The Lazarus Gate (11 page)

‘It will need closer scrutiny, but yes, I believe so.’

‘So, the anarchists who carried out the last three attacks were not only targeting specific areas, but were also noting instructions for others in their order. Am I right?’

‘That is my train of thought, yes,’ I said. ‘They carry out atrocities in groups of three, with the fourth coordinate always being their pre-arranged exit point. The group also notes a point of significance in the pocketbook for the next group of anarchists.’

‘So, by taking the book,’ began Ambrose, ‘we have perhaps foiled their next step altogether?’

‘I hope so, but we cannot rely on it. What if the targets are all predetermined, and only added to the notebook once the group has surveyed it and gathered intelligence? If that were the case, they may still go ahead with their next attack because they may well believe that we have not cracked their code, and are thus ignorant of their plans. Assuming that’s the case, we have only two questions left to ask: When are they planning to strike, and is this new coordinate the starting point for new attacks, or the escape route?’

* * *

Despite my chiding, Ambrose had refused to leave with me for the East End until we had taken tea. ‘I’m positively famished, my dear chap,’ he had said, before slipping one of the junior stewards a shilling and sending him off to fetch us some cold cuts. We had missed afternoon tea, but the staff at the club were always willing to make special arrangements for members, even rogues like Ambrose Hanlocke.

We found ourselves a corner of the deserted dining room to talk, and Ambrose soon raised the matter of my recent misfortune at the hands of the three cutpurses he had rescued me from. What he was really interested in, however, was my reaction to Archie McGrath’s treatment, and I knew that there was no point in hiding the truth, as Ambrose had been there to witness my fear and hatred of opium first hand.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of, old chap,’ he said, seeing the colour rush from my cheeks. ‘I know that you had a bad time of it in the army, and God knows I doubt I’d have held out half as long as you. But you do have to take it easy; I think Sir Toby has put you back on active duty a bit too soon.’

I bristled at the term ‘active duty’ quite vigorously, for I did not feel like a soldier, not yet. Though I was gladly serving my country, it was on a voluntary basis, or so I told myself.

‘You’d have me go home and pretend that none of this was happening?’ I asked.

‘Not at all—you’ve already shown you have an aptitude for all this adventuring business,’ Ambrose replied. ‘It’s just that… well… I’ve been at this game a long time. You see things—do things—that aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, if you take my meaning. Maybe those thugs you encountered were a way of telling you to slow down a little, you know? Neither of us are spring chickens, and if you’ve lost your edge, even a little bit… you don’t want to be knee-deep in the mire and find yourself wanting.’

‘I’ve seen plenty of action, and maybe I’m not as sharp as I once was, but I’m certainly wiser. You know the worst thing about my captivity? Knowing that whatever was going on outside, I wasn’t a part of it; there was nothing I could do to help my regiment, or my country… Now I’m here, and I have a mission of real importance, I don’t intend to turn my back on it and put my feet up. My father was a member of Apollo Lycea, and he wouldn’t have shied away from his duty, whatever the cost.’

Ambrose looked thoughtful—almost sad, I thought—and then he said to me: ‘I met your father once, you know.’ Again, I do not know why such a simple remark affected me so, but I looked at Ambrose with expectation. All he said was: ‘Believe me, John, you are not your father’s son.’

The words were delivered kindly, but I neither knew how to take them, nor how to respond. I swigged the last dregs of my tea and got to my feet, picked up my hat and coat, and turned to leave. Ambrose, swift as a cat, was standing next to me, placing a hand on my shoulder. I turned to him with a face like stone.

‘John… I have spoken out of turn. I’m sorry. I was trying to say that I think you’re a good fellow, with a good heart, but I’ve made a royal hash of it. Can you accept the apology of a blustering cad, and we’ll talk no more of it?’ He held out his hand. I paused for only a moment before shaking his hand, giving him a half-smile, and leaving the club with him. For better or for worse, Ambrose Hanlocke and I were in it together.

* * *

Somewhat delayed in our endeavours, we set off for Commercial Road, in the notorious Whitechapel district. It was past five o’clock by the time we approached our destination. The weather was mercifully mild, and though a chilly breeze blew periodically along the high street and whistled in at the windows of our cab, we would be spared the downpours of the previous day. The route to Whitechapel had been a circuitous one, as our cabbie had been forced to take more than one detour to avoid blocked streets. Many shopkeepers and local markets were packing away for the day, and the number of carts and workmen in the streets made progress by road somewhat laborious. I eyed Ambrose accusingly—were it not for him being a slave to his appetite, we would have made the journey in nearly half the time. Whilst the map coordinates were reasonably accurate, it still gave us more than a quarter of a mile of Commercial Road properties to investigate. Therefore, we had narrowed down our search by trawling through the clerks’ list of addresses, and had come up with two in this area. The first was noted as a spiritualist medium, a table-rapper of some small repute, going by the name of Madam Walpole, while the second was a man who was unknown to Apollo Lycea, noted in the book as Mr. F.W. Jeffers.

The district itself lived up to Ambrose’s poor assessment of it. Drunkards, both male and female, walked the streets, along with tramps, bawds and luridly dressed ‘ladies of the night’, who plied their trade even in broad daylight. Litter, grime and detritus covered the thoroughfares, accumulating in alleyways and around the bases of rusting streetlamps like pile of autumn leaves. The unmistakeable smells of rotten vegetables and open drains mingled with the less distasteful odours of hot potatoes and meat pies from nearby handcarts.

We came to Madam Walpole’s home first. The terraced house had a pronounced slouch, and no doubt the occupants were glad that it was sandwiched between a funeral parlour and a derelict photography studio, for otherwise the ramshackle home would almost certainly have collapsed. Nonetheless, the dilapidated little house looked out of place, almost squeezed into a gap that should not have been there. Ambrose paused uncomfortably as a prompt that I should pay the cabbie, which I duly did. I also promised him an extra shilling atop his usual rate if he would wait for us for a short time.

We climbed three steep, uneven steps to a front door of dubious prospect, and gave three sharp raps on the iron knocker. It took some time before the door was answered, by a scruffy young woman who, I thought idly, would not be unhandsome were she to brush her hair and don clean clothes.

‘’Elp you, sirs?’ she asked, suspiciously.

Ambrose took the lead before I could say anything, although not in the manner I had expected. He removed his hat and gave a short bow of the head. ‘My good lady, we are come to visit Madam Walpole. Is the mistress at home?’

‘Mistress, indeed,’ replied the young woman, impudently. ‘No. She’s aht.’

Ambrose gave me the briefest sideways glance, before readdressing the girl. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked.

‘I said she’s aht,’ she repeated. Then, upon seeing Ambrose’s pained expression, she adopted the Queen’s and said, as if to a simpleton: ‘Out! Don’t you understand English or somefink?’

‘I, erm, that is—’ stuttered Ambrose, whose roguish credentials I was now beginning to doubt.

‘Look, young lady,’ I intervened, more directly, ‘we have come to call on Madam Walpole regarding a professional matter. Neither she, nor you, are in any trouble whatsoever, but it is most urgent that we seek her aid. Now, if she is not at home, do you know when she will return?’

‘Like I said,’ she uttered, with sullen impudence, ‘She’s…’

‘Yes, yes, “aht”, I’m sure we understand,’ Ambrose snapped. ‘Good day to you.’ He turned as if to leave, his impatience agitating me greatly. We had not even managed to establish when the elusive Madam Walpole would be returning home. I turned awkwardly, doffing my hat to the cold-eyed girl as I did so, when I heard a sash window scraping open above us. Ambrose and I both looked up to see a small, middle-aged woman with curlers in her hair looking down at us. ‘What’s going on down there?’ she barked. ‘Who’re you?’

Ambrose once more took the lead, and I groaned inside for fear that he would rankle this woman too. ‘My dear lady, we have come in search of the famous Madam Walpole regarding a matter of some import. Are you she?’

‘Might be,’ she replied, guardedly.

‘Then it seems that your, ah, sister here has made some error. She believed you to be out. Fortunately for all of us, here you are. May we come in and have a word? We will not take much of your time, I assure you.’

‘Sister, is it?’ she chuckled. ‘Well, I s’pose you gentlemen had better come in. Molly!’ she snapped to the girl at the door. ‘Let ’em in and get some tea on.’

* * *

For the most part, the house was as meagre within as it was without. Ambrose and I sat on a worn, floral-patterned sofa opposite Madam Walpole in a shabbily furnished sitting room. There was no fire in the grate, and no coal in the scuttle. As we had entered the small house, Molly had made a point of closing a pair of double doors that led from the sitting room to a parlour at the back of the house. Before the doors had closed, I had spied a room of more pleasant appointment, with a large circular dining table in its centre and deep red drapes around every wall, lending it a dark and somewhat theatrical aspect. It had been a fair assumption that the room was the place where Madam Walpole held her séances, and she said as much whilst Molly ventured to the kitchen to make us tea.

‘It’s not every day that we get such fine gen’lemen visiting us,’ said the medium. ‘Not unless it’s them philistines from the Society.’

‘Society?’ I ventured.

‘The Society for Psychical Research, I expect,’ Ambrose interjected, helpfully. ‘They make their living debunking fraudulent mediums who prey on the vulnerable.’ He intoned the name of the society with pronounced distaste, and the subtlety was not lost on Madam Walpole. She was a small woman, unduly wrinkled for her age, I thought, and hard-faced. Her skin was dark and leathery, and her eyes were almost black, with long dark lashes that suggested that she may well have been pretty as a girl; I suspected that she was of continental or perhaps even gypsy descent. The girl, Molly, shared some of these characteristics, and I supposed that they were related.

‘S’right,’ said Madam Walpole haughtily, ‘and they’ve never found me up to no tricks. I run an ’onest house, sirs, and provide a service to them as needs it.’ At this point, Molly returned with a tray of tea things. We were honoured with the best china, it seemed, although the willow-patterned Staffordshire set had seen better days. ‘Good girl—you run along now and get them candles from Mr. Peake like I told you.’ The girl did as she was bid, and with a last flicker of her suspicious dark eyes in Ambrose’s direction, she left the room and closed the door behind her. Madam Walpole addressed us once more. ‘Would you do the honours, kind sirs? I’m afraid me old hands shake summink awful, and I might spill the tea. Thank you. Now then, I’m afraid I must ask you to get to the point, if I may be so blunt sirs, as I ’ave a meeting here in a couple o’ hours and I must prepare.’

We quickly established that Madam Walpole’s meetings generally involved the running of séances, and I used a cursory discussion of her clientele to guide the conversation towards my true purpose—the discovery of our anarchists.

‘Madam Walpole, have you recently had a visit from any odd fellows?’

‘Other than ourselves of course,’ Ambrose interjected.

‘Anyone who may have struck you as unusual, or perhaps asked you some questions beyond the ordinary?’ I continued, ignoring the interruption.

‘Other than yourselves, y’say? Can’t say as I rightly remember any strangers… Why might you be asking? You with the law?’ She squinted at me once more. There was a keenness and strength behind her rheumy eyes.

‘Not at all, my good lady,’ Ambrose interjected. ‘Let me explain our purpose.’ I glanced askance at him, uncertain where he was about to take the interview. ‘We have reason to believe that a small group of men is attempting to infiltrate the confidences of London’s finest mediums. These men are not from the Society for Psychical Research, nor from the constabulary; but they may indeed be something far worse.’

‘Oh?’ queried the woman, leaning forwards slightly.

‘Reporters,’ proclaimed Ambrose, with no small degree of disdain. ‘And not even the ones from the respectable broadsheets of Fleet Street. I speak, madam, of the gutter press, the penny-a-liners, looking for some sensationalist exposé for their illustrated rags. These men will stop at nothing to glean a story, even so far as to lie and mislead law-abiding members of the public, and hard-working ladies like yourself. They do not seek to portray your profession in an honest light; merely to misrepresent you in order to print some scandalous claptrap in the Sunday papers.’

‘Do you mean to tell me that these men may pose as clients in order to trick a poor old woman?’ she asked.

‘Madam, there are no lows to which they will not stoop,’ replied Ambrose. I was impressed—I had thought Ambrose too brusque for this task, but he now seemed a more than adequate foil to my straightforward approach.

‘And how would I know these reporters? I get lots o’ folk coming to me for readings and such like.’

‘Indeed. It is your sterling reputation that led us here today—to entrap a medium of your stature would be a fine prize indeed for these pirates of the free press.’ As he ended his reply with gusto, I struggled to restrain my amusement. I wondered if Ambrose had ever dabbled in the dramatic arts for he would surely have made an excellent mummer. ‘These fellows would not be from your usual clientele; perhaps their references strike you as dubious, or there would be something about their questions, manners or even appearance that you would perceive as odd. Can you think of any such people who might have visited you recently?’