The Lazarus Gate

by Mark Latham

  We left the room and walked along another broad corridor, stopping at the door of another large chamber. Sir Toby opened the door, and we peered inside. What I saw within gave me pause. Laid out on mortuary slabs, covered with white shrouds, were bodies. Dozens of them.

  ‘What… who are they?’ I asked.

  ‘Othersiders,’ said Sir Toby. ‘Forty-two of them. Drowned in the Thames, or killed in battle.’

  ‘And not dragged back to their own side?’

  ‘No. As we suspected, the common soldiery were not fitted with the devices that were afforded their best agents. In death, they are stuck here. Our medical staff wishes to study them before they are… disposed of.’

  ‘Disposed of?’ Jim asked. ‘Will they be given a Christian burial? Whatever their nature, they are still men and women of England, are they not?’

  ‘Their nature is not entirely understood,’ said Sir Toby. ‘They still resonate with the other side; what will become of them over time is anyone’s guess. And… they are not entirely alone in there.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

  ‘These bodies are a danger to us all, Captain,’ said Sir Arthur, as if the words pained him. ‘Something… terrible… hungers after these poor souls, and the longer their remains are here, the stronger the force becomes. Whether the sensation will fade over time now that the Lazarus Gate is closed, or whether we have irrevocably brought some threat into our world, only time will tell. What we will do with the survivors is anyone’s guess.’

  I knew there were survivors from the wreck, but did not know what had become of them.

  ‘How many?’ I asked.

  ‘Scores of them, that we know of,’ Sir Toby said. ‘Probably more out there, fleeing justice. And who knows what weapons they carry, or what powers they wield.’

  ‘You think some of their psychics crossed over?’ I asked.

  ‘We are certain of it. We have two of them here.’ Sir Toby and Lord Cherleten were stony-faced. Jim looked at me in disbelief. ‘Come,’ said Sir Toby. ‘Come and meet them.’

  * * *

  We stood in what resembled a small hospital ward. Two patients—an old man and a young girl—were strapped down to metal-framed beds, much as I had seen in my vision of the other side. They were heavily sedated, and it was plain to see the red marks on their foreheads where the Othersiders had clamped them in cruel apparatus. I could not look at them. I trembled, and struggled to control myself as Sir Toby explained things to us, lest he see my agitation.

  ‘There is something strange happening to those of a… “psychic” persuasion across the city,’ said Sir Toby. ‘Many of them have been reporting strange dreams and visions, something to do with a storm. They say the Thames will flow red with blood, and fire will rain from the skies. Sir Arthur has experienced this for himself.’

  ‘Where did you find them?’ I asked. I was beginning to feel faint.

  ‘We believe they were aboard the ship,’ said Sir Toby. ‘They were found floating down the river, attached to a piece of wreckage, half drowned. Their fellows were not so lucky.’

  ‘There were thirteen in all,’ said Lord Cherleten. This was the first time he had spoken, and it startled me. His voice was thin and cut-glass. ‘All of them secured to the very workings of the Othersiders’ ship—like a living engine, designed to ease the passing of the vessel through the portal. Ingenious, really.’

  ‘Cutting them free seemed to cause them great distress,’ Sir Arthur interjected. ‘And when they become distressed… strange things happen.’

  ‘Such as?’ I asked, although I knew the answer already.

  ‘Lights flicker on and off; objects fly about of their own accord. The policemen who disentangled them were incapacitated by sudden headaches that caused them to lose control of their own limbs. And apparently they saw… things.’

  ‘Wh… what things?’

  Sir Arthur looked at me with trepidation in his eyes. ‘Monsters, Captain. They saw monsters.’

  ‘We keep them sedated at all times now, until we can determine the cause. Or until we can send them back.’ Sir Toby broke the fraught moment that Sir Arthur and I shared, and I was almost glad of it.

  ‘If their own universe does not somehow claim them,’ Lord Cherleten mused absently, ‘they may yet have a part to play in the ongoing struggle.’

  ‘Ongoing, my lord?’ I asked.

  Cherleten looked askance at me as though appalled that I had addressed him directly.

  ‘We cannot be sure the conflict is over,’ he said with distaste. ‘We must prepare ourselves as if for war; to do otherwise would be foolish.’

  ‘You have struck a great blow for our side,’ said Sir Toby, reassuringly. ‘If the intelligence you provided is correct, then it is highly unlikely that the Othersiders could attempt another invasion. But there are certain… complications; other threats that we must consider.’

  Jim spoke up. ‘Sir Toby, do you mean to say it is not over?’

  ‘I mean to say we don’t know, my boy. If some of those sailors that came through the gate were left stranded here rather than being returned to their own side, it stands to reason that there may have been other… refugees… who took their chance to flee their world. William James thinks that their presence here may be causing some kind of temporary upset. Sir Arthur here says the number of sightings of ghostly apparitions in London has more than trebled this last week alone. We are hearing reports of haunted houses, demonic possession, strange lights in the sky… it’s happening across the country. We are keeping this to ourselves for now, for there is no need to cause widespread panic over what are, thankfully, isolated cases. But we here must all face facts—what happened on the other side could happen here, unless we are vigilant.’

  I could think of nothing but the shadow on the sky, of clouds of fire and swarming things swooping over a shattered city. I remembered, too, the scrabbling claws that I had seen during Rosanna’s séance, and the recollection struck me dumb.

  ‘Isn’t it rather dangerous to keep such volatile prisoners and materiel together?’ asked Jim.

  ‘There’s a reason this place is built beneath the docks,’ said Lord Cherleten. ‘Should our… assets… become too unstable, or should our enemies attempt to liberate them. Well…’

  ‘You flood it,’ Jim said. Lord Cherleten nodded.

  ‘Come,’ Sir Toby said. ‘We have seen enough here. We should return to the Apollonian. I believe Lord Cherleten has an assignment for Captain Denny, while I would speak to you further, Captain Hardwick.’

  I nodded, and allowed the others to leave the room before me. As I joined them, I took one last look back at the sleeping girl covered in bruises and needle-marks; the psychic Othersider whose presence had so unnerved me, and who might yet spell calamity for us all.

  It was Elsbet.

  * * *

  I stood in Sir Toby’s dark, wainscoted office for what seemed like an eternity as he flicked through papers, making the occasional note in the margins. The ticking of the large carriage clock on the mantel seemed to grow steadily louder, until my thoughts were crowded from my own mind and all I could concentrate on was the rhythmic tick-tick-tick. Finally, Sir Toby rose from his leather chair and strolled over to the window of the office, indicating for me to follow him. We talked whilst looking out of the second-floor window of the Apollonian, across St James’s Square.

  ‘Your report was most thorough, Captain Hardwick. I understand that you’ve been through quite the ordeal, and I must congratulate you on a job well done.’

  Whilst his words provided some small comfort, I had indeed been through ‘quite the ordeal’, and I could barely think of appropriate words for the situation. I shuffled my feet and merely thanked him. There was an awkward silence, and I seized the moment.

  ‘Sir Toby, I… I feel I must ask something of you,’ I said.

  ‘My dear fellow, for you, anything.’

  ‘It’s not a favour, as such. More a question to fill in the
blanks, if you get my meaning.’

  ‘Information is intelligence, my boy. And the imparting of intelligence, in this line of work, usually does constitute a favour. But you’ve earned more than one, so go ahead.’ He smiled. I think I may have warmed to him slightly then, to his comradely manner concealed beneath a veneer of refinement. But I still did not truly trust him.

  ‘One thing that confused me all along, was the question of why. Why did you really invite me into the Apollonian? Why was I picked for this… this mission? I know what you told me at the start: that my experiences in Burma—and beyond—proved my credentials. But then there was the Artist, and the things he said made me doubt…’ I checked myself. I did not want to say that I doubted Sir Toby’s word. He did not look away from the window.

  ‘Go on,’ he prompted, sensing my reticence.

  ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘It seems to me that it’s simply too much of a coincidence that you requested me personally to work this case. You must have had reason to believe that I had some connection… I must ask how, if only to close the door on the matter.’

  Sir Toby nodded. With barely a mutter he walked over to a pastoral painting on the wall, next to a crowded bookcase. I remembered the first time I had been summoned to his office and seen him gazing at the painting… but that was a different painting, something darker and more surreal, and I held my tongue as I fought back the memories of the foreboding canvases in the Artist’s lair. To my surprise, Sir Toby moved the frame, revealing a small safe behind it. I heard the quiet click of the combination, and after a moment at the open safe, Sir Toby swung the door-painting shut, and turned to me, clutching in his hand a cracked leather wallet.

  ‘The agent we told you about, the one from the other side, who died at Marble Arch… it was not just a pocketbook that we retrieved from him. He had this with him too; the only things that identified him at all.’ Sir Toby opened the wallet and pulled out a charred card, which he offered to me. ‘Captain, I have known for a long time that you were coming. That this day was coming. After Marble Arch… well, let us just say that I moved heaven and earth to find you, to free you.’

  I stared at Sir Toby, and then looked to the card, almost not daring to turn it over in my hand. It was tattered and scorched. But turn it over I did, and squinted at the faded writing. I think I knew what I was about to read even before I had made out the inscription.

  COL. SIR JOHN HARDWICK

  The Apollonian Club

  Pall Mall, London

  It left me reeling, but Sir Toby was not done with me yet. He handed me the wallet, and went back to his desk. There was little else of interest, save one thing. A photograph, small, creased and scorched, but unmistakeable. It was a portrait of my mother. She was older than I remembered—so much so that it could not possibly be the Dora Hardwick whom I knew to be dead, but it was her all the same.

  When I looked back to Sir Toby, blinking back a tear, I saw that he had placed on the desk between us a larger photograph.

  ‘The final piece of the puzzle, John,’ he said softly. ‘I am afraid this leaves us in no doubt. Do you recall James’ slideshow, when he first explained to you what we were dealing with? Well, he… we… chose not to include this picture. It was taken by the police photographer, and is the face of the agent that Melville shot dead at Marble Arch. Imagine that the hair around the temples was not flecked with white. Imagine that the scar on the right cheek was gone, and that the chin was clean-shaven rather than adorned with that rather fetching beard. Does he remind you of anyone?’

  I do not know how long my moment of confusion lasted, but when I came to my senses I saw that Sir Toby was still looking at me, pale-faced and grave. The man in the picture, lying on the slabs by the Marble Arch, was me; there was no question. It was a picture of me at Marble Arch, taken on the very day—almost the very hour—that I had been released from a filthy prison on the far side of the world. And I was dead.

  ‘Considering that Melville is one of the finest detectives in the land,’ said Sir Toby, in a lighter tone, ‘I am somewhat surprised that he did not see the resemblance immediately. I had almost hoped that he would—he would have thought you were a ghost, perhaps. When I explained it to him later…’

  ‘That’s why he looked at me so strangely later in the meeting room, after you had called the recess,’ I said. ‘But you knew. And if you saw the resemblance, then you must have at least been curious about the other Marcus Hardwick.’ I spoke out of turn, but Sir Toby let it pass.

  ‘Will you have a glass of Scotch?’ he asked, and I thought for a second he was being evasive. However, as he poured the glasses he went on: ‘I knew about Lazarus, and I wondered if we had finally discovered what had become of Brigadier Sir Marcus Hardwick.’

  I took the whisky as it was offered, and stared at Sir Toby.

  ‘You… you knew he wasn’t dead?’ I asked, almost in a whisper.

  ‘I’m afraid so. Or, the army suspected as much, and I was one of the few outside their ranks entrusted with the information. I am sorry, John, for your loss—of your father and… of what came afterwards—but you must understand that the possible capture or defection of one of the best commanders in the British Army could never become common knowledge. We had no way of knowing what happened to Marcus. After his disappearance we unearthed intelligence that he was meeting quite regularly with suspicious characters, whom we took to be foreign agents. I suppose that wasn’t far from the truth. And later… well, we began to see his handiwork turned against us in the years to follow, and our darkest fear was realised. Marcus Hardwick was a traitor.’ Sir Toby took a deep swig of his Scotch.

  ‘Do you remember the painting that used to hang there?’ he said, indicating the safe on the wall. I nodded; it had played on my mind several times. ‘It was a painting of the retreat through Caboul,’ he said. I dreaded what was to come, for I knew my father had served in Afghanistan twice, once when he was a young man at Caboul, one of the British Army’s greatest defeats. ‘I was there,’ Sir Toby went on. ‘It was where your father saved my life in the face of terrifying odds, and where we sealed our friendship. I was wounded, trapped on a bridge spanning a mountain pass, with Ghilzais attacking from one side, and too few of our men on the other. Marcus Hardwick dashed across the bridge and carried me to safety; he took a bullet for his trouble. That action earned me an honourable discharge, and won your father a medal and a captaincy. Tsun Pen sold that painting to me. It showed a very different turn of events; it depicted a man in white, stricken on a bridge—me, I suppose—and a soldier turning his back and leaving him for dead. Leaving him and walking towards the enemy on the other side of the pass. The inscription on the back read: “Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer”. It was a long time before I even suspected the significance—before I gave Tsun Pen’s reputed powers any credit whatsoever. But later… I looked at that painting every day, and knew the truth of it. On May Day, I burned it.’

  ‘You knew my father was behind the bombings… you used me,’ I said, shocked.

  ‘This is the secret service, Captain; we do what we must for the good of the Empire. At first, yes, you could say that I used you. I did not know the nature of Marcus’ plans—how could anyone guess?—and I thought perhaps his son could bring him in without any… undue unpleasantness. But later, you proved yourself a capable agent; I was bloody glad to have you on the case at the end. When we started to piece together the plot, and realised the significance of your double, we started to wonder if Marcus Hardwick was behind it at all, or whether this Lazarus fellow that we’d heard about in whispers was his double. Perhaps he’d taken Marcus’ identity years earlier, and had infiltrated us. We did not know the truth of it until you uncovered it. You should be proud.’

  My hands were trembling, and I set down the glass so as not to slop whisky over Sir Toby’s plush carpets. ‘You must have known, in the end, what would happen. He was my father!’ I snapped. Sir Toby’s cold eyes flared.

  ‘And he
was my friend! He betrayed us both, and now we must count the cost. But do not doubt, John, for one second, that my attachment to your family name will earn you special consideration. You are a spy; you may not think it, but that is exactly what you are. You receive the information that you need to know to get the job done, as do I; you are owed no more and no less than that.’ He glanced down, and I saw that he had not meant to be so harsh. If he had been my father’s friend, and had once cared for my family, then perhaps this affair had been hard on him too. But I felt betrayed; as if I was grieving the loss of my parents again.

  ‘I should have liked to know, sir, that I was burying an empty coffin ten years ago. I should have liked to know that I was marching to war in the name of a traitor rather than a hero.’

  ‘And then, perhaps, you would never have become involved in this sorry affair. Would that have been better, John? Do you think the bombs would have stopped falling had you never gone to India? Do you think the invasion would have been foiled regardless? By whom? You needed a shove out of the door, for the good of us all. By God, if there’s one thing you should have learned from all this, it’s that everything happens for a reason. Perhaps you were put on this earth to save it… take some solace from that, eh.’

  I nodded, and I saw the sense in his words. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ I said. ‘Though there is much I wish I had done differently, or not done at all.’

  ‘I am sorry for the subterfuge, John, really I am. I knew in my heart that you could overcome the sins of your father and bring this case to a close; but I never meant for you to suffer unnecessarily. That business with the Artist… that is my only real regret. He will be dealt with.’ There was menace in Sir Toby’s voice. If what Tsun Pen had said to me in his studio was true, then he was far beyond the reach of the law, and far above petty revenge, and yet Sir Toby Fitzwilliam was not a man to be trifled with.

  ‘With all due respect, Sir Toby,’ I said, ‘I got the distinct impression that the Artist had inveigled his way into some powerful cliques. Is there anything to be done about him?’