The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  When the policemen arrived on the scene mob-handed, it was not as I expected. The first two officers to reach me began to haul me around roughly, and I was so deaf that I could not hear what they were saying. I could only look at them dumbfounded as they mouthed words at me and shook me by the lapels. I glanced around, and was acutely aware that several people were watching us. Some were pointing at me and gesticulated at other policemen. I was utterly confounded, but found myself being half-marched, half-carried towards a Black Maria. By the time we reached the sturdy carriage, my hearing had begun to return, and I was able to round on the policemen.

  ‘Look here, what is going on? Why are you arresting me?’ I demanded. The larger of the two constables eyed me savagely.

  ‘You know very well what’s going on, sunshine. I won’t be surprised if I don’t get me promotion for this collar.’

  I was aghast. ‘Please, I’m trying to understand; what am I supposed to have done?’

  ‘We were just on our way to find you,’ chimed the other policeman, ‘cos we’ve heard reports of a suspicious character hanging around these flats. When we get ’ere, there’s been another bomb, and who should be seen fleeing the scene of the crime, but you. And you match the description very well. Isn’t that right, Alf?’

  ‘Very well indeed,’ said Alf, with menace.

  ‘You don’t understand. I was trying to stop the bombings. I work for the Crown.’

  ‘And I’m the King of Italy!’ scoffed Alf. ‘Look at the state of you!’

  ‘You have it all wrong, officers. I am Captain John Hardwick of Apollo Lycea. Ask Sir Toby Fitzwilliam at the club. He’ll vouch for me.’ I was finding it hard to string sentences together, and realised that there was too much desperation in my voice. The officers eyed each other in bemusement.

  ‘Sir Toby? The judge? Are you ’aving a laugh? What would ’e be doing at the Lyceum?’

  ‘Not the theatre,’ I moaned. ‘Lie-kee-ah. The Apollonian Club!’ I should not have thrown in the name of the club to these men, but I was fast running out of ideas. The policemen looked at me as if I was a lunatic.

  ‘The Apollonian? You? I don’t suppose you’ve got any proof?’

  And I knew I was undone, for I had no identification, and my club cards had not yet been issued. I looked down at myself—I was a bloody and battered mess, old wounds and new bundled up in a scorched overcoat, clothes ripped and dirty. I knew that arguing with these uncompromising oafs would get me nowhere.

  ‘Didn’t think so. Get in there, you murdering bastard!’

  Alf cuffed me round the ear with a clubbing right hand, and the two policemen heaved me into the Black Maria. Even before it had begun to move I could hear the cries of the mob as they caught wind that the perpetrator had been apprehended. Common folk began to chase after the coach, pounding on the sides and shouting obscenities. I had fancied myself law-bringer, and yet there I was, a villain.

  We soon picked up speed and left the scene of devastation behind us. As we jolted across the cobbled roads of the East End I curled up on the floor of a dark, mobile cell with only my agony for company.

  FOUR

  I woke in a dark Whitechapel police cell, barely able to move for my aches and pains. I touched a hand to my wounds, and discovered bandages there—the police surgeon had at least seen fit to patch me up before I was confined. I swung my legs over the side of my cot, and sat with my head in my hands, listening to the protestations of cockney criminals echoing around the corridors of the police station. The irony was not lost on me. Within a week of returning home from a terrible period of confinement in the Far East, I found myself imprisoned again, for a crime I had not committed, and treated most uncharitably by the very people I was trying to serve. I smiled bitterly. Home sweet home.

  Before I could reflect further on my predicament, I was wracked by an intense pain throughout my body, and a gnawing hollowness in my stomach that caused me to retch. As a nigh uncontrollable sweating and shivering overcame me, I recognised at once the symptoms of opium withdrawal. It is a truth long known that no degree of abstinence from that substance can ever truly shake a man’s body free from the yoke of its influence. I silently cursed Archie McGrath for administering the drug to me. Now I had to face the consequences of his well-meaning mistake alone. I was feeble as I staggered to the chamber pot in the corner of the cell and expelled the contents of my stomach, coughing like an old man with bronchitis all the while. I do not know how long it took for the unpleasantness to subside, but eventually I was able to return to my cot and sleep once more.

  I was awakened by the clunking of my cell door, and rubbed at my eyes in confusion.

  ‘Captain ’Ardwick,’ a police constable said flatly. ‘You’re free to go.’

  It was as simple as that; no apology, no explanation. I was led along a dreary grey-brick corridor to a large desk, where a sergeant returned my belongings, before being taken to the front desk and handed over to the care of a smartly dressed man. He identified himself as Neville Proctor, a local solicitor appointed by the club to bail me out of police custody. I shook his hand gratefully, and was dimly aware of his expression of disapproval—an expression that rapidly changed to concern.

  ‘Captain Hardwick… you are injured.’ When I did not reply, he turned to the desk sergeant and remonstrated with him harshly. ‘My client is a gentleman of standing, and these injuries are clearly deserving of a greater degree of care than your people have administered. You have not heard the last of this.’ I was too weary to pass remark, but I appreciated the exaggerated comments on my social standing. My membership of the club perhaps led Proctor to assume that I was someone far above my actual station. I was thankful as the solicitor led me out of the police station with one final, withering glare at the sheepish-looking sergeant as we went.

  It was dark outside the station; I hadn’t even thought to check my pocket-watch, but now I found that the entire day had almost gone by while I’d been in my cell. Proctor showed me to a cab, where I was surprised to find Ambrose waiting for me. The solicitor said his farewells, and left me in the company of my errant companion.

  ‘Hullo, John,’ he said, as if nothing at all was the matter. ‘Glad to see you’re still in the land of the living, eh? Only, it was a close-run thing back there.’

  ‘Where the devil were you?’ I snapped. ‘And where have you been until this hour?’

  Ambrose adopted a chastened look. ‘Look, old chap, I didn’t have it easy, and I didn’t leave you on purpose. It’s all in my report.’

  ‘Your report? You’ve had time to write a report? And to change for dinner, I see.’

  ‘Thought I might have to wade in with old Proctor. You have to look the part when dealing with the everyday bobby.’ Ambrose rapped on the roof of the cab with his cane, and the hansom jolted into motion, sending pain coursing through my very bones. I grunted and held my ribs.

  ‘Good Lord, are you all right?’

  ‘I’ll live. You were saying?’ I prompted, hoping for some form of explanation.

  ‘In a nutshell, whilst you were poking about in the back room, I heard some kind of commotion outside on the stair. I sneaked out to have a gander, and just caught sight of some black-suited fellow making off out of the building. I know I should have shouted for you, but I assumed you’d be all right, and I didn’t want to alert the suspect, so I followed him.’ ‘As it turns out, I was right to be suspicious. I saw him get into an unmarked growler with some other people, all dressed up like in mourning, and one of them a woman! Well, I remembered that police report about the suspects having a woman with them, so I was suspicious at once. They made off at a right old pace down a side-street, so I hailed a cab and set off after them. We must have been half a mile away when we heard the “boom”. Of course I was worried, but there was no turning back, do you see? For Queen and country, and all that.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, as calmly as I could. Something didn’t add up in my mind, but I tried my best not to betray my
suspicions. Would Ambrose really have left the building on instinct to follow a random man, after he himself had gone to great lengths to break into the flat? If he had left when he claimed, then he must have been outside even while the mysterious woman was staring at me from the next building. No sooner had she gone than the bomb detonated. Would they have been able to get so far away in a cab, in so short a time, on those busy streets? I said none of this, instead prompting only with ‘and did you find them?’

  ‘Lost them, I’m afraid, somewhere around Brick Lane. Got stuck behind a bloody fire-truck of all things. It was late by the time I got back to Commercial Road, and there was no sign of you. I checked the local hospitals, and even the Whitechapel morgue… I’ve been worried sick. In the end, I returned to the club to report to Sir Toby—I had no idea you’d been arrested. Why, the very thought of it!’

  ‘It’s not the worst cell I’ve ever been in,’ I muttered.

  ‘Ah, quite,’ Ambrose said, with a nervous laugh.

  ‘In future, Ambrose, I’d kindly ask that we stick together. These anarchists we’re dealing with are organised and ruthless. We’re in a battle here, and a soldier does not leave his comrades behind.’

  ‘I’m sorry John, but I only tried—’

  ‘We’ll say no more about it. I accept your apology.’

  Ambrose blinked twice, incredulous at my tone. Perhaps he was not used to being spoken to in such a manner. More likely he had underestimated my qualities and thought me incapable of taking charge of the situation. Well, I determined in that moment to be the shrinking violet no longer. If I would call myself ‘Captain’, it was time I acted the part.

  ‘So… what now?’ Ambrose asked, hesitantly.

  ‘Now I intend to do what I should have done yesterday. I’m going home Ambrose, for a hot bath and some rest. I trust you will pass on my apologies to Sir Toby, for I doubt I’ll be in a fit state even to stand up tomorrow. If you will visit at your earliest convenience, we shall plan our next move.’

  ‘Yes sir!’ Ambrose saluted sarcastically. He leaned out of his window and shouted up to the driver. ‘George Street, near Tottenham Court Road. And go easy—this man is like to bleed out over the upholstery.’

  I tried to smile, but the smallest effort pained me. I was too exhausted even to stay cross with Ambrose, and began to yearn for the comforts of home. We had suffered a severe setback, but tomorrow was a new day.

  * * *

  I barely recall returning to my lodgings, but Archie McGrath was waiting for me to check on my wounds once again. He administered stitches, poultices and painkillers to soothe my many cuts, bruises and aches, and was less than complimentary about the police surgeon who had seen to me after my arrest, for my dressings were poor and he had not attended to my torn stitches. I had been functioning well enough upon leaving the police station, but now there was little conversation. I grew feverish and tired, and when Archie left I fell into a deep sleep. The next time I awoke it was morning again.

  The new day’s light filtered weakly through the net curtains, yet my eyes still took time adjusting to it. My body ached. My first thought was of the little wooden box and my weak opium solution, but I pushed it from my mind quickly. The room was a blur, but I caught movement from the corner of my eye and forced myself to focus. When I saw a man’s silhouette I took it at once for Ambrose, but to my surprise it was Captain James Denny, seated in an armchair by the door. He at once fetched a glass of water to me and helped me drink, and eventually I was able to sit up. Jim sat patiently whilst I struggled to find my voice through a claggy mouth.

  ‘How did you—’ I began to croak a question, but Jim interrupted.

  ‘Hear about you? Mrs. Whitinger sent word yesterday. She worries.’

  ‘Yesterday? But I… How long?’ Every word was a struggle, and I was thankful that Jim seemed to understand my monosyllabic grunting.

  ‘Two days and a night. It appears that the blow to your head was quite serious. A doctor came to see you, said he was from the club.’

  ‘Did he… give me anything for the pain?’ I was hesitant. There was something quite serious about Jim’s countenance; this was a different James Denny from the one I had encountered at the docks. He leaned forward and spoke more quietly.

  ‘Nothing too strong. He noticed some marks on your arms and… did not know if you had already received medication.’ Jim’s pause belied his true meaning. He did not press the matter. ‘It’s a wonder you got home at all,’ he said instead.

  ‘What day is it?’ I was groggy, and had no concept whatever of time.

  ‘It is Monday morning. You’ve missed a miserable weekend, but they say the weather is turning for the better.’

  ‘It’s good to see you, Jim,’ I said.

  ‘Likewise,’ he replied, hesitating as he considered his next words. He seemed to decide that honesty was the best policy. ‘I suppose the company you have been keeping lately is quite different from that of the service.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I am sorry, John,’ he continued solemnly, ‘I don’t wish to burden you with worries when you are recovering yet again, but Mrs. Whitinger is beside herself. She sent for me because she did not know what else to do.’

  ‘Jim, my circumstances are unexpected, indeed, but I would never wish to cause the dear lady any distress. She has been nothing but charitable during my short stay.’ I paused, collecting my thoughts—I knew what I had to do to make things right

  ‘As soon as I am recovered, I shall make peace with Mrs. Whitinger, and make other living arrangements, of course. Now that I am of independent means, I must strike out on my own; this episode has merely given me the nudge out of the door that I required.’

  Jim reached out a hand and patted my shoulder. He seemed to approve. ‘A fine sentiment, dear boy, but I would not expect you to stand alone so soon—I will help you. And besides,’ he added with a smile, ‘you’ve done a deuced bad job of picking your friends so far. I’ll have to assist you for your own good.’

  I managed to laugh about that at least, before it dawned on me that Jim might know more than he was saying about Apollo Lycea. ‘I must ask you, Jim, what exactly have you heard about my circumstances, and the company I have kept?’

  ‘Enough,’ he replied enigmatically. ‘In particular, Mrs. Whitinger has complained of a popinjay who was most brusque with her when you were recently attacked by ruffians in the street. This is the same man, I presume, with whom you were seen breaking into an East End flat? Yes, the army has its sources too.’

  ‘Then you must know that I am innocent of all charges? That I was acting in the interests of the Crown.’

  ‘Yes. Although to what end, who can know? Honestly, John, within a week of returning to England you have been attacked, turned into a burglar and caught up in some anarchist plot. What surprises me the most is that Scotland Yard hasn’t been banging down poor Mrs. Whitinger’s door to find out what you know about the other explosions. You must have friends in high places.’

  ‘Other explosions?’ I suppose I knew what he was about to tell me before he had even begun. Nonetheless, I struggled to sit up, despite Jim’s protestations. I was agitated that the case had moved on without me whilst I had been lying there insensible. Under duress, Jim cursed my stubbornness and helped me to the sitting room. Someone had made up a fire, which was as yet unlit. Jim sat me down in the armchair with a newspaper and scrabbled about for a box of matches as I pored over the front pages. The story of yet another dynamite attack in London was still the main news even days after the fact, and the reports included eyewitness accounts of the latest atrocity, and scathing indictments of Scotland Yard’s attempts to apprehend the villains responsible. The first explosion, at Commercial Road, had been unusual due to the time of day. Five people had died in the blast, and a score more were injured; but of course, that had only been the start of the terror that had struck the East End that day. As I’d guessed, with a sinking feeling, ther
e had been two more attacks. One in Shoreditch, which had only narrowly missed the old town hall, and another at St. Dunstan’s Hill, audaciously close to the Royal Armouries. The newspapermen were not alone in speculating why those nearby sites of importance had been spared. I had no map to hand, and wanted nothing more than to track one down—I was sure now that I had found the pattern; that I could identify their real target and solve this case.