The Lazarus Gate (24 page)

‘The master was very clear,’ said the Chinese woman, as nervous as I that the situation had escalated so quickly. ‘Captain Hardwick only.’

‘All right, wait,’ said Boggis, his arms outstretched in a show of peacemaking. ‘A compromise then. How about you let me in—just me—and the others all wait out here. Under guard, if you like.’ The woman looked suspicious. Boggis tried to explain, speaking slowly so there could be no misunderstanding. ‘Let us two in the den. These men wait here. Get it?’

She weighed up his words for a moment. ‘Very well, you come in. The other two stay here, and do not cause trouble.’ Only once we had all reluctantly agreed, and Boggis had exchanged muttered words with the other policemen, did the woman beckon us towards the door. An unintelligible barked command bade the guards stand aside, and we stepped through the door into the lion’s den.

* * *

We were led through a short corridor, pushed our way through a set of heavy, black drapes, and found ourselves in a true den of iniquity. The room was large, and dimly lit by paper lanterns. The air was thick with smoke from the opium, incense and lanterns—it was as though a London fog was on the rise in the very room. I had seen places like these before, of course, and yet I could not become inured to the sight. Two dozen men, of all ages, lay virtually incapacitated, the wealthier clients on chaises or mattresses, and the poorer ones on simple wooden benches or even just a rug on the floor. Each was attended by a little girl or boy, who held the pipes for the customers and refilled them upon request. I knew that the men who chased the dragon believed themselves in the lap of luxury, in some far-away dream-world, blissfully unaware that their physical bodies languished in a filthy backstreet tavern that crawled with cockroaches and mice. And yet, a part of me would have gladly joined the dreamers still.

A girl fished around in the pockets of a young man, whose head was lolling back on a moth-eaten velvet pillow as the opium draw hit him. The child produced two shiny shillings, and ran dutifully to an older woman who was watching from a corner of the room. The woman took the coins and nodded assent, at which the girl dashed off to refill the man’s pipe. That was the way of it—those who dreamt too long would find themselves in for a rude awakening when the money ran out. This one would probably wake up on the cobbles some distance from here, ravenously hungry, dehydrated, with little knowledge of how he had lost all of his coin.

We followed our diminutive host closely. Little niches and corridors ran off haphazardly from the main room, disappearing into the gloom to who-knows-where. I felt disorientated from the very start, for I could not gauge the size of the place. My attempt to gain my bearings was interrupted when we reached a door at the far end of the room, whereupon the woman stopped and gave Boggis a fierce look before opening the door.

‘No trouble!’ she warned, and we stepped inside, passing through a beaded curtain into a softly lit room.

Stepping across the threshold was like moving between night and day. Coloured Chinese lanterns hung from every inch of the low ceiling, casting flickering light around the room in amber, red and green. The smell of the opium was replaced by the smoke of incense, and around us windchimes tinkled musically, disturbed by a breeze from an unknown source. It took me a moment to gather my wits and adjust my eyes to the dreamy setting. The room was small, but decadently furnished, with tapestries and silks covering the walls, and velvet cushions across the floor. In the centre of the room, sitting cross-legged behind a low table, was a man dressed in an opulent robe of Chinese silk. His black hair fell about his shoulders long and loose. He was blind, I presumed, with a silk scarf tied around his head, covering his eyes. And yet not for a moment did I feel that he could not see me. He looked gaunt and frail, and sipped at a cup of tea before awkwardly setting it down on the table. Two guards—both broad of chest and blank of expression—stood flanking the blind man, who I knew must be the mysterious Artist.

‘Ah, my guests have arrived,’ said the man, in a thin voice. ‘Won’t you please be seated? Make yourselves comfortable.’

I sensed that Boggis was about to protest, but I laid a hand on his arm and nodded towards the plump cushions opposite the blind man. He looked irked but sat down with me on the floor.

‘Won’t you have some tea?’ asked the Artist, and began to pour it without waiting for our answer. Boggis eyed the greenish liquid suspiciously. ‘Captain Hardwick, is it?’ our host asked.

The door closed softly behind us. I sized up the two guards in case the meeting turned out to be an elaborate trap.

‘You have me at a disadvantage, sir; you are the Artist?’ I asked, though I already knew the answer.

‘I am. Though you may call me Tsun Pen.’ His answer threw me—I had lingered under the impression that the Artist never gave his true name to outsiders.

‘Your coming was foretold,’ said Tsun Pen, ‘though you have found your way to me sooner than expected. That is to your credit. It shows that you are a tenacious and inquisitive man.’

‘I am sorry, sir, but I do not understand. How is it that you know me? And what do you know of my business here?’ It was not lost on me that he was ignoring Boggis entirely.

Tsun Pen smiled, like a crocodile. ‘Your intentions, Captain, are quite transparent. And you have spent your short time in England blundering around the city getting into all sorts of mischief, have you not? You leave a trail that even a lesser broker of intelligence could follow. As to how I know you… well, surely your employers have confided in you the nature of my relationship with them?’

‘There is no “relationship” between you and the Crown,’ said Boggis, irked.

‘Oh, come now, officer,’ cooed the Artist, ‘I would wager that whatever agency you work for has at some point received assistance from me.’

‘Then you have contact with the authorities?’ I asked, agitated both with the Artist’s coyness and Boggis’ interruption. ‘Are you some kind of agent too?’

‘Oh, good heavens no! I am a broker of information, Captain Hardwick, and as such it is my business to know all, before anyone else. Nothing happens in this city without my knowledge. Nothing can happen without my having foreseen it.’

‘Do you claim that your web of intelligence is akin to some kind of psychic intuition?’ I knew as I was speaking that I was being led from my original goal, and that I was in danger of breaching etiquette by allowing my annoyance with the man to get the better of me, but something in his manner brought out the worst in me.

‘Call it what you will, Captain—the result is the same. Can you imagine what someone in government would pay to learn the location of enemy spies or troop movements abroad? Or the cipher for a particular code? Better yet, what would it be worth to them to learn of the indiscretions of their key rivals? Do you have any idea how many secrets lurk behind every single front door in this city of corruption? And I, Captain Hardwick, see all.’ There was something musical about his softly accented voice, and coupled with the subdued lights and frowsty incense, the effect was almost entrancing. It was difficult to concentrate, but I forced myself to alertness.

‘I see,’ I said. ‘You ply information for profit, and you also take money to keep information secret. In some circles, that would be called blackmail.’

‘I do not doubt. Some of what I do may even be called treason, which in a way is why you are here, Captain, and why you bristle so in my presence. You have come to learn secrets, to which only I am privy. Perhaps, by selling you information of such import, I can redeem myself in your eyes? Or perhaps, by paying the piper, you become more like me.’

‘You realise that I am here on a mission of utmost importance to the security of England, and to the Empire? To withhold information pertinent to my investigation would be… unwise.’ I channelled the very tone that Tsun Pen had thus far taken with me, to make it clear that there would be repercussions if he did not comply. He looked unflustered.

‘Captain, there is no need for this dance of words. I have willingly helped every servant of the Crown ever to pass through my doors… oh yes, you are not the first, despite what you may have heard.’ Had he somehow sensed my surprise? ‘Look around you, Captain Hardwick. These are not the trappings of a man of unimaginable wealth, luxuriating in comfort provided by the British government. These are adequate lodgings for a man of… modest means. I ask a fair price for my talents, and I resist permanent employment by your superiors because I am… unwell, and wish to be left alone. I keep my own counsel, and if my intelligence is to be believed, you would be wise to do the same when you and I part company.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Only that, for a man on the trail of a secret organisation, you seem terribly trusting of everyone you meet. Have you stopped to think about the number of agencies already involved in your investigation? Have you stopped to truly consider who you can trust?’

‘This man is notorious for his lies, sir,’ Boggis whispered to me, not quietly enough.

‘Indeed?’ asked the Artist. ‘When you return to your club, Captain Hardwick, I urge you to look at the list of members. Why not ask Mr. Ruskin about his dealings with me, and how much I have spoken the truth—truth that has assisted your order in many affairs. If I am so untrustworthy, why do the authorities not only allow my presence in the city, but facilitate business transactions between myself and certain notable figures in society? What if I were to tell you that I am paid well by the likes of Lord Hartington, Henry Irving, and even Gladstone, for information that has proven time and again invaluable to them? What if—’

But the Artist was cut short. Before I knew what was happening, Boggis had leapt to his feet and launched himself across the table. There was something gleaming in his hand—a pocket pistol. He must have had up his sleeve one of those contraptions so beloved of sneak thieves and roguish gamblers, and the tiny gun had been propelled into his hand by means of a spring-loaded mechanism. Boggis had planned for this moment, and he was going for the Artist with murder in his heart. In that dream-like room, everything seemed to happen too slowly. I called out, but Boggis paid no heed. I saw one of the bodyguards fling himself in Boggis’ path as the teapot and cups flew across the floor. The other guard hauled the Artist backwards whilst the first wrestled with the policeman. The pistol went off, fired into the air. There could be no more than two bullets in such a concealed weapon, but Boggis quickly sank the celestial who grappled with him with a low blow, and took aim at the Artist.

I have no idea how I came to be on my feet. I do not remember standing, nor leaping at Boggis. I do not know why I knocked his arm aside as he pulled the trigger, or why I dealt the man a blow across the face that sent him reeling backwards. None of those actions seemed my own; I was driven by instinct, and I prayed that my instinct was right.

The Artist was cowering in the corner of the room, cushions scattered around him. The guard who had been with him at once joined the other one, and the pair of them restrained Boggis. Even as they did so, the door was thrown open and Larry Ecclestone tumbled through it, two more guards holding onto his arms and doing a poor job of restraining him.

‘Gerroff me!’ he roared. ‘I’ll bloody do for the lot of yer!’

‘Larry, stop!’ I shouted. ‘Boggis has tried to kill the Artist, and unless you want to be up for treason too, you’d better stand down.’ I commanded him as I would have done a member of my company back East, and it seemed to do the trick.

Larry looked around the room and took stock of the situation, then straightened up and shrugged off the attentions of the guards. I saw Clegg peering through the door behind them, indecisively.

‘Did you have any part of this, Larry?’ I asked. He shook his head, and gawped at the Artist. I realised that to Larry, Tsun Pen was a ghost—a fable of the East End streets, and a terrible thing to behold.

‘Tsun Pen,’ I said, turning to the man who was trying to compose himself after the shock of the attack, ‘I must beg your forgiveness. Neither I nor my other companions had any idea of Sergeant Boggis’ intentions. I promise you there will be a full inquest into the matter, but we must conclude our business today. Lives depend on it.’ It wasn’t much of a persuasive argument, but it was all I could think of in the moment.

Another guard went over to Tsun Pen, and helped him to his feet. I stepped backwards involuntarily when the Artist stood, for he no longer seemed the frail, small man he had previously appeared. The low ceiling perhaps flattered my host, but the Artist now appeared a giant of a man. He moved awkwardly, and I presumed that he suffered from an ailment of the joints that so often afflicts those of prodigious height.

‘Captain Hardwick, I have been a gracious host, have I not? I always try to extend the hospitality that my forebears pride themselves upon, and yet I fear that this is not the first attempt on my life. Remember that I told you to be careful whom you trust. There are agencies who would stop at nothing to learn the things that I know, or to silence me once and for all. Some of those agencies are in allegiance with your own. Others are not entirely…
on our side
.’

He stressed those words, and I shuddered. He knew.

‘This man… this “Boggis”; I know not whom he works for, but I can hazard several guesses. Perhaps my old friend William Melville has sent his compliments this day; or perhaps this man is one of them.’

My heart sank. What a fool I’d been—if these Othersiders could infiltrate our world with relative ease, then how much had I confided in the wrong people? I thought of Ambrose, of Jim Denny, Arthur Furnival… even Sir Toby himself. I had embraced these people who were virtual strangers to me, latched onto them because I felt like a stranger in my own country. My naivety mighthave cost me dear. I looked at Boggis with disappointment in my eyes, but he had only venom in his.

‘I’m no traitor,’ he snarled. ‘Captain, if you trust this man you’re a bigger fool than I took you for. He’s a viper, and we’ll all be dead before the night’s through if you let them take me away.’