‘Father, the true reason I am here is that I am going away for a while. There is a possibility that I may not return.’
‘What? Where are you going?’
‘I am not at liberty to say. I came here today to offer my most sincere apologies for what transpired between us. I know that I have proven, in many respects, a disappointment to you. Perhaps, through toil and duty, I have learned how to be the man you wanted me to be. I know that I have no right to ask anything of you, but regardless: I ask that we might part company today on good terms, so that neither of us may have cause to regret our parting, at the end.’
Colonel Denny had frowned throughout, but at those words, ‘at the end’, his great brows untied themselves. He looked as though he might respond in kind, but checked himself. He turned back to his books.
‘Stuff and nonsense,’ he said at last. ‘Not sure what manner of youth I raised.’
There was an uncomfortable pause. Jim sighed, turned, and made his way to the door, cane tapping on the parquet floor.
‘Send your things over before you go,’ the colonel said. Jim looked over his shoulder – his father had not turned away from his books, nor would he. Instead, the old man said, ‘I’ll not have a son of mine living for ever in some Bloomsbury boarding house. Your old room will be ready for you, when you return.’
Colonel Denny was not a man for displays of affection, either giving or receiving them. Those words, however, were more than Jim could have hoped for. It was all he could do to say, ‘Thank you,’ and leave the house with his head held high.
* * *
A couple of hours later, Jim strode across Horse Guards Parade, collar turned up against the morning chill, the clicking of John’s cane echoing from the flagstones. He made his way to the barracks of the Blues, where a few men still saluted him as they recognised him, looking on respectfully at their war-wounded former officer. They could not know how he’d come by his injuries, but it was moot. Animosity was for now set aside for a wounded cavalryman.
Jim passed through the stables, and out to the kennels. He exchanged pleasantries with the kennel-master, before taking ownership of the dog, Gregor. The brute was somewhat reluctant to go with Jim, and the kennel-master informed him that Gregor had quickly established his seniority in the pecking order of the regimental hounds. Jim doubted this not. The dog licked at John’s cane, and seemed satisfied after doing so that Jim was a friend, finally ceasing its straining at the leash. Perhaps, Jim thought, the dog was worthy of its namesake after all, for Gregor, though a powerful and assertive man, had been slow to anger and loyal to a fault; qualities that had proven his downfall.
Jim wondered if perhaps the dog would be better off in the kennels for a time longer, and certainly the kennel-master seemed rather taken with Gregor, for all the dog’s faults. But Jim had made a promise to himself – for good or ill, he would keep the dog with him from now on.
With a thanks and farewell, he returned once more to his cab, tossing the driver an extra coin for the inconvenience of transporting a dog that was clearly larger than he had anticipated. Gregor hopped into the carriage with surprising agility, where he bundled himself onto the waiting Miss Furnival, and showered her face with licks as she giggled. Jim climbed into the cab, surprised at the sudden show of affection from both of his unlikely companions.
‘He’s magnificent!’ she said.
‘Glad you like him – he will be a companion for some time to come.’
‘There’s still time to change your mind,’ Marie said.
‘And you. Your Uncle Arthur needs you.’
‘No,’ she said, smiling sadly. ‘He’ll be just fine without me. But… this isn’t going to be easy.’
‘Nothing ever is, Miss Furnival,’ Jim smiled. He leaned out of the window and called up to the cabbie. ‘The Victoria Dock, my good man. We have a ship to catch.’
EPILOGUE
Friday, 6th October 1893, 5.00 a.m.
THE OTHERSIDE
John woke slowly, almost reluctantly, a great amber glow stinging his eyes. His vision blurred. He lay on a cold floor, slime slipping between his fingers when he tried to move. He could smell old loam and rust. He thought perhaps he was at the St Katharine facility still, although the room would not stop spinning long enough for him to tell. Every part of him ached.
He remembered some detail, like a long-forgotten dream. He remembered the warmth of golden liquid, a membranous barrier through which he had half-fallen, half-fought, never wanting to emerge from its womb-like embrace. He had not been alone. He remembered staring into a pair of dark, beautiful eyes, in which was reflected… fear? Happiness? Rage?
Rosanna.
The recollection of her name pierced his thoughts like a dagger to the heart. It cleared away the fug of the dream, and John remembered what had happened all too clearly. The fierce aches of his many wounds came into focus along with the dark room in which he lay. He was staring up at a vaulted ceiling. A low, steady hum rang upon the stones, unsettling powdery mortar, which rained upon his face.
John had peripheral vision only on his right side. Something lay near to him, pale and unmoving. He did not want to look. He knew it was a corpse, and could not bear it if Rosanna was gone. At last, he forced himself to turn, pain shooting through his body at the simple act of moving his neck. What stared back at him was not Rosanna, but a ghoul, its dead flesh a patchwork of puckered scars, its once-bright eyes dark and lifeless. In its forehead was a clean bullet-hole. Small-calibre pistol. The observation of detail steadied him. He squinted. More of the creatures lay beyond the first – four, as far as he could see by the soft golden light.
The portal! John now came fully to wakefulness. He had come here to shut down the portal. Where was Rosanna? He had to find her. He struggled to move, coughing up blood with the effort of rising to his elbows. And then he heard a noise – sharp boot-heels on stone.
With a great effort, John turned over, towards the light, and saw the gate. It was not the same portal; it was contained not within a ring of metal, but instead a stone archway. Beside it, singularly out of place, a tall stack of strange instruments and machinery whirred and clicked quietly. A woman, her slender form silhouetted against the light of the gateway, wrestled with controls. She heaved upon two levers, large as a railwayman’s switches, which creaked and clicked as they resisted.
‘R… Rosanna…’ John croaked. He rolled onto his front, and pushed himself up, almost falling on his face as his left shoulder buckled.
The woman finally, with great effort, heaved both switches back fully. The sound of the gate deepened, growing quieter. The machinery stopped its whirring. The light blinked once, twice, and then the portal was gone, leaving almost total darkness.
‘Rosanna…’ John said again. His head spun. He wasn’t sure if he was awake or dreaming.
Two pinpricks of light appeared in the gloom. Violet eyes turned upon John, and came towards him.
‘She is not here, this “Rosanna” of yours,’ a woman’s voice said. ‘You should have let me kill her years ago. I was trying to do you a favour.’
‘What?’ John was confused. The voice was familiar, the eyes fearsome.
A match lit, and was put to a lantern. A warm glow filled the chamber. John stared up in disbelief at Lillian Hardwick.
‘Surprised to see me alive?’ she asked.
John could not summon words; he could barely move. He heard footsteps on the stone behind him.
‘Any sign?’ Lillian asked.
‘No, miss. She kicked the clouds sharpish. Scarpered. Bloody ’ell, is that…?’
‘It is.’
John turned to see the man who approached. The stranger stepped forward. Hunched shoulders and bowler hat at first concealed the scarred face beneath, but the man stepped into the light and John recognised an old ally; a taciturn policeman who he had long thought dead at the hands of Tsun Pen.
‘Ecclestone? Larry Ecclestone?’
‘The very same, guv. I
’ll be blowed.’
John tried once more to stand, twisting to face Lillian, eyeing her warily as he struggled.
She sighed, and held out a hand to him. ‘A lot has changed since last we met,’ she said. ‘Give me your hand… brother.’
And John Hardwick took it.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
A few very kind souls, in praising the Apollonian Casefiles, have referenced their ‘authenticity’. That’s a peculiar word when talking about a twenty-first century book set in the nineteenth century, but it’s rather gratifying to know that the book feels authentic, as I (and my editors) put a lot of work into making it that way. The Apollonian Casefiles are by no stretch historical novels, but at times they’re close – I wanted to conjure the idea that, if you removed the supernatural and SF elements, you’d end up with a fairly authentic-feeling Victorian thriller. To this end I set aside specific stages of the editing process to remove anachronistic language, and to check for Americanisms and idioms that have changed meaning between then and now. Some characters are based on real historical figures – you can look them up. You’ll find places mentioned in these books that don’t exist any longer, but did at the time. Some events really did happen, although not always as described. I worry about details, such as ‘could you really take a train to Maldon East on a Friday afternoon in 1893?’, and whether or not tube lines existed around Fulham Road at the time.
In this book, however, I’ve taken a liberty. I was so inspired by the story of Frederick Charrington, and his conversion from ale magnate to temperance supporter, that I brought his purchase of Osea Island forward in time by about ten years. This is probably the wildest flourish of artistic license in any of the three books, for which I hope you, dear reader, can forgive me. If it’s any consolation, St Katharine Dock didn’t blow up in 1893 either, so maybe we’ve simply slipped into an alternate timeline whilst meddling with portals and etherium.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
And so we come to the third book in a trilogy. A bittersweet moment for a writer, and the culmination of a lot of work. Thanks must be given to Titan Books for giving me the opportunity to bring the Apollonian Casefiles to print, and for helping make these books the best that they could be.
For this book, particular thanks must go to my trusted ‘alpha readers’, my friend Mat Ward and my dear wife Alison – my harshest critics and loudest cheerleaders. Also, special thanks to Predrag Vasiljevic, for helping me with my Serbian – Mr Tesla owes you much.
As we close the door on the Apollonian Club, I can’t help but wonder what exactly becomes of Tesla, and Jim, and of course John Hardwick. That, friends, is a story for another day.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mark A. Latham is a writer, editor, history nerd, frustrated grunge singer and amateur baker from Staffordshire, UK. A recent immigrant to rural Nottinghamshire, he lives in a very old house (sadly not haunted), and is still regarded in the village as a foreigner.
Formerly the editor of Games Workshop’s White Dwarf magazine, Mark dabbled in tabletop games design before becoming a full-time author of strange, fantastical and macabre tales, mostly set in the nineteenth century, a period for which his obsession knows no bounds. He is the author of The Lazarus Gate, published by Titan Books.
Follow Mark on Twitter: @aLostVictorian
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THE LAZARUS GATE
MARK A. LATHAM
London, 1890. Captain John Hardwick, an embittered army veteran and opium addict, is released from captivity in Burma and returns home, only to be recruited by a mysterious gentlemen’s club to combat a supernatural threat to the British Empire. This is the tale of a secret war between parallel universes, between reality and the supernatural; a war waged relentlessly by an elite group of agents; unsung heroes, whose efforts can never be acknowledged, but by whose sacrifice we are all kept safe.
‘Steeped in rich fantasy and Victorian authenticity’
GEORGE MANN
‘A splendid start to what promises to be terrific series’
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THE ISCARIOT SANCTION
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In an alternate reality, the world is in peril. The sky burns with a supernatural fire, demonic entities run amok in the streets, and in the north of England, sinister beings plot to claim a part of the Empire for their own. Young Apollo Lycea agent Lillian Hardwick, and her Majestic partner Sir Arthur Furnival, are sent to expose this plot. To complete their mission they must overcome foes both mundane and supernatural, uncover a Royal conspiracy, and unlock the secret of the Iscariot Sanction. And yet what they find in the industrial cities and windswept moors of the north is a danger unlike anything they have faced before; a threat that will leave them – and the Empire – changed forever.
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SHERLOCK HOLMES: A BETRAYAL IN BLOOD
MARK A. LATHAM
Count Dracula: monster, murderer, vampire. This is what we have been told. This is what they want us to believe. When Sherlock Holmes acquires the fabled ‘Dracula Papers’, the stage is set for one of the greatest battles of wits since Reichenbach. Why did five men really pursue a Transylvanian nobleman to the ends of the earth? Who was really behind the series of murders that would have every man, woman and child in England whispering ‘vampire’ for years to come? The world’s greatest detective would have the truth, though he must overcome the brilliant genius of Abraham Van Helsing to get it.
PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR
‘Fans of Bram Stoker’s Dracula will like this one’
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‘The reader will become ensnared in Latham’s setting’
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The Apollonian Case Files Page 34
