The Lazarus Gate (33 page)

I did not argue. Rosanna cleaned my wounds and applied ointment and fresh bandages. The bullet wound did not look so bad, and I once again counted my lucky stars that I had survived. In fact, I did not feel too bad at all, though I remembered why most suddenly, when Rosanna held up a laudanum bottle, with half its contents gone.

‘Where did you get this?’ she asked, her smile gone, her eyes cold.

‘I… for the pain…’ I was too ashamed to explain.

‘I have seen these marks, John Hardwick,’ she said, grabbing my good arm to indicate the needle-marks, some of which were still fresh from the Artist’s torture-room. ‘This is the last thing you need, no? Now where did you get it?’

‘Willem,’ I said, sorrowfully. ‘He was doing me a kindness. He did not know.’ I hung my head. The moods came over me too easily when I was under the influence of that hateful drug, and I shifted from high spirits to despair in an instant. I already felt wretched, for the crude form of opium that laudanum represents provided only fleeting relief from the weight of the world, bringing in return the emptiness of lucidity and physical hunger more quickly than the pure form of the drug.

I felt a soft hand on my chin, and Rosanna turned my face to within an inch of her own.

‘There will be no more, my Captain,’ she said softly. ‘You are stronger than you think. Stronger than this. Choose to be happy and healthy, here with us—with me—and it will be so. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ I said. She stroked my face and stood, and as she left the tent and I stared after her rare beauty, I believed it.

Less than an hour later, she returned, and we breakfasted on unleavened bread, fried mushrooms and peppery morsels of game. I had no idea what the meat was, and decided it was best not to know—the previous day I was sure I had seen hedgehogs and squirrels amongst the hunters’ haul.

That day, I left the tent unaided, and Rosanna walked next to me around the camp rather than acting as my crutch. I had slept late, and there was hardly a soul to be seen. The day was remarkably mild—we were worlds away from the torrential rain of London, it seemed—and the air smelt of charcoal smoke, morning dew and sweet summer meadows. When I asked where everyone was, Rosanna told me that they were at work; the men were cutting wood, or hunting, or labouring on nearby farms. The older women were down by the stream washing clothes or fetching clean water, whilst the younger women walked the long miles into the villages to sell flowers, charms and scents, or look for work further afield in factories. Even the children worked, grooming the horses and tidying the camp. I suspected that a good few were making a nuisance of themselves in the villages, too, though I held my tongue. Everyone had a duty to perform, it seemed, except for me. When I voiced my concern that I was imposing on the Romani hospitality, Rosanna smiled sweetly and said: ‘But Captain Hardwick, you are providing work for me. My own days of idleness are over now that I have you to tend to.’

We were interrupted presently by two girls, who greeted Rosanna cheerily. I recognised them from the previous evening.

‘John, these are my sisters, Nadya and Elsbet,’ Rosanna said, introducing each in turn. There was certainly a family resemblance—Nadya was perhaps twenty years old if that, and Elsbet was barely sixteen I guessed. They were pretty, full of laughter, and they spoke with Rosanna most excitedly. They slipped into some cant of their own language at times, and it was hard for me to follow. Elsbet giggled throughout the exchange like a dizzy schoolgirl, and occasionally looked at me in a strange fashion that I could not interpret. When they had done with their gossip, the two younger sisters went on their way, leaving Rosanna and me to continue our walk.

‘Two more of the Five Sisters,’ I said. ‘They are not quite what I expected.’

‘Oh,’ Rosanna said, cocking her head. ‘What did you expect?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Perhaps I thought they’d be more…serious.’

Rosanna laughed long at this. I seemed to make her laugh a lot, though never intentionally. In fact, I’d never known anyone laugh so much.

‘What’s so funny?’ I enquired.

‘You are, John Hardwick. I’ve never known a man so sombre. Tell me, are all men like this in London?’

I thought on this for a moment, before replying: ‘More or less.’ That just made her laugh again.

‘I am the oldest of the Five Sisters,’ she explained. If any of us should be “serious”, it is me, because all the responsibility for the family is mine. But none of us here is sorrowful—we have good lives, freedom, fresh air and good companions. And my sisters are in the bloom of youth, unmarried and carefree. What do they have to be serious about?’

‘It’s just that I… I heard that you fulfil an important role in the camp. I wondered if the responsibility would sit heavily on the shoulders of someone so young.’

‘You have been talking to Willem, and Willem talks too much. He is new here, and he does not understand our ways; not yet. Later you will meet my other two sisters, and you will see for yourself how happy they all are. Perhaps they can teach an old soldier how to lighten his heart, no?’

She skipped ahead, glancing playfully over her shoulder at me, enticing me to follow. With that, the subject was changed to lighter topics, and she would brook no more talk of her sisters or her own ‘responsibility’. I was far too polite to ask her openly about ‘the Sight’, not to mention too reluctant to spoil the moment by gleaning answers that I did not want to hear.

* * *

When our walk was over, Rosanna made me a cup of nettle tea and left me to sit for a spell in the centre of the camp. A little boy, no older than five (though I’ve never been good at guessing the age of children) caught my attention. He was hiding underneath a blue-painted caravan, pulling faces at me. I pulled one back, and he squealed in delight and ran away.

It occurred to me that I must look a fright, but the boy didn’t seem to mind. In London I doubted very much that my appearance would be so readily accepted as it was here. And that thought led me to wonder what exactly I was doing here at all. It was too easy to stay, to use my scars and wounds as an excuse to shirk my duty. It was equally easy to dismiss my colleagues at the club—especially Hanlocke—as Othersiders. If I could trust no one, not even Sir Toby, who then could I report to? I was anonymous here, and alone. Yes, it was easy to stay, to recuperate, to prepare myself; but at some point I had to face up to my responsibility. And I had to do that before Lazarus, the hateful parody of my father, could achieve his goal.

My woolgathering was soon interrupted, however, by the sound of clattering wagon wheels upon the rough track leading to our clearing. A few gypsies raced towards the newcomers. A brightly coloured caravan trundled into the camp, along with half a dozen horsemen. As I stood to glean a better view of the strangers, I saw a lean man jump down from the caravan, and I watched Rosanna greet him with a hug. He was a handsome man, of a similar age to me, though of a rougher demeanour. I felt a pang of jealousy as he lifted the woman I barely knew from her feet and swung her round as she laughed out loud. I shifted uncomfortably before deciding to walk over and meet the newcomers.

As I drew near to them, it was apparent that Rosanna was telling him about me, and as she spoke to him, her back to me, he fixed me with a most calculating glare from his dark, smouldering eyes. Rosanna must have realised I was approaching, for she turned, still smiling, and took my arm, pulling me over so she could introduce me.

‘John, this is Andre—he helps me to run this troupe,’ she said. ‘Andre has been gone these past two weeks, working in the next county.’

I offered him my hand, but the tall gypsy merely looked me in the eye with callous disregard.

‘You want to be careful,’ he said, turning back to Rosanna and snubbing me completely. ‘This one’s trouble.’

‘Oh Andre, have you forgotten me so quickly? I can handle him.’ Rosanna spoke as though I were not there.

Andre scoffed. I do believe, jealousy aside, that he was the rudest man I’d met since returning to England. Even the Artist had remembered his manners.

‘I know you well, Rosanna. Better than anyone.’ His dark eyes flicked back to me as he said that. Better than anyone. Did he see that I was flustered? Had I in some small way presented myself like a rival for her affections? ‘I’m going to water the horses—we’ll talk more later,’ he said. And with that, he turned his back on us and went about his business.

Rosanna linked my arm with hers and walked me away from the newcomers.

‘Well, of all the…’ I began, but she interrupted me.

‘Do not worry about Andre. He mistrusts strangers, especially townsmen like you. And he is over-protective. You will come to be great friends, I’m sure.’

I did not think that at all likely. ‘Over-protective? Of you?’ I asked, fishing for details of their history.

‘Yes, but it is only natural. After all, we were betrothed once.’

She said it so matter-of-factly that I don’t suppose she even realised the effect her words had on me, nor how my stomach lurched. My reaction surprised even myself.
You barely know the girl
, I told myself again.

‘You said “were”… why did you not marry?’ I tried to appear nonchalant, but I doubt I was successful. Rosanna rather graciously pretended not to notice.

‘Our parents always thought we were a good match, and wanted us to marry. I think we would have, although I always thought of Andre more as a brother than a husband. Then my father died, and my duties to my sisters—and to my people—had to come before marriage.’

‘He still has feelings for you, that much is clear.’

‘Perhaps. Or maybe it is just habit that makes him watch over me so. Now that my sisters are old enough to take care of themselves—and take husbands of their own—Andre thinks our wedding should go ahead. But we don’t love each other; not like that. He clings to the past, when all I see is the future.’

I wondered if I was part of that future, and I wanted to ask her as much, but then I felt foolish again, and instead said nothing, walking with Rosanna in a companionable silence.

‘If you want to make yourself useful,’ she said after a short while, ‘you can help me make a fire. Some of the men will be back from their hunting soon, and they will be hungry.’

I agreed at once—I did not enjoy being treated as an invalid, and any opportunity to earn my keep was welcome. We set to work, gathering the driest twigs and branches from the forest. As we were building the fire, some of the women from the newcomers’ caravan came to help, bringing bundles of newspaper to help kindle the fire, fresh vegetables and jars of herbs. Rosanna greeted them warmly and let them help, but I was aghast when I saw that the first newspaper they had begun to tear up was barely a week old. I stopped them from defacing the precious paper any further, attracting some rather queer looks, and Rosanna quelled their annoyance with some Romani words. But this was a rare treasure indeed—news at last from the outside world.

I quickly became absorbed in the tattered ’paper, whilst Rosanna looked on, doubtless disapproving of how easily distracted I was. The paper was dated 16th April, and I scanned every article, looking for any news on the case. When I found it, I fair held my breath as I read.

LONDON—
The bodies of two of the police officers believed murdered on the Isle of Dogs on Monday have been recovered from the Thames.

Sergeant Samuel Boggis, 37, and Constable Reginald Clegg, 34, were found yesterday evening by a group of mudlarks on the Surrey side of the River. It is believed that they were killed before being thrown into the Thames. Constable Clegg had recently been promoted to Special Branch, your correspondent understands, after distinguishing himself in the pursuit of suspected Fenian anarchists after January’s Bond Street bombing.

Scotland Yard has so far refused to confirm or deny reports that two other officers are still missing in action, presumed dead. However, a statement was made this morning by Detective Inspector Melville of Special Branch. He said: ‘The loss of any officer in the line of duty is always a great tragedy. For two to be found murdered is an outrage. The good people of London should rest assured that no effort will be spared in bringing the perpetrators of these heinous crimes to justice.’

Not bloody likely
, I thought, screwing up the paper in anger. The Artist had sent a dire warning to Scotland Yard, and to Apollo Lycea. He would not have done so were he not confident that he was beyond the law—whatever hold he and his wretched paintings had over the great and the good of England, it was vice-like. Finding myself in a sudden black mood, I stormed off to my tent.

To her credit, Rosanna left me to my own devices for a respectful length of time before following me, newspaper in hand.

‘I wondered what had distressed you, Captain Hardwick, and then I saw it. Are you one of the officers in this story?

I nodded. ‘I am.’

‘Then you should be happy, not angry.’

‘Happy! How can you say that?’ I snapped. ‘The enemies of England run rampant, three good men are dead, and I am here helpless, weak as a kitten and meandering around on woodland walks.’

‘Calm yourself, my Captain,’ Rosanna said, in such a soothing voice that I was stopped in my tracks. ‘It is no good for you to get so excited. I say you should be happy, and indeed you should be. Whether you want to hide from the world or plot your revenge, you can do so at your leisure. After all, everyone who knows you, everyone who hates you or loves you, thinks that you are dead. You are free.’