The Lazarus Gate (23 page)

* * *

‘…So I slipped old Betsy from up me sleeve, and slit his throat before he knew what was happening. Well, seeing me chive that giant put a different slant on things. Moses and Cranky Bill legged it like their lives depended on it – which I suppose they did, on account of my sore ’ead and black disposition. I took out me throwing knife and cracked Moses in the back o’ the neck first time – never miss, even in the dark. Cranky Bill was out of sight, shrieking “Mercy, mercy!” like a little vestal virgin. I pulled me chiv out of Moses and shouted, “I’ll be back for you, Bill, mark me words.” And I was an’ all, very next day in fact, with five of London’s finest. We went knockin’ for him, and smugged him sharpish. He was in the quod by week’s end.’

At the culmination of Constable Ecclestone’s colourful tale, most of which I hadn’t understood, all of us in the Black Maria burst into laughter. All except one. Constable Clegg, who uttered a half-hearted murmur and forced a smile.

‘What’s the matter, Clegg?’ asked Boggis. ‘Don’t you applaud Constable Ecclestone’s heroism in the face of insurmountable odds?’

Clegg cleared his throat. ‘Of course; it was, ahem… commendable work.’

‘Aw, leave him be Sarge. He’s just not used to knife-work yet,’ said Ecclestone, sincerely. ‘He might learn a thing or two ’fore the night is out.’

‘That you will, Clegg,’ said Boggis, fixing the former police sergeant with a cold hard stare. ‘The criminals you’ll face out here are not the usual trash—we don’t send Special Branch in to collect unpaid rent, you know. We go where others fear to tread, and bring to justice desperate villains who’d sooner blow your brains out as look twice at you. It’s kill or be killed, Clegg. Make sure you’re up to the task.’

Clegg looked suitably chastened, and Ecclestone at once lightened the mood with a cheerful, ribald song about a certain—presumably fictional—Mrs. Prigg.

It was the evening of Sunday 13th April—a poor choice of day for ungodly work. I sat upon a hard wooden bench in the back of the coach with three other men around me, and I knew again the exhilaration of riding to battle just as sure as if I were back in the Far East.

I glanced around at the men who accompanied me on this potentially dangerous mission. To my left was Constable Reginald Clegg, a former police sergeant promoted, I gathered, to Special Branch, and the only one of my new comrades to have direct experience with the Othersiders, having served alongside Melville at Marble Arch. He was a large man, perhaps a little podgy around the midriff, but he had a bear-like presence and the no-nonsense look of a veteran bobby. On the bench opposite me sat Sergeant Sam Boggis, a long-serving Special Branch sergeant and a man hand-picked by Melville. He was a specialist in royal security, having served as a bodyguard to none less than the Prince of Wales. This surprised me, for Boggis was a scrawny man, fair of hair and shifty of expression, and I could barely imagine him as an officer of the law, let alone a seasoned and dependable bodyguard. Still, on this night he was to protect me, and I was thankful that such an experienced fellow had been assigned to the task. The final officer was Constable Larry Ecclestone, who had plodded the streets of the East End as a regular copper for some six years before being recruited by the Special Irish Branch, as once was, under the tutelage of Melville’s best officers. I was told that his local knowledge would be invaluable, and that he had spent so long on undercover duties over the years, infiltrating illegal brothels, gangster hideouts and opium dens, that he had developed almost a sixth sense for danger in such environments. While we had been preparing for our journey, I had seen Larry stow two sets of brass knuckles, a small leather cosh and a flick-knife about his person, and yet refuse the offer of a pistol from Clegg. I was uncertain whether to be wary or impressed.

We had prepared ourselves quickly and efficiently, with only the most cursory of briefings from Melville and Sir Toby. At seven o’clock our Black Maria departed New Scotland Yard at Westminster, and carried us east along the Embankment, following the curve of the Thames. There had been little traffic, and our police driver had brusquely waved aside what coaches and wagons crossed our path, or else trilled his whistle. Thus unimpeded, our somewhat uncomfortable coach bumped and trundled its way eastwards, past elegant public buildings, wide open thoroughfares, and vast market-buildings, where the air was scented with salt and fish. I peered out of the small, barred viewport as we passed Tower Hill, the last marker of the City of London, and knew that we were not far from our destination.

‘So tell me,’ I said, in an attempt to make conversation, ‘other than Larry here, have any of you men actually met this “Artist” fellow?’ My question was met with a mixture of amusement and surprise.

‘Met ’im?’ said Larry, half laughing. ‘Oh no, sir, none of us. Even I ain’t met ’im! As far as the like of us are concerned, he might as well not exist.’

I frowned. ‘But I was led to believe that you had inside knowledge, Constable. Is that not the case?’

‘Oh aye,’ he said. ‘I know the area, and I know the Artist’s den sure enough. I even had a run-in with some o’ his celestials once. But I ain’t never laid eyes on the man ’imself. No one has, s’far as I know.’

‘What Constable Ecclestone is saying,’ interjected Boggis, ‘is that you will be the first agent of the Crown ever to set eyes on the most notorious gangster in London. A singular honour, don’t you think?’

I was unsure what to make of Boggis’ tone, so I simply nodded and sat back on my bench, leaving the men to talk of past ‘collars’, drunken exploits and loose women.

The Maria veered north along Butcher Row, and Clegg leaned over, disturbing my reverie.

‘I’m not sure this is the quickest way to the docks, sir,’ he said, over the drone of Larry’s singing. Boggis overheard and offered a reply.

‘Too right! This way avoids the narrows—if we go down there we’ll either get clobbered or else that Chinaman’s spies’ll spot us. Element of surprise, my lad, that’s what we need.’

The cab slowed as we passed the far end of Commercial Road, which was busy even for the time of day, and then finally we were heading southwards once more, picking up the pace as we neared West India Dock.

‘Nearly there, lads,’ Boggis proclaimed. ‘Stow that din, Ecclestone.’ Larry fell silent, and feigned an injured look. ‘The driver’s taking us the long way round, past Canary Wharf. It’s the busiest dock around, and we’ll be in no danger there. But once we’re past the docks I want everyone on their guard.’

The time was almost at hand, and I felt such anticipation that I wondered how I had gone so long without seeing—or even desiring—action for my country. My hand squeezed at the grip of the pistol in my overcoat pocket, the cold metal offering some small reassurance, reminding me that our business at the Artist’s lair was born of duty to Queen and country. I pushed aside the thoughts of the darkened nooks filled with heady opium smoke that I would doubtless find at journey’s end.

I peered out of the coach one more time, but the darkness was drawing in about us and street lights were few and far between. I could not imagine there would be many lampmen willing to walk the streets of the Isle of Dogs even if the gaslights were there. All the same, I could hear the sounds of the busy docks echoing from somewhere on the opposite side of the Black Maria. All I could see through the vision slit, however, was a rag-tag outline of commercial buildings interspersed with dilapidated houses and flats, many of which were boarded up and derelict.

I felt the coach turn a sharp bend, and when I peered out I knew at once that we were almost at our destination. We were in a poor residential neighbourhood, and my senses were assaulted by the scent of raw filth, stale beer, smoke and discarded rubbish. By the wan light from the windows of poorly constructed tenements I saw piles of rotting boxes and waste stacked in the streets, and beside some of them were people—vagrants or drunkards, I supposed—swaddled up in rags and lying on the dirt-encrusted pavement. Or perhaps they were dead. In any case, we had left behind the heart of industry only a dozen yards prior, and now we were in the worst slum I had ever seen. I doubted there was a collection of more squalid, dingy buildings crammed together in such a fashion anywhere else in the world, and yet there they were, slouching haphazardly within London, the jewel of the Empire.

The Black Maria struggled to wend its way along a pitted street. The sound of its wheels caused a few dull, expressionless faces to peer down at us from upstairs windows. Urchins huddled in doorways, gawping at us with large, dark eyes, like pits of despair. I hoped that we would keep going, but to my dismay the police carriage began to slow, and I realised that the House of Zhengming was a short distance ahead. For a place with a reputation so sinister, situated in so hopeless an environ, I could only shudder at what we were to find there.

* * *

Larry stepped menacingly towards a beery-breathed thug whose curiosity had got the better of him. The man took one look at Ecclestone and continued on his way with a muttered expletive. Boggis passed on instructions to the driver, who nodded before flicking the reins and taking the Maria away. With a growing sense of dread, I watched it leave.

‘Told ’im to keep moving,’ Boggis explained. ‘Even the coppers ain’t safe round here. He’ll check back now and then. Told ’im if we ain’t done in an hour, he should send for assistance.’

We stood before the House of Zhengming, which held the appearance of a run-down former tavern, situated on a street corner with a few terraced houses adjoining it. The opium den had, it seemed, grown along with the Artist’s influence, consuming many of the neighbouring tenements, for now every window was shielded by thick red drapes within. The walls of the structure were uneven, and the building did not so much stand on the street corner as loom out from it, as though threatening to devour all who flocked to its doors; in a way, I supposed, that was exactly what it did. It exuded foreboding—and of course, I had my own reasons to fear such a place. More than that, a paper lantern glowed green above the front door, illuminating a sign written in both English and Chinese. My knowledge of that tongue was cursory, but I recognised many of the characters when I saw them. And the sign did not say ‘Zhengming’ at all, but rather ‘Zhi Ming’, which meant something like ‘the time of one’s death’, or ‘fatal hour’, if memory served. We were standing outside the ‘house of the dead’, and my blood ran cold.

‘Right then, lads,’ said Boggis, addressing Clegg and Ecclestone, ‘we go in together, and make sure the way is clear for the Captain. I want you two keeping an eye on our exit at all times. I’ll stick to Captain Hardwick like glue. And remember,’ he added in a more hushed tone, ‘you might get asked to surrender your weapons. We should cooperate as far as can be seen, if you get my meaning.’ Boggis added a wink to underline his intent. Larry patted his breast pocket and grinned in response, revealing an incomplete row of uneven teeth as he did so.

Suitably forewarned, Larry led the way, closely followed by Boggis, with Clegg behind me. We entered the House of Zhengming through a heavy door, and pushed through a bead curtain into a dark vestibule. The air seemed thick, and the shadows almost cloying. Faint sounds of chatter and soft laughter droned from somewhere beyond the veil of gloom, but there was no immediate sign of life within. Larry took a few steps towards the end of the short corridor, and our complacence was shattered by an ear-piercing screech that caused us all to flinch, and Clegg to cry out, startled. To the left of the vestibule was a tall cage, set back into the wall in what was doubtless once an old store-cupboard. From the pitch black, half a dozen screeching monkeys were making enough noise to wake the dead, throwing themselves at the mesh of their prison and baring their teeth at us. Boggis was the first to react, lashing out at the cage with a clenched fist and frightening the tiny brutes back into the darkness, whence they continued to chatter at us from a safe distance.

‘Well,’ said Boggis, ‘I suppose we’ve lost the element of surprise.’

We pressed on, pushing through a heavy velvet curtain into a large room that I supposed was once a bar, now a waiting room for clients. Red drapes covered every wall, and even the windows. Six or seven green Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a flickering light across the room. We were greeted curtly by a short woman in a brocade dress, who stood behind an old lectern that had been pressed into service as a desk. Two burly Chinese guards flanked a large double doorway across from us, eying us disapprovingly.

‘We’re here to see the boss,’ glowered Boggis.

‘The master is not to be disturbed,’ replied the woman, in stilted English.

‘He’ll be bloody disturbed, love, whether he likes it or not.’

The woman glanced over towards the guards, who responded by straightening themselves up and looking lively. I stepped to the lectern and drew my card.

‘My good woman,’ I said, ‘we are here on urgent business for the Crown. “The master” is doubtless expecting us. If you would be so kind as to alert him to our presence, I am sure it will be in his best interest to grant us an interview and avoid any… unpleasantness… that may upset your clients.’

She considered this for a moment. ‘We rely on happy clients. We do not wish unpleasantness… I will send a message to the master, but if he say no, you will leave.’

‘Send the message then,’ I said, ignoring the last part of her statement. ‘We will wait here for his reply.’

She took my card and left the room, leaving us in the company of the guards, who said not a word, even when Larry attempted to engage them in conversation. I hoped they did not speak much English, because Larry could not have failed to offend them in some capacity. In any case, they simply looked upon us impassively until the woman returned.

‘The master, he say he will see you, Captain John Hardwick, but you alone,’ she said. ‘Your friends will wait here.’

‘Bugger that. Where he goes, we go,’ snarled Boggis. He stepped towards the woman as he spoke, prompting motion from the two guards for the first time. They reached to their belts in unison, undoubtedly to take up some weapon, and paused to see if their show of aggression would be enough to stay Boggis’ ire. The sergeant stepped back a pace. Larry Ecclestone stepped forwards, reaching into his coat and fixing the largest of the guards with a glare that would turn a charging bull.