. We passed through the great marble hall, up the sweeping stair, to a large and beautiful landing, from which rooms led off in every direction, before passing along a corridor, and up another stair to a more modest level, where the marbled walls gave way to dark wainscoting and heavy flocked paper.
I followed Holdsworth to the end of another corridor, where we entered a small waiting room—a windowless snug, with one other door leading off it. Holdsworth raised an officious finger, which I took to mean that he would be a moment, and knocked on this door. I heard no reply, but Holdsworth opened the door a fraction nonetheless and popped his head inside. After a few muffled words, he opened the door fully, stepped aside, and bade me in, bowing cordially as he did so. I stepped into the office for my fateful meeting, and the door clicked softly closed behind me.
* * *
Sir Toby Fitzwilliam, or so I presumed, was standing with his back to me as I entered, staring absently at a small, but rather gloomy oil painting on the office wall, depicting some military scene in a dusty, far away land. Rain pattered on the tall office windows, mirroring the soft tick-tick-tick of the large carriage clock on the mantelpiece. When the Lord Justice turned to me, I saw that he was dressed formally in a black suit, gold waistcoat and white tie, presumably for dinner or some function. He was an imposing-looking gentleman, fairly tall and stocky. His face was hard and lined, framed by silver hair and large sideburns flecked with black. His eyes were quick and vivid, like those of a man half his age. He offered me the chair facing his desk, which I accepted. I realised with mild embarrassment that I had been standing smartly to attention, hands behind my back, waiting for him to speak—it was one of many habits nurtured over the last few years that I found hard to shake.
‘Captain Hardwick, I am so glad you could make our appointment. Cigar?’ Sir Toby spoke in dulcet, refined tones, gravelly from years of smoking and whisky I guessed. He nudged the cigar box on his desk towards me. I refused graciously, and Sir Toby withdrew the box and took one himself.
‘I expect you are wondering why I asked you here,’ he said.
‘I am curious, Sir Toby. I am afraid I haven’t the faintest idea how I can be of service.’ I remembered my manners. I was out of practice, certainly; though I had complained of the stuffiness of my time in Rangoon, the officers and gentlemen who stationed the furthest bastions of the Empire did not seem to stand on ceremony as much as the gentry back in England. I reminded myself for the fiftieth time that day that this was England, and it was my home.
‘Service? An interesting turn of phrase, Captain, for that is exactly why you are here. Tell me, what do you know of the recent dynamite attacks in London?’
‘Why, only what I’ve read in the newspapers. Something about Irish-American anarchists taking up arms against the Crown after a long absence.’
‘Irish-American? And what gives you that idea?’ He fixed me with a gaze, his expression unmoving. I imagined Sir Toby in court, and fancied his impassive visage beneath a black hanging cap, glaring at a condemned man in the dock.
‘I, ahem… again, Sir Toby, it was perhaps only the speculation of the press, but I have no reason to believe otherwise.’ I tried to recover my composure, increasingly aware that there was more to this interview than I had expected, and realising that Sir Toby was the kind of man who would set myriad verbal traps for the unwary. ‘Of course,’ I hastened to add, ‘I have only been back in the country these past five days. Mayhap there are intricacies of the story that I have not heard.’
Sir Toby reached into the top drawer of his large, walnut desk, and produced several documents, bound together neatly with string. He untied the parcel and spread the documents out before me.
‘This is what we know of the matter. It makes for grim reading, but we have reason to believe that the old Dynamiters have little to do with this case.’
‘We? I’m sorry, Sir Toby, I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Of course not, my boy,’ he said, ‘I have yet to explain. By “we”, I mean the Apollonian Club.’ I must have looked quizzical, because by way of explanation he offered more information. ‘Oh, not all of the members, of course. In fact, not many of them at all. But there are those in the club who represent certain branches of the government, and who investigate matters of importance to the Empire. Matters such as these.’
I have always had a knack for seeing connections, and would certainly never describe myself as slow to appraise a situation. Indeed, I believed even then I knew where the conversation was headed. However, I also knew that, when faced with superior intelligence, a military man should always glean as much information as possible before acting—anything else would only result in rash strategy. Therefore I resolved to let Sir Toby get to the point in his own circuitous manner, as it clearly pleased him to hold all the cards. I fanned out the folios in front of me and gave them a cursory once-over. Included were newspaper cuttings, police reports, artist’s sketches of bombsites, maps and witness statements. There were accounts of at least half a dozen targets across the city.
‘Sir Toby, if I may be so bold… why are you telling me this?’
‘Because, Captain Hardwick, I would like you to join this group of investigators. I believe that you could be of far more use to your country here, with us, than you could be either fighting abroad or living out your days in early retirement.’
‘Actually, Sir Toby, I was rather looking forward to a peaceful early retirement.’
‘Were you indeed?’ He looked at me from beneat
h his bushy eyebrows.
Sir Toby rose from his chair and paced to a side-table which supported a decanter and glasses. He poured two glasses of pale amber whisky and water and passed me one, without asking if I would like it; it was good Scotch. He walked to the window where he had stood when I first entered, and looked out thoughtfully. From where I sat the window was just a black mirror, spotted with raindrops. It had drawn dark all too early. I broke the silence.
‘I really do appreciate that you think me suitable for this task, Sir Toby. But I am afraid I am in no fit state to embark on active service so soon, if at all. You see, in Burma…’
‘You were tortured and drugged and kept in the dark for six months.’ He cut me short, and his words stung. ‘I know, John. And that is one of the reasons you are so suitable for the role.’ He turned and fixed me with those eyes again. His use of my Christian name was not lost on me. His tone had softened, also.
‘Do you have any idea how many men—good men—have fought in Her Majesty’s service in Afghanistan, India, China and Burma in the last two decades? And those who come back—how many do you suppose experienced some trauma, some great loss, pain or suffering? And of those, how many do you suppose had it as bad as you? A fair few, Captain Hardwick, and that is a fact. But out of those wretches, how many do you suppose had the mental fortitude to recover their wits, their very humanity? To take ship to London, and in just a few days to have returned to a semblance of respectability, with prospects and resources? Just one, Captain, and that is a fact, too. If you can do those things, then you can help fight a different sort of war. One fought in secret, and one that we must win if the stability of Great Britain and the Empire is to endure.’
He puffed on his cigar, and turned back to the window. I let his words sink in, forcing myself to focus on the details, the nuances. Sir Toby would not be the type of man to say anything without certainty of its effect, and I was not prepared to let him trick or cajole me before I knew what I was letting myself in for.
‘I take your point, Sir Toby,’ I said. ‘But you talk of the Empire as if it is in real danger. From within or without? And even if I were to join your group, whatever that may be, I cannot believe that the fate of our nation rests on the decision. I am—was—a simple soldier. It sounds as if you are speaking of spies; espionage and secrets.’
Sir Toby did not turn around. He swilled his whisky around his glass and took a sip.
‘As I intimated previously, our group represents various government agencies, from the constabulary and the judiciary through to other, less public departments. We meet here, and exchange information here, in the closed quarters of the Apollonian. We have resources at this place that our enemies and rivals could only dream of. We are represented by Apollo Lycea, the sigil of our justice, and have been for many years.’ He paused to stub out his cigar. ‘Did you know that the statue of Apollo at the front of this building was once empty-handed? Now, he holds a bow. The layman knows little of such ancient symbolism, but the golden bow represents our group. In the Lycean Apollo, the god of light, truth and prophecy becomes the god of archery, and a protector against the many evils of this world. Wherever you see the symbol of Apollo Lycea in this city, know that you have found a sanctuary from the wolves that beset the doors of the Empire. We are the Order of Apollo; warriors of an otherwise benign society; the right hand of the Crown.’
He looked at me with a flicker of emotion in his eyes. I thought it a sign of passion, which would ordinarily have been endearing in such an otherwise cold and emotionless man, but in this case I was taken aback by the bombast of his words.
‘With all due respect, Sir Toby, I do not understand why you would consider me equal to the task. I am barely fit again after my ordeal, and I am no longer a serviceman.’
‘Captain Hardwick,’ said Sir Toby, more gently, ‘you are of greater use in this matter than you can possibly imagine. Look here.’
Sir Toby took up a dossier from his desk and placed it in front of me. I opened the cover and flipped through the first few sheets of paper, and realised that it contained a comprehensive account of my service history.
‘You have dealt with some of the most dangerous rebels in the Empire, helping to secure peace for an entire province of southern Burma. You have fought well on two different continents in three separate campaigns. You have encountered more than one group for whom the sowing of seeds of terror is a viable tactic. More tellingly, Captain, you have been through a trauma that would test the mettle of even the strongest-willed soldier, and you have not been found wanting. You are here, and whether or not you are physically recovered, you appear mentally sound, which means you have exactly the fortitude that I require… that your country requires.’ He looked at me fixedly.
‘Sir Toby, whatever reluctance I may have to resume active duty, I would never knowingly turn my back on my country. But I must know more. What exactly are you asking me to do?’
‘I am asking you to investigate, Captain. Investigate and, if necessary, infiltrate this group of anarchists. Unearth as much about them as you can, aid our agents in the capture of these cravens… in short, turn your entire attention to this case, and bring it to a satisfactory close.’
‘Infiltrate…’ I muttered. My mind wandered at once back to Burma. Back behind enemy lines, and back to darkness. I pulled my attention to the room once more, eyeing the old man warily. ‘I am afraid, Sir Toby, that my initial appraisal of your letter may have been correct. You must have me confused with someone else.’
‘I am never confused,’ he said flatly.
‘Well then, perhaps you misjudged me. Despite your rather flattering appraisal of my service history, I joined the army too late. I never rose past captain; and beyond surviving Burma I do not believe I particularly distinguished myself. Though I miss army life, certainly, I do not seek a return to active duty. I want to go about my business, to write my memoirs, to embrace society, to—’
‘To follow in your father’s footsteps?’ This was the second time he had cut me short, and the second time his words had felt like a slap to the face.
‘My father?’ was all I could manage to say. Marcus Hardwick had been a man of action, who had served for most of his adult life in India, Egypt, China and Afghanistan. As a boy I had longed for those times when he returned home on leave, thrilling at his stories of adventure in far-off lands and playing for many blissful hours with the strange gifts he brought back for me. Yet later on, in his eyes, I had spent too many years doing too little, struggling with university life and trying to write for a living despite his disapproval, which had been copious.
‘He was one of ours, too. A good man, who gave his life for the cause. I understand he has seen you well provided for now that he is gone.’
How could he possibly have known about my father’s affairs? He was either telling the truth about my father’s affiliation with the Apollonian, or had been spying on me. Even then I suspected both were true.
‘My father died in Afghanistan, ignominiously in his bed, the day after the battle of Kandahar,’ I said.
‘And for thirty years up to that point he was a member of this club; an agent of Apollo Lycea; and my friend. In thirty years, he never shied from his duty, on the field or off it. He breathed not a word of his double life to anyone, least of all his family. I do not believe that your mother, Dora, God rest her soul, ever knew that your father was an agent of the Crown as well as a superb soldier. As I understand it, he pushed you around from pillar to post, never laying down roots, moving to wherever his next assignment took him.’
I looked at Sir Toby in disbelief. He was telling me of my father’s double life as what? A spy? And he was doing it as if it were as natural as breathing.
‘I am sorry that you never got to know that man as I knew him, John. I am sorry your childhood was not a perfect one. I am especially sorry for the loss of your dear sister, for it must have grieved you as much as it did Marcus. She was a sweet child, and no mistake.’
That, too, struck a nerve. I had been a solitary child; the loss of my one true childhood friend, my sister Lillian—Lily, we called her—had made me an awkward boy, happy to spend hours alone with only books and my imagination for company. The tragedy destroyed our mother, but if her passing had affected my father, he had not shown it. He had provided for me well enough, certainly, but his expectation was always that I would follow him into the army. When I began to show ambition for following a literary path he had dismissed me as a fool and a dreamer. My mother passed away before my twenty-first year, a shadow of her former self. It pains me how cold my father had been towards me at the funeral. We had not spoken after that day, and the next time I heard any word of him at all was when a young ensign had brought me the telegram informing me of his death in Afghanistan. At that time I was already struggling financially and academically, and it had dawned on me that I needed to reconcile my memories of him, to follow in his footsteps and perhaps redeem myself in his eyes. I had written a letter to Horse Guards the next day, and before long I was commissioned a subaltern in the Sixteenth Lancers, the Queen’s Own; his regiment, with his reputation to live up to.
‘Be under no illusion,’ Sir Toby said, seeing the pain writ large across my features, ‘your father was a good man; a noble man. He saved countless lives across the globe. He once saved my life, if you can believe an old man like me could ever see any kind of action.’
