by Mark Latham
I stood and stretched, before re-entering the main library in a search for any books on codes and secret writing. I was invigorated by the breakthrough, despite the lateness of the hour, and I climbed a narrow iron stair to the second tier of books with a spring in my step. Again, the library did not let me down, and I returned to the office clutching five volumes, ranging from the history of the Babington plot against Queen Elizabeth, to a more modern book on military codes. I split the volumes with Ambrose, giving him specific instructions on what to look out for, and within the hour we had the best part of our cipher.
‘It is the simplest type of substitution code,’ I explained. ‘I’ve encountered their like before. See here.’ I indicated the paper I was jotting on. ‘The notebook we found contains names and addresses, two per page. These may not be completely accurate, but a good study of this material and the completion of the cipher that we’ve begun will undoubtedly prove fruitful. The scrap of paper, however, is a little different.’
‘In what way?’ Ambrose’s curiosity was piqued.
‘They are not letters, nor even words, but a numerical sequence. In fact, they look to me like map references. Six-digit grid references to be precise.’
‘Of where?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I should start with Britain and go from there. Do we have any more maps?’
‘My dear fellow,’ said Ambrose with a smile, ‘did you really need to ask?’
* * *
We spent our last hour or so at the club ensconced in the map room. That the club had such a room at all was a surprise to me, and a delight. It was the hours spent poring over old maps of the world as a youngster that had led to pangs of wanderlust throughout my boyhood, and which had ultimately inspired me to follow in my father’s footsteps. This comfortable, square room was full of maps and atlases from every era and detailing every corner of the Earth. However, for our purposes we began with the Ordnance Survey’s map series, which we spread out over the large rectangular tables in the centre of the room.
The club was quiet; it was nearing midnight, and those clubmen who remained on the premises had either retired to their rooms or were enjoying a quiet drink downstairs in the dining room. As we had made to enter the map room, a servant had scurried in before us to turn on the lights and draw the heavy drapes across the tall windows. Only two men occupied the library when we had passed through it, sitting at opposite ends engaged in their own private studies. It filled me with a strange sense of pride that the literary tradition prevailed at the Apollonian even now, and I envisaged the likes of Tennyson and even Wilkie Collins spending many a late night in that very room as they wrought their masterworks.
Our search for the correct map was not straightforward. I’d learned of the virtues of Ordnance Survey mapping during brief periods serving alongside the Royal Engineers. They often espoused the virtues of good British mapping, whilst cursing the inadequate hand-drawn charts of the East. However, the techniques I had learned in India had not yet reached civilian mapping, and so much improvisation was required. With the coordinates from the pocketbook to hand, and our knowledge of the anarchist’s dynamite targets acting as a key to the affair, I was able to draw a more detailed grid onto a map of London, and soon we knew we were on to something. We looked at each other, uncertain of what we had found. Even though I was acting partly on guesswork, the map references I calculated were more than significant.
Kensington Road. Lisson Grove. New Bond Street. And the fourth: Marble Arch.
I circled the four locations with a stubby pencil.
‘What does it mean?’ asked Ambrose.
‘It means that the fracas at Marble Arch was no accident. The anarchists intended to go there all along. Which means they must have had a plan—some means of escape.’
‘Then we must investigate the scene again,’ said Ambrose, ‘and this time with a fine-toothed comb. No stone unturned and all that.’
I nodded sternly.
‘But not tonight! It’s past twelve already, I haven’t had nearly enough to drink, and I’m bloody tired to boot. Let’s go home, and strike out for Marble Arch in the morning.’
It was hard to disagree, for it had been a long day. Determined to conduct my investigation by the book, however, I first scribbled a missive to Sir Toby on club notepaper, outlining my discovery and some cursory details of the code, before sealing it, ready to hand to a porter on the way out.
* * *
The rain had slowed to but a mist-like drizzle, though we still took shelter on the club portico whilst the night porter went in search of a cab for us. Ambrose’s flat was located in Clerkenwell, and we agreed to share a hansom. However, I urged my new colleague to take the cab direct, and have the cabbie drop me near the British Museum. I would hear no protest; I had my overcoat and hat, both of which had been dried by the servants at the club, and I had no desire to return straight to my lodgings without a short constitutional. I had not yet had a restful night in London; perhaps I still had on my sea legs. I coveted the opportunity to take a walk through the quiet gas-lit streets before retiring, to steep myself in old remembrances and, maybe, to persuade myself that it was forgivable—nay, expected of me—to relax after years of wandering and trials.
I disembarked near the British Museum, and Ambrose went on, the carriage clattering on the wide, cobbled thoroughfare and echoing into the night. I stopped for a short time and gazed through the great iron gates at the museum. The sheer familiarity of the place filled me with unimaginable comfort. Presently I checked my pocket watch, and deciding that I’d lingered longer than anticipated, I began to wend my way back to Mrs Whitinger’s boarding house.
As I made my way past Russell Square Gardens, I encountered a police constable going about his rounds, shoulders hunched from the chill and rain-cape around his shoulders. We exchanged brief pleasantries, and I moved off down a side-street. I knew better than to loiter near the public gardens at such an hour, and felt somewhat reassured when I saw the street lamps of a main thoroughfare up ahead, knowing that a policeman was to my back. I chastised myself, for I’d had no reason to fear anything in London so far, and yet I felt uneasy despite myself. I turned onto another deserted street, not far from home. I was craving a good fire and a glass of Scotch, but realised that it was too late, and resolved instead to go straight to bed. Then I heard something—the scuff of a boot on cobblestones, from somewhere behind me. It was hard to determine the direction or distance; the streets were so empty that the noise echoed faintly before dying away. I glanced around but saw nothing, and again coloured myself a fool for my sudden bout of nervousness.
I reached the alleyway that ran across to Gower Street, so close to home, and realised I had done myself no favours—the way ahead was dark, illuminated only by meagre streaks of pale moonlight as it filtered between the gaps in the house roofs, with the low walls of terraces flanking each side of the uneven path. I gripped my cane and pressed on, knowing that I was less than five minutes from the boarding house. That is when I heard again the scuffing sound, this time certainly behind me, and certainly closer. I glanced over my shoulder and again saw nothing, so I quickened my step towards the wan light at the end of the alley. And there they stood.
Two men blocked my way at the end of the alleyway, causing me to check my step. It was hard to discern their silhouettes, but I could not take them for gentlemen. I took a few paces tentatively forward, and they did likewise, confirming that their intentions were not friendly. I turned round, and the sound of footfalls heralded the arrival of another man at the end of the alleyway that I had entered by. If these were footpads then I was trapped. But, strangely, whatever fear I had previously felt began to dissipate with the arrival of these flesh-and-blood foes, for I had faced worse than these overseas. I swallowed my fear and felt better for it, before calling out to the men.
‘I say, who is that? I warn you, I mean to come by.’
I did not know why I made a threat, but I surprised myself with the s
trength of my tone. I sounded like my father, for a moment. The men did not respond, but steadily advanced. I stood stock still, uncertain of a course of action, looking left then right along the dark, narrow passage. The two men ahead of me were closest, and as they drew within a dozen yards or so, I saw an object in the hands of one of them—a cudgel. They meant me harm, and I would not wait for them to come to me. I sprang to action, racing headlong towards the two foes before me, cane gripped tightly in my left hand. The men prepared to receive my charge. The smaller of the two attempted to strike low at me as I bore down on him, and I saw a faint flash of steel in his hand, but I skipped aside and swung my cane at the back of his head, causing him to cry out in pain as it connected with a wet thud. The bigger man—bigger than I had realised—was upon me immediately, reaching for me with one massive arm and brandishing his cudgel in the other. I ducked low and pushed him away with no small effort, before kicking him in the midriff. He staggered a few paces backwards, enough for me to aim a good swing with my cane.
The swing never connected, as someone grabbed my cane from behind, and tried to wrestle it from my grasp. The third man had reached us more quickly than I had anticipated. I twisted around under the cane to face him, and dragged him in close ready to drive my knee into his midriff, but he was spritely and wise to my ploy, using my own force against me as he stepped aside. As I stumbled forwards, I saw his shadowed face, and realised that he was a celestial—at least, I assumed he was one of the many London Chinese. But a niggling voice in the back of my mind questioned whether he was Burmese, and that thought made me sick as the fear returned.
The first man, a scrawny rogue in a flat cap and rough work-clothes, struck out at me again with his knife, and I dispatched him once again with my cane, never once taking my eyes off the celestial. And then the big man came again, the two of them together with their oriental comrade watching. The big man was grappling, trying to take hold of my arms so that the small man could slash at me with his blade, but they did not find it easy. I set my jaw and determined to show the celestial what I had learned back in his lands.
A massive fist clubbed its way towards me, and I drove it aside and into the red-brick wall with a flick of my cane, before lashing out with a kick at the small man’s hand. His knife skittered across the flagstones and he had barely time to turn to face me before I drove my forehead into the bridge of his nose, dropping him to the ground like a sack of stones, blood smeared across his face. The big man growled, and glowered at me. The oriental stepped forward, eyeing me menacingly.
‘You only make this harder on yourself,’ the celestial said, in a strong accent that betrayed him to my trained ear as Chinese.
I pulled off my overcoat and slung it atop the nearest wall, and placed my hat on the ground. Taking up my cane as though it were a sabre, I faced my opponents.
‘I’ve fought bigger, stronger men than you all around the Empire,’ I said, with as much bravado as I could muster. ‘You will not leave this fight unscathed.’
As soon as the words had left my lips, I doubted their veracity. The Chinaman pulled a long, flat blade from his jacket and grinned. I took a pace backwards despite myself. The assault began; the Chinaman launched himself forwards, more dancing than fighting, twirling and slashing with his wicked knife, and lashing out with foot and fist faster than I could follow. I parried his blows in the style I had learned in the East, with cane and raised shin, and I took heart when I saw the look of surprise on my opponent’s face. Unfortunately, my assailant was far more practised than I in his exotic fighting style, and although I fended him off I could not connect with my own blows.
I was slowly but surely forced backward along the alleyway, and I remembered that the policeman I had seen earlier was in that direction. Perhaps he would even be walking back this way on his plodding route. If I could reach the main street relatively unscathed, I could make a dash for it and raise the alarm.
That was when the scrawny man, whom I had foolishly believed out of the fight, recovered his senses. From his prone position on the ground he scrabbled forwards, slashing at me with his small knife, and cutting me on the thigh. As I felt the dart of pain in my leg, I involuntarily shifted my weight and failed to block an incoming kick from the Chinaman, which sent me clattering against the brick wall of the alley. Then the big man was on me. Large, rough hands seized my arms. I threw myself at him in desperation, pounding him against the brick wall, but he was too strong and it was too late—the Chinese thug was kicking at me before I knew what was happening, and I retched and spluttered as a kick to my stomach sent the wind out of me. The big man took a cue from his compatriots and slammed me headfirst into the opposite wall, before throwing me to the ground. I remember the three of them raining blows upon me, as I curled into a defensive position to shield myself from the worst of it. Then the Chinaman’s face was level with mine, and he grinned at me with malice.
His knife was raised to my face. I could smell his breath, rank and stale and laced with gin, and his eyes seemed to peer into my very soul. He muttered something to me, but I was in a daze. I had taken several blows to the head, and it is hard now to recall anything beyond that point. Instead of the Chinaman, I could see only Maung. Instead of the claustrophobic London back-alley, I saw the squalid, bare-earth prison cell where I had been long confined in Burma. It was as if it were real; just for a moment, I was back there, and I was terrified that I had never left, and that my sudden release and subsequent return home had been a terrible nightmare—a consequence of a broken and tortured mind. I believe I sobbed at that point, and must have looked a pathetic sight to my tormentor, but all I could think about in those moments was how plausible the theory was. Why would I have been released without warning? Why would I have ever been invited to join the Apollonian? Then my attacker, whom I firmly believed was the bastard Maung, half-laughing at my plight, said to me: ‘Are you ready to die, Captain?’ And I was. I realised that the Burmese must have gleaned whatever information they required of me in my broken state, or perhaps had simply tired of me, and my time was come. I was half-mad in that moment, I am certain—concussed and unable to think straight, and sure that I was locked in a dungeon with an evil torturer who wished me dead.
My waking nightmare was cut short, not by the fatal slash of a wicked blade, but by the commanding shout of a familiar voice.
‘You there! Leave him be, or by God I shall run you through!’
The laughing and taunting of my snarling tormentors stopped, and through blurred vision I saw them turn to face the threat. I heard some indistinct voices, warning the newcomer to back away. I also heard the unmistakeable scrape of a sword being pulled from a scabbard. I tried to lift my head to see what was happening, but all I could make out was a struggle between shadows.
Then one of my would-be killers lurched backwards, clutching his stomach, and staggered past me down the alleyway. Cries of alarm and profanity rose from the other two, and they retreated. The Chinaman fled the fastest, overtaking his wounded companion and leaving him to his fate. The scrawny man was next, and paused long enough to tug at the big man’s sleeve, encouraging him to flee, which eventually he managed. It was the big man who had been wounded, run through, I presumed, though by whom? My head was spinning. I slumped back on the damp flagstones, and felt sharp pains shoot through my body. I had no idea how badly I was wounded. Then, another face loomed before mine, but this time it was not one of my assailants, nor was it the face of a Burmese prison guard. It was Ambrose Hanlocke.
‘A fine mess, old chap. A fine mess indeed. Still, soon have you fixed up,’ he said. I felt a tug at my shirt, and though I tried to move my limbs so that Ambrose would not have to shoulder the burden, I could remain conscious no longer.
THREE
‘We are one.’
I said the words without thinking, as I had said them so many times before. Before me stood my father, outside the old thatched-roof farmhouse that we had lived in when I was a boy. He held his arms ope
n as if to offer me an embrace, but I stood firm. I felt nothing in my heart for him then.
He mouthed some words, pleading with me, but no words came forth, only silence. I watched him dispassionately. I was cold, reptilian and calculating. As the old man stepped towards me, a great gout of flame seemed to envelop him, trapping him in a circle of fire. The sky darkened. Where once it had been calm and blue, roiling grey-purple clouds gathered to block out the sun, and my father’s pained expression was lit only by the yellow fire that danced around him, throwing its light off the limewashed walls of the house.
Why do you not save him?
The voice came from no discernible source, but seemed to form in my mind. A deep, booming voice. Then I remembered, and I turned to face the dragon.
It was a gargantuan beast, rising up before me like a fiery monument. The dragon’s scales flickered green, purple and orange in the light of the flames that danced around its body. Its vast, membranous wings spread out to envelop everything in my vision. Its red eyes glowed like dying embers, and as it lowered its magnificent scaled head to behold me, a plume of black smoke belched forth from its nose and maw, swirling upwards until they became one with the storm clouds.
‘I cannot save him,’ I shouted above the roar of the fires that blazed everywhere. ‘You are the dragon. You are the master of flame, and of the growing storm. His life is in your hands.’
No. We are one.
And as I turned back to look at my father, I realised it was true. My eyes now smouldered like embers. I tasted the sulphur fumes as acrid smoke poured from my mouth and nostrils. I spread my mighty wings that seemed to envelop the entire horizon, and with a great beat of those wings I was soaring into the air.
I encircled the farmhouse, and revelled in anarchy as I lit its thatched roof with a gout of orange fire from my jaws. My father recoiled at the sight, and ran back and forth in his flaming prison cell. I swooped down and beat my wings to drift before him, pricking up my scaly ears to make out what he was saying. It was hard to tell at first, with the fires roaring and the wind whistling around me, but then I heard him.
