The Lazarus Vault

by Tom Harper

  ‘The good knight saw nothing. But the damsel reached into a hollow in the tree and pulled open the bark like a curtain. Within, the knight beheld a tree-root stair twisting down into the earth.

  ‘“This is my realm,” said she. “Come down, and I will give you your full reward.”

  ‘But the knight delayed, for he saw that the lady was an enchantress, and he feared what might befall him in her kingdom.

  ‘“Have no fear, Sir Knight. You may depart whenever you choose. All you must promise is that whatever you find, you must leave behind when you return. There is a great treasure in my castle, and many are the thieves who have tried to take it.”

  ‘Then the knight swore, and eagerly followed her down the twisting stair. And he was not disappointed, for the lady’s kingdom was just as she had said. She had a fair castle with a great hall and galleries, and every room was piled with treasure. Servants came to dress his wounds; they served wine in golden cups, and a haunch of venison cooked with hot pepper. And the knight thought there had never been a place so wondrous.

  ‘He stayed there a year and a day. At night he feasted and took his pleasure with the lady, and in the daytimes he hunted and never came home empty-handed, for she had hounds who never lost the scent, and a bow whose arrows always hit their mark.

  ‘But eventually he grew weary of this constant leisure, and thought he would return to his own world. And as he took his leave, he spied a goblet of fine, pure gold, set with precious stones. And though it was small and plain next to the other treasures in the castle, yet he thought it was the most beautiful piece he had ever seen.

  ‘“She has so much treasure here she will not miss this one small cup,” he said to himself. “And they will never believe me at Arthur’s court if I do not take back some proof of where I have been.”

  ‘So he slipped the cup inside his tunic and stole out of the castle. He climbed the twisting stair, hurrying until he reached the top. He could see sunlight through the hole in the tree and the green leaves beyond. For the first time in a year he could smell the air of our world.

  ‘But he had forgotten the cup in his tunic. The moment he set foot on the threshold of our world, the earth began to tremble. The jaws of the tree snapped shut; the tree-roots withered to dust, and he fell back to the ground. And when he limped back to the castle, the towers were torn down and the rooms empty; the treasure had vanished.

  ‘The lady received him in her great hall. Her eyes were like drops of ice, her skin white as bone. “You have broken your oath,” she told him. “Now you can never leave my kingdom.” And she cast him into a dungeon, and whatever he ate tasted like ash in his mouth, and whatever he drank never slaked his thirst.’

  ‘Go on,’ I say. ‘What happened next? How did the knight escape?’

  My mother puts down her harp and folds her hands in her skirt. ‘He never did. He had broken his promise, and he could not return to this world.’

  I haven’t told this story as well as my mother told it. Perhaps because I don’t like it. Surely, I think, there is always a way back?

  VII

  London

  ELLIE’S FIRST WEEK at the bank felt like the longest of her life. On Friday night she ordered a pizza and ate it in bed, trying not to drip grease or tomato sauce on the eighteenth-century woodwork. She slept for twelve hours and was still tired when she woke. She stayed in bed with her laptop and her phone, grinding down the week’s backlog and watching the clouds hang over London. Doug was at a conference in Nottingham, which had seemed like a pity when he arranged it, but was now a relief.

  At four in the afternoon, she realised she was starving. She got out of bed, reluctantly, and pulled on an old sweatshirt and a pair of jeans. After five days of skirts and stiff jackets, all she wanted was comfortable clothes. She took the lift thirty-eight floors down and went out, surprised by the smell of the outside air. The city had become a ghost town. The streets were empty, the office buildings dark and blinded. It took her half an hour to find a corner shop that was open, where she bought a box of cereal and some milk, and a selection of crisps and chocolate. She’d meant to go further, to walk down to the Thames or St Paul’s, but the empty city frightened her. She retreated to her flat, skulking past the concert-goers who had begun to gather outside for the Barbican’s evening performance.

  By Sunday evening, Ellie had fought back her e-mails to half a dozen outstanding. She’d written one report on the privatisation of the Government’s share in a bank, and another on a Belgian conglomerate that wanted to acquire a cement company. She’d learned a whole new vocabulary, using words like leverage and synergy and capital optimisation promiscuously. She felt like an impostor, a student bluffing an exam in a language she barely understood. And the next morning it would start all over again.

  There were only two files on Ellie’s desk on Monday. She still had no idea who put them there – Blanchard? the secretaries? – or how they knew so accurately what she would need for the day. Even before she took off her coat, she skimmed the summary pages. She’d learned very quickly it was important to have at least a vague idea what was in your in tray.

  She’d arrived early, fighting her way through the Autumn rain. Doug was coming down that evening, and she wanted to be back in good time for him. She’d bought two fillet steaks from the butcher in Leadenhall Market and spent half an hour on the Internet finding out how to cook them. They’d cost thirty pounds, which in Oxford had been a week’s food budget.

  The building was almost empty, but when she went into Blanchard’s office to drop off her reports his jacket was already draped over the back of his chair. She could smell his scent in the air, mingled with the ever-present cigar smoke. A folder lay on his desk, red leather with gold writing stamped in the cover. Leather bands tied it shut, and the knots had been covered in something that looked like dried blood. Sealing wax?

  Ellie read the gold lettering upside down. LAZARUS.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Blanchard’s voice, behind her and sharp. Ellie spun around and tried not to look guilty. His hard jaw softened into a wolfish smile. ‘You’re dripping all over my carpet.’

  He advanced into the room until he was almost touching her. He reached out and pushed a damp lock of hair back behind her ear.

  ‘You look like a drowned mouse.’

  ‘I didn’t have an umbrella.’ The rain hadn’t looked so bad from the thirty-eighth floor, but it had wormed its way through her clothes almost as soon as she stepped out the door. ‘I couldn’t find a bus.’

  ‘Have you heard of such a thing as a taxi?’ Blanchard sounded appalled. Ellie shrank: it had never occurred to her.

  Darting around, her eyes fixed on a blemish on Blanchard’s bone-white shirt cuff. She tried not to stare, but Blanchard’s eagle gaze missed nothing.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Embarrassed. ‘There’s a spot of blood on your cuff.’ No response. ‘I wondered if you knew.’

  ‘A shaving cut.’ He didn’t look. ‘Listen, Ellie. Appearances matter in our profession. The apparel proclaims the man. I know it will take you time to learn the intricacies of this work. I expect it. But please do not let down this company by your presentation.’ A cold smile. ‘I think we pay you enough that you can afford an umbrella. Maybe even a taxi.’

  Despite the damp clothes clinging to her skin, Ellie felt prickles of heat all over her body. ‘I didn’t think I’d be meeting clients today.’

  ‘You never know what the day will bring.’ Blanchard ran his eyes down her, stripping off her sodden clothes with his gaze until she felt entirely naked. ‘There is a shop just off King William Street, a gentlemen’s outfitters but they also cater for women. Take your credit card and buy something dry to change into, everything you need. I will see your statement. If you spend less than a thousand pounds, I shall be very disappointed with you.’

  Ellie nodded mutely.

  ‘And be back within the hour. We have a meeting to attend. The f
iles are on your desk.’

  Ellie read the files standing in front of a mirror, while a stooped old man with a tape measure around his neck hemmed and pinned until he was satisfied. The shop next door sold leather goods: on a reckless impulse, she went in and bought a new pair of shoes and a new handbag. Let Blanchard complain about that if he wanted.

  The Rosenberg Automation Company occupied a dilapidated factory somewhere east of Woolwich, near the river. Ellie arrived looking like a thousand pounds. Part of her felt sick when she thought how much she’d spent on this single outfit; part of her was giddy with the extravagance. And the clothes were immaculate. Every time the skirt’s silk lining brushed against her legs, or the jacket’s smooth seam hugged her shoulder, confidence surged through her.

  From skimming the file, she knew that the company had been founded in the 1930s by a Russian émigré Jew. It manufactured control systems for industrial machinery. Ellie didn’t know what that meant, but she knew it didn’t matter. They make baked beans, they make space satellites, it’s only details, Blanchard had told her. They have capital, they have debts, they have shareholders and liabilities. All that matters is they have a price.

  In this case the shareholder was an old man, son of the founder and no less Russian in his obstinacy. After three hours locked in a meeting room, drinking black tea out of Styrofoam cups, they were no closer to finding his price than when they’d walked in. When it came to negotiations Blanchard seemed driven by an animal spirit, a hunger for the deal that cajoled and encouraged, threatened and harried the opposition towards conceding. At times he would jump out of his chair and prowl around the room; other times he leaned forward on the table and listened with half-closed eyes as the old man banged his fist and repeated himself for the umpteenth time. But the old man soaked up the pressure and never flinched, while his son – a sullen, dark-eyed forty-something – sat by his side and glared.

  ‘The patrimony is the pillar of the family,’ Rosenberg senior said yet again. ‘It is a father’s duty to protect it. We have rationalised our workforce, invested in new equipment, consolidated our supply chain, everything the consultants tell us. We are an old company, but everything is state of the art. This is how we have always been and this is what my son will inherit.’

  Blanchard was in a foul temper when they left. ‘This patrimony is garbage,’ he raged. ‘Did you see his son? He would sell the company, take the money, in five seconds if he had the chance. But he is a coward, he does not dare tell this to his father.’

  Ellie flipped through the file. ‘The old man must be almost eighty. How much longer can he hold on?’

  ‘To life? Too long.’

  ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘If this deal does not happen in the next two weeks, the logic will no longer exist and the client will pull out. We will lose the fee, the dozens of hours we have already invested in it. And all because of a frightened child and a stubborn old man.’

  ‘The old man’s frightened too.’ She surprised herself by saying it out loud, though she was sure it was true. She’d grown up surrounded by fear. Fear of losing your job, your house, your dignity. She knew the signs, the false pride and chippy bravado, the darkness in their eyes.

  ‘Frightened of what?’ A stillness overtook Blanchard. ‘His son?’

  ‘A vulnerability.’ Ellie stared at the back of the driver’s seat and thought furiously. ‘Not his son – he knows he can control him. Something in the business. Every time we got close to discussing it he closed us down.’

  ‘Find it.’ Suddenly Blanchard was alive again, feeding off the hope she offered. ‘Pull this company apart, look for anything we missed. Find it, and give it to me by Wednesday.’

  Back at the office, Ellie switched off her mobile phone and hid from her e-mails. She pulled up everything she could find on the company: their accounts, their customers, their products. She dug out the notes from her course and looked for all the telltale signs she’d learned: underperforming divisions, foreign subsidiaries bleeding cash, investments gone wrong. There was nothing. Rosenberg managed his company as conservatively as his father.

  We have rationalised our workforce, invested in new equipment, consolidated our supply chain, everything the consultants tell us. There’d been bitterness in his voice, the shame of a proud man being told how to run his business. But also something else.

  The world outside grew dark. The lights in the great office towers she could see through her window began to blink off. Numbers swam in front of Ellie’s eyes.

  And then she found it. One line in the accounts, nothing more. Not even definite – just a suggestion, the end of a thread that she might unravel.

  A discreet knock broke her concentration. She looked up, annoyed, but it was only the night porter.

  ‘I tried to ring, but your phone was off,’ he apologised. ‘There’s a man downstairs to see you. Says you were supposed to meet him an hour ago.’

  Doug. Ellie swore under her breath. She’d completely forgotten. ‘Tell him I’ll be right down.’

  She gathered up the files and put them in her bag. She’d have to do more work after dinner, though she knew Doug would be cross. She passed Blanchard’s office and saw his light was still on, though when she tried the door it was locked.

  Doug was waiting in the lobby. Ellie took one look at his face and knew he was furious.

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the lips to show she meant it. ‘Big project.’

  ‘No problem.’ He was trying to be gracious, though he couldn’t hide the scowl on his face. He looked her up and down, trying to work something out. ‘You look nice.’

  ‘I bought a new outfit.’ It was already beginning to feel like hers, though she wouldn’t tell him how much it had cost. ‘Let’s go.’

  She put her arm in his and squeezed against him. They didn’t speak much. Doug was still angry; Ellie’s mind was still deep in the books of the Rosenberg Automation Company.

  They’d just reached the main road when she realised she’d left the steaks in the fridge on the fifth floor.

  ‘I’ve got to go back. I’ve left our supper at the office.’

  ‘We’ll get something on the way.’

  ‘No.’ A thousand pounds on a suit and I’m worried about thirty quid’s worth of beef. ‘It’s supposed to be special. Just wait here.’

  She hurried back, her heels clicking on the pavement. An unmarked white van had pulled up outside the bank; she just glimpsed two men in black jeans and black coats manhandling a large box, as big as a coffin, through the doors. She hesitated. For a moment she imagined it was a bank robbery in progress. But people didn’t rob investment banks, and when she reached the lobby the night porter was safe behind his desk.

  ‘What was that that just arrived?’ she asked while she waited for the lift.

  The porter studied his crossword and didn’t meet her eye. ‘Delivery for Mr Blanchard.’

  But when she looked at the old-fashioned dial above the lift to see where it had gone, the needle was pointing at the sixth floor.

  VIII

  Wales, 1129

  MY HOME IS a castle. Not like the ones in Pembroke or Caernarvon, with their stone walls and high donjons. Our castle is mostly mud: an earth rampart topped with a palisade, ringing the compound of mud-and-wood buildings inside. There is a thatched barn and a thatched hall, and it is hard to tell them apart. In winter the grassy banks trap the rain and turn our courtyard into a swamp. My father calls it our moat; my mother tells us the story of a knight who grew up in a lake.

  That spring, my father hires a Flemish engineer to build a watchtower. He sharpens the stakes in the palisade, and fills the gaps where the livestock have knocked them down in the winter. There have been disturbances again: a man was killed in Brandennog. Nobody believes that will be the end of it. The Welsh love their honour and they love fighting. Ralph says we’ll be safe in our castle, but my father looks grim. He says that when you keep behi
nd castle walls, your enemies know where to find you.

  I think: if our sheep can break through the palisades, what would the Welsh do?

  It often rains in Wales, but in my memory it is always the last day of spring. My father and Ralph were away last night and haven’t returned; Brother Oswald has been called away to his monastery, and I have taken my horse into the forest. I think I might visit the fields by the chapel, where the harrowers are working, but I am in no hurry. The trees are in flower and the shrubs in leaf; a gentle sun dapples the lush meadows. I get down from my horse and walk barefoot through the grass, which is green and velvet against my skin. I slip off my horse’s bridle and let him graze freely.

  I have brought a javelin with me, and I amuse myself throwing it at knots in the trees. My brother teases me that the javelin is a Welsh weapon, ignoble. Ralph says the only way to fight with a spear is couched under your arm. But Ullwch, my father’s herdsman, has been teaching me, and I can knock a gamecock off its branch with one throw.

  I don’t aim at birds that morning. Their songs light up the forest; my heart leaps to hear them. I don’t want to spoil it with bloodshed. Each throw takes me further from home, but I don’t mind. I can find my way back, and my horse is so docile he won’t stray far.

  A noise echoes through the trees – a strange staccato clatter like drums. I follow the sound, clutching my javelin and crouching low. As I draw closer, I can hear the high ring of metal, like bells or cymbals. I know from my mother’s stories that the faerie folk love music, and I wonder if this might be them.

  I peer over a rotting tree stump and see them: five knights, helmed and armed, riding through the forest. They aren’t faeries, though the way the sun flashes on their armour makes them look like angels. Nor is there music. They’re riding in a trackless place: the oak and hornbeam branches slap their armour, their lances knock against their shields, the steel rings of their hauberks jangle and chime together. They’re a splendid sight. I ache with the longing to be a knight.