The Lazarus Gate (18 page)

‘You are all familiar, I expect, with the ideas of spiritualism, and the widespread practice of the mystical and theosophical arts? These ideas have grown steadily in strength and popularity for the last four decades or so, and it is hard to find a district in London or New York without a whole community of believers, mediums and fortune-tellers. Before you start to question my ideas and beliefs, and thus my words, let me point out that I am not a spiritualist, but a rationalist. I have studied the spiritualist movement for many years—both the confidence tricksters and the inexplicably gifted. In my quest to learn more about the power and nature of the soul, I was led on a path of discovery, a quest to uncover measurable, quintessential truths. But what I found was not what I had expected to find.

‘Throughout the ages, religion has taught us that the universe is morally ambiguous—at best ambivalent, at worst indifferent. Good and evil exist simultaneously, and we learn from the Bible that we cannot have one without the other. The world that we know is shaped by the actions of men, and those actions are informed by their beliefs, their morality. What spiritualism teaches is that a man’s choices and actions do not cease when he goes to his grave, but rather live on. But where do they live on? If a spiritualist can contact the spirits of the dead, then where do those spirits reside?

‘I believe that there may be more to the spirit than is visible, that some obfuscating veil must exist between this world and some other, unseen world. The universe that we know and in which we believe is a mere surface-show for not one, but myriad other states of being. Somewhere, intangible, and tantalisingly out of reach, is a multiverse—an infinite number of places where ideas, beliefs and morality take form. Imagine that, running parallel to our world right now, passing through us like light through water, are other existences; veridical planes inhabited by people just like us—people who are us, but who have made very different choices in life. Some planes may be inhabited by the dead, or by creatures that our most celebrated authors could only dream of, or ghosts, or devils, or angels… my point is that we are not alone. We merely sit behind a recondite, invisible wall and think ourselves safe from forces beyond our control.’

‘Mr. James,’ said Melville, ‘with all due respect, you are talking of heaven and hell, and you do so without due regard to the teachings of God. Nor do you consider the considerable views of the scientific community.’

‘Mr. Melville, I understand your concerns fully,’ James responded. ‘The Church has long held special meaning for many people throughout history, and still does. But the Church represents religion, or one religion in any case, which in itself is a supernatural concept. Religion attempts to explain that there is everlasting life, in a world unseen, which stretches beyond our mundane experiences.’

‘I am a God-fearing man,’ Melville barked, ‘and you will not convince me that there is more than one afterlife!’

‘I do not say otherwise. But I theorise that there is more than one life—an infinite number of you, an infinite number of me; physical counterparts of every living soul, all living and breathing beyond the veil.’

‘This is nonsense,’ Melville scoffed, his accent sounding more Irish the more flustered he became. ‘Surely you must at least accept that the greatest scientists in the Empire can find no evidence to support your claims.’

‘Science, sir, is a fleeting, new art in the great and long history of the human race. We have discovered a great many things through scientific investigation over the last thousand years, but to think that we know it all is the greatest arrogance. I am sure the next thousand years of science will prove just as fruitful, and will probably even discredit much of our current thinking. Our modern science surely can represent no more than the merest glimpse of the universe’s true nature. Science is but a drop of clear water in a sea of clouded ignorance.’

Melville bristled. At no point did James raise his voice or become even slightly antagonistic, but somehow his calmness and thoughtfulness made his words even more pointed.

‘Consider this,’ James continued. ‘The soul is eternal, and so why shouldn’t hopes and dreams and the power of thought be just as eternal? Maybe they are part of the soul after all. If I were to die in this world, or even if I merely ceased to believe in something important to me, what would that do to the other “me” in another, unseen world? Science teaches us, after all, that energy can never be destroyed, only transformed—does that apply beyond the veil also? Have you ever been possessed of a notion, or a feeling, and not understood why? Or been compelled to action against your better judgement? Have you never felt that sensation of having been somewhere before when you know that you never have; what the French call déjà vu? The multiverse theory goes some way to explaining these things, or rather these things have no explanation but that of the multiverse.’

‘Mr James…’ and before I even knew it, I was speaking up. Even in such company as this I somehow felt compelled to voice my concerns, and given James’s last words the irony was not lost on me, for I would sooner have held my tongue.

‘Yes, Captain?’

‘I… that is,’ I took a breath and composed my thoughts. ‘The idea is a fascinating one, but I am a simple man. I have been a soldier for ten years, and now I am returned to England I find the capital imperilled by an unknown enemy. I do not fully understand your meaning so far, I confess, but with the greatest respect I must ask you this: what has any of this to do with our dynamiters? Are you suggesting that they are driven by unseen forces? Or perhaps you believe that they are come from one of these invisible universes to terrorise us?’ I stopped speaking, realising that all eyes were upon me.

‘My dear boy,’ James said, ‘though you will not and cannot believe it, you have arrived at the pinch of the game—you are more than a simple soldier, that much is clear.’

‘If soldiers are held in such high regard in Apollo Lycea,’ I was surprised to hear Colonel Stirling interject, ‘then perhaps your neighbours at the War Office should have been brought into your confidence earlier.’

‘Hear, hear,’ came a voice from the shadows—the mysterious man whom I had earlier taken for a servant. As far as I could tell, only Sir Toby acknowledged his contribution at all, and even then with but a look of agitation.

‘Sir, might I remind you that I am not a member of the order, nor am I a servant of your Crown,’ William James replied to the colonel. ‘I stand before you offering my assistance in what small way I can; kindly leave me out of any politicking.’

‘Hmm,’ muttered the colonel.

James swiftly picked up where he had left off, becoming more animated, addressing the entire group once again. ‘Captain Hardwick has grasped the nettle. He wants to know where his target lies, and how he can destroy it. The problem is, of course, that finding our unseen assailants is hardly so simple. Three people in this room have set eyes upon the so-called dynamiters—the good Captain, Mr. Hanlocke and Mr. Melville—but in each instance they managed to elude us, and are undoubtedly now returned to their own side of the veil.’

‘I must protest.’ This time it was Melville who spoke out. ‘I listened to some of your hypotheses before the meeting began, but I cannot believe this… this bunkum! What I have seen with my own eyes beggars belief, I agree—but this cannot be the truth of it. It just… cannot be!’

‘And what did Sir Toby say at the start of this meeting? He said we needed faith; to believe. If you have any hope of apprehending these villains, then believe you must! What if I were to tell you that these attacks boil down to religion, superstition and belief? That the power of faith itself has made transportation between two universes possible?’

‘I would say that you were a madman.’ Melville was seething, and it was easy to see how he came by such an uncompromising reputation. His eyes were like dark voids, piercing and inquisitorial, and his voice as calm as still water, yet fierce at the same time. To his credit, William James was unflinching—his cracked-leather face and thick beard were like impassive armour that no amount of insult could penetrate.

‘Then you may say that, but please do me the courtesy of hearing me out first, sir. For it is not conjecture that has led me to these conclusions, but reason, collateral facts, and the burden of proof. ’

‘Gentlemen,’ Sir Toby interjected, ‘it appears that the discussion is becoming somewhat heated. I have the advantage of having heard Mr. James speak on this matter before, and have read his papers on the topic, which have been verified by the Society for Psychical Research. I will make available the dossiers with all of Mr. James’ theories and notes after this meeting, for you to digest at your leisure. For now, I would respectfully ask Mr. James to keep to the useful facts, to give us the information that will allow our agents, and Mr. Melville’s agency, to combat the threat to the Empire in very real terms. Mr. Melville, pray grant us a little more time to put forth all of the evidence to your satisfaction. For now I am afraid I must ask you to set aside your disbelief and assume that what we are dealing with here are agents from another world—people just like us; who may even be us, from a world unseen.’ It was clear that Melville was in no way impressed by this request, nor did he believe what he was being told in the slightest, but he acquiesced at Sir Toby’s insistence. ‘And Mr. James, may I ask you to explain precisely what we are dealing with, in clear terms, so that Captain Hardwick and Mr. Hanlocke may proceed with their duties?’

William James stood, and nodded to both Sir Toby and to Melville.

‘Sirs, I am at your service, and will endeavour to stay on topic.’ He turned to the rest of us. ‘Gentlemen, may I ask that you dim the lights further, because I need to show you some photographic slides.’

He walked to the other end of the table to stand behind the projection box as the room went dark. With a soft clunk the first image flicked onto the white screen. The grainy photograph was instantly recognisable as Marble Arch, and the scene was populated by policemen, while a group of gentlemen gathered around a body, lying prone before the archway.

‘This picture was taken by a police photographer at the scene of the Marble Arch shooting. The gentleman in black in the centre of this photograph is our own Mr. Melville. The body he is inspecting is one of the anarchists.’

I was stunned—had one of the suspects really been killed at the scene? Hadn’t Ambrose told me that all of the suspects had escaped? The second slide flicked into view.

‘And this is the same scene, less than three minutes later.’ The image was similar to the first—the police officers who were kneeling by the body were in much the same position as before, others had moved around. But there was a very important omission—the body was gone! A murmur went around the small company.

‘It is my firmest belief,’ James continued, ‘that each of the anarchists—these “Othersiders”—carries with them some device that transports them back to their own world in the event of their death. Whether they activate this device themselves, or if it functions of its own accord once their heart stops, we have no way of knowing, for we have yet to recover a device for study. Mr. Melville managed to gather some small items from the body before it vanished into thin air, but that is all.’

‘You know my feelings on the matter, Mr. James,’ seethed Melville.

‘Oh yes. You see, gentlemen, Mr. Melville would rather believe that some cabal of brilliant scientists is behind the whole plot. Perhaps they are stage magicians? Perhaps they used a powerful acid-spraying device to dissolve the body in an instant, or even some kind of advanced molecular transportory system that one might expect to find in the works of Jules Verne. Anything, in fact, other than the notion that these invaders come from another universe in a multiverse created by human thought and faith.’

I was sure that Melville was not the kind of man to read science fiction, and the Irishman’s face supported this idea. I too found the whole thing hard to swallow, and I could see similar opinions writ plainly on the faces of everyone around the table, except perhaps Sir Arthur, who frowned in concentration and nodded sagely.

‘Tell them how the other anarchists got away. Let’s see how your theory holds up then,’ Melville prompted.

‘Oh, it’s really quite simple. Only I wouldn’t call it a theory—this much I’m quite sure of. Thanks to the work of Captain Hardwick here, I have been able to piece together more parts of the puzzle. You see, he first recognised that the so-called dynamite attacks could be plotted on a map of London to form a near-perfect triangle. I believe that the Otherside agents detonate their bombs at a carefully arranged time and place in order to create psychic dissonance—not just an explosion, but a wave of invisible energy—that coincides precisely with the destruction of the exact same corresponding points on their side. The coordinates are meticulously recorded, and the timings are exact, so that the violence of the explosion reaches out across universes, and is felt on both sides. The point in the dead centre of the triangle, which usually takes the form of a door, archway or other portal, then springs to life as a gateway to the other side—for a limited period, that is. The Othersiders prepare their version of the gate with their strange devices, and when it springs to life, powered by the psychic shockwave caused by the explosions, the portal opens on our side too; a literal door between universes.’

‘This is too much…’ muttered Ambrose.

‘But… but…’ I stammered.

‘Yes, Captain?’

‘That is, what I don’t understand,’ I continued, ‘is why they would need such a doorway. If they have the power to activate devices which transport corpses back to another universe, then why go to such lengths to open a doorway?’

‘My point exactly!’ snorted Melville in agreement.

‘There we have two questions in one. The first requires a further leap of logic, I am afraid, and that is: why the doorways? Thankfully, Sir Arthur has helped me with this very issue.’

Sir Arthur Furnival, who had remained silent up to this point, now leaned forward in his chair. As he spoke, William James advanced the slides, to show the crypt door in the vaults of Christ Church, and the wrought-iron front gates of Chelsea Hospital, where Ambrose and I had found nothing.