The Lazarus Gate (5 page)

I tried not to let thoughts of my imprisonment sour the mood, for I knew Jim meant well.

‘I’m afraid the pain of that “unique experience” is still too real in my mind for me to fictionalise it,’ I said, somewhat gloomily.

‘Who said anything about fiction? Listen old boy, you’ve been through a lot, probably through more than you’ve told me, but you’ve come out of it all right, haven’t you? Still got the old moral fibre, faculties all intact? That’s a bloody marvel, a triumph! If you wrote up all of your adventures abroad, you could fill a bookshelf with stirring tales, or high-brow memoirs, or penny dreadfuls—your choice, really. But people would lap it up, and it would get your name out there into the literary world. The world is your oyster!’

I smiled. It was the second time he had told me that already, and his enthusiasm was so infectious that I actually considered his plan. He had implanted a thought so deep in my imagination that it threatened to take root—could a long-dreamt ambition be realised? I had the means, and the time, to write my memoirs, and why shouldn’t I? However, before the conversation became uncomfortable, and Jim felt compelled to talk more of Burma, I changed the subject, and we resumed a pleasant evening of good wine, rich food and cheerful banter.

* * *

When I returned to my lodgings that night I was in good spirits. As I closed the door of my apartment and lit a paraffin lamp, I noticed a letter pushed under my door. I turned up the lamp and sat at the small table to read it. The envelope was of thick, creamy parchment, and there was no address written on it, just the words ‘Cpt. John Hardwick’ in an elegant, yet masculine hand. It had been hand-delivered; I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Whitinger about the delivery boy in the morning. Inside the envelope was a short, handwritten missive on crisp white paper:

Captain Hardwick
,

It is with great pleasure that I welcome you back to England. However, there is a matter of business that we must discuss urgently.

Meet me at my club next Wednesday evening, 2nd April, at six o’clock. The Apollonian, Pall Mall. Show this letter at the door.

Yours, &c.,
Sir Toby Fitzwilliam, Bart.

I was puzzled. I had heard of the Apollonian Club, but could think of no reason why I would have any call to conduct business there. It was renowned as a club for the rich and powerful—anyone who was anyone in London sought membership to the Apollonian. I had even heard of Sir Toby Fitzwilliam, whom I seemed to recall was a judge of some repute, though I was certain we had never met.

With a head full of questions, I retired for the night, knowing that I would not sleep. I slept little at that time—without the comfort of knowing that there was a battalion of soldiers outside my door, or that I was safely on board ship in the middle of the ocean, my mind refused to switch off, instead remaining alert to every possible danger, real or imagined. I dozed once, I think, but awoke in a fright, in a cold sweat—a result of fitful dreams in which I relived my worst sessions of cruel torture, and all of my guards and tormentors wore monstrous masks that twisted and writhed as if they were made of melting flesh, and inflicted their brutalities upon me with wicked blades that seemed to grow from their very arms. And then the dragon came, as it always did in the nightmare, and as everyone in the dream was consumed by fire, I woke.

In the small hours, I got out of bed more than once, and more than once passed by the small wooden box that still sat on the breakfast table. Though I was a bag of nerves, and dared not sleep, I would not—could not—allow myself to succumb to those urges; to undo all of my hard work on the road to recovery. I asked myself, as I so often had on such nights of late: What would my father have done?

‘Not this time,’ I whispered in the darkness, tapping the lid of the box softly. ‘Not yet.’

I
t was raining as my hansom drove along Pall Mall towards St. James’s Square that Wednesday. The heavens had opened and what should have been a balmy spring evening was transformed into a sodden and miserable one. The cab drew to a halt, but a stone’s throw from a royal residence, and the war office to boot. I gazed up at the imposing white walls of the Apollonian. A few weak rays of sunlight glinted momentarily from the golden bow brandished by the statue of Apollo above the entrance, before vanishing again, returning the vista to dreary grey gloom. I hopped from the cab, paid the driver and hurried up the stone steps of the classically styled frontage and onto the tiled porch.

The rain dripped from the brim of my hat and ran down my neck. Yet the weather could not dampen my spirits. All those years ago, when I had harboured ambitions of becoming a man of letters, I dreamt of following in the footsteps of those proud members of the Apollonian: Tennyson, Thackeray, Scott—even Dickens was said to have been an occasional visitor. To stand on the threshold that had been trod by such luminaries—and moreover, by invitation—was a singular honour, regardless of what might transpire. As I approached, a servant swung open the doors and greeted me cordially.

I stepped across a vestibule, which opened out into a stately hallway. I presented my letter to the porter, who had already retaken his position behind a lectern-like desk. The servant returned the letter to its envelope, nodded deferentially, and handed it back to me.

‘Very good, Captain Hardwick, I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Holdsworth, the club porter, and I will be happy to assist you in any matter during your visit, no matter how small. If I could take your wet coat? I’ll have it dried for you promptly, sir. Now, if you are unfamiliar with the clubhouse, may I direct you to Sir Toby’s offices?’

I accepted Holdsworth’s offer, and followed him through an archway into the hall. I was instantly glad of my escort, as it quickly became apparent that the clubhouse was larger than it first appeared, and the way was winding. We passed through the great marble hall, up the sweeping stair, to a large and beautiful landing, from which rooms led off in every direction, before passing along a corridor, and up another stair to a more modest level, where the marbled walls gave way to dark wainscoting and heavy flocked paper.

I followed Holdsworth to the end of another corridor, where we entered a small waiting room—a windowless snug, with one other door leading off it. Holdsworth raised an officious finger, which I took to mean that he would be a moment, and knocked on this door. I heard no reply, but Holdsworth opened the door a fraction nonetheless and popped his head inside. After a few muffled words, he opened the door fully, stepped aside, and bade me in, bowing cordially as he did so. I stepped into the office for my fateful meeting, and the door clicked softly closed behind me.

* * *

Sir Toby Fitzwilliam, or so I presumed, was standing with his back to me as I entered, staring absently at a small, but rather gloomy oil painting on the office wall, depicting some military scene in a dusty, far away land. Rain pattered on the tall office windows, mirroring the soft
tick-tick-tick
of the large carriage clock on the mantelpiece. When the Lord Justice turned to me, I saw that he was dressed formally in a black suit, gold waistcoat and white tie, presumably for dinner or some function. He was an imposing-looking gentleman, fairly tall and stocky. His face was hard and lined, framed by silver hair and large sideburns flecked with black. His eyes were quick and vivid, like those of a man half his age. He offered me the chair facing his desk, which I accepted. I realised with mild embarrassment that I had been standing smartly to attention, hands behind my back, waiting for him to speak—it was one of many habits nurtured over the last few years that I found hard to shake.

‘Captain Hardwick, I am so glad you could make our appointment. Cigar?’ Sir Toby spoke in dulcet, refined tones, gravelly from years of smoking and whisky I guessed. He nudged the cigar box on his desk towards me. I refused graciously, and Sir Toby withdrew the box and took one himself.

‘I expect you are wondering why I asked you here,’ he said.

‘I am curious, Sir Toby. I am afraid I haven’t the faintest idea how I can be of service.’ I remembered my manners. I was out of practice, certainly; though I had complained of the stuffiness of my time in Rangoon, the officers and gentlemen who stationed the furthest bastions of the Empire did not seem to stand on ceremony as much as the gentry back in England. I reminded myself for the fiftieth time that day that this was England, and it was my home.

‘Service? An interesting turn of phrase, Captain, for that is exactly why you are here. Tell me, what do you know of the recent dynamite attacks in London?’

‘Why, only what I’ve read in the newspapers. Something about Irish-American anarchists taking up arms against the Crown after a long absence.’

‘Irish-American? And what gives you that idea?’ He fixed me with a gaze, his expression unmoving. I imagined Sir Toby in court, and fancied his impassive visage beneath a black hanging cap, glaring at a condemned man in the dock.

‘I, ahem… again, Sir Toby, it was perhaps only the speculation of the press, but I have no reason to believe otherwise.’ I tried to recover my composure, increasingly aware that there was more to this interview than I had expected, and realising that Sir Toby was the kind of man who would set myriad verbal traps for the unwary. ‘Of course,’ I hastened to add, ‘I have only been back in the country these past five days. Mayhap there are intricacies of the story that I have not heard.’

Sir Toby reached into the top drawer of his large, walnut desk, and produced several documents, bound together neatly with string. He untied the parcel and spread the documents out before me.

‘This is what we know of the matter. It makes for grim reading, but we have reason to believe that the old Dynamiters have little to do with this case.’

‘We? I’m sorry, Sir Toby, I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Of course not, my boy,’ he said, ‘I have yet to explain. By “we”, I mean the Apollonian Club.’ I must have looked quizzical, because by way of explanation he offered more information. ‘Oh, not all of the members, of course. In fact, not many of them at all. But there are those in the club who represent certain branches of the government, and who investigate matters of importance to the Empire. Matters such as these.’

I have always had a knack for seeing connections, and would certainly never describe myself as slow to appraise a situation. Indeed, I believed even then I knew where the conversation was headed. However, I also knew that, when faced with superior intelligence, a military man should always glean as much information as possible before acting—anything else would only result in rash strategy. Therefore I resolved to let Sir Toby get to the point in his own circuitous manner, as it clearly pleased him to hold all the cards. I fanned out the folios in front of me and gave them a cursory once-over. Included were newspaper cuttings, police reports, artist’s sketches of bombsites, maps and witness statements. There were accounts of at least half a dozen targets across the city.

‘Sir Toby, if I may be so bold… why are you telling me this?’

‘Because, Captain Hardwick, I would like you to join this group of investigators. I believe that you could be of far more use to your country here, with us, than you could be either fighting abroad or living out your days in early retirement.’

‘Actually, Sir Toby, I was rather looking forward to a peaceful early retirement.’

‘Were you indeed?’ He looked at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows.

Sir Toby rose from his chair and paced to a side-table which supported a decanter and glasses. He poured two glasses of pale amber whisky and water and passed me one, without asking if I would like it; it was good Scotch. He walked to the window where he had stood when I first entered, and looked out thoughtfully. From where I sat the window was just a black mirror, spotted with raindrops. It had drawn dark all too early. I broke the silence.

‘I really do appreciate that you think me suitable for this task, Sir Toby. But I am afraid I am in no fit state to embark on active service so soon, if at all. You see, in Burma…’

‘You were tortured and drugged and kept in the dark for six months.’ He cut me short, and his words stung. ‘I know, John. And that is one of the reasons you are so suitable for the role.’ He turned and fixed me with those eyes again. His use of my Christian name was not lost on me. His tone had softened, also.

‘Do you have any idea how many men—good men—have fought in Her Majesty’s service in Afghanistan, India, China and Burma in the last two decades? And those who come back—how many do you suppose experienced some trauma, some great loss, pain or suffering? And of those, how many do you suppose had it as bad as you? A fair few, Captain Hardwick, and that is a fact. But out of those wretches, how many do you suppose had the mental fortitude to recover their wits, their very humanity? To take ship to London, and in just a few days to have returned to a semblance of respectability, with prospects and resources? Just one, Captain, and that is a fact, too. If you can do those things, then you can help fight a different sort of war. One fought in secret, and one that we must win if the stability of Great Britain and the Empire is to endure.’