The Lazarus Gate (51 page)

‘I’m afraid there were some… discrepancies… in your report,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you understand that we have to clear them up, for due diligence and all that.’ I nodded, and it began to dawn on me where the conversation might be headed. Sir Toby was back at his desk, and the folio he had been reading when I arrived was open once more. ‘You say that after you escaped the Artist and were shot by Lazarus, you were pulled out of the Thames by a passer-by, and later made for your old home in Kent to plan your next move. The thing is, John, the army surgeon says that your shoulder wound was grievous, and that you must have been treated by a professional. That being the case, it is strange that the identity of the man who saved you, not to mention this surgeon, are missing from your report. It is the least detailed section of your account, and it seems to me that you were most careful not to mention who helped you. It seems rather remiss, don’t you think?’

I had half expected the question to come, but was still unprepared for Sir Toby’s withering gaze. I hesitated too long before giving my rehearsed response. ‘The men who helped me were not strictly operating on the right side of the law at the time. In return for their help, I swore on my honour as an officer and a gentleman that I would not mention their names in my report. As such, I had hoped that I would not be pressed on the matter.’ I said it as confidently as I could, each word chosen to evade further questioning; but Sir Toby was more determined than most, and infinitely more well-informed.

‘I would not dream of compromising your honour, John, unless I felt it was gravely important. The report of Captain Denny, not to mention the sworn statements of two Metropolitan police constables and six soldiers, make mention of a gang of armed gypsies seemingly under your command, running around London during the attempted invasion. One of those gypsies was recognised by a policeman as a suspect in an unsolved murder inquiry. Tell me, John; were these gypsies the men who saved your life? Is it them you are trying to protect?’

I considered my answer carefully, and decided that the closer I could make my statement to the truth, the better it would go. ‘It is, Sir Toby. The men who helped me were gypsies, yes, working illegally on the docks when they found me face down in the Thames. I do not believe any of them capable of murder, and they showed enormous courage and self-sacrifice to assist me against the Othersiders.’

‘John, whether you believe they are murderers or not, the fact remains that we have a number of fugitives loose in England who bore witness to the May Day battle. We have taken great pains to cover up all knowledge of the Othersiders—not an easy task, with half a burning ship floating down the river, I’m sure you’ll agree—and we can’t now have loose ends. We need to bring these men in, if only to debrief them. I presume you know where they’re camped?’

As it happened, I knew exactly where they were camped, as they were probably still awaiting the gathering of Romani from across the Channel in order to conduct Elsbet’s funeral, but I did not want Sir Toby to know that. ‘Roughly,’ I said, ‘but you know what gypsies are like. Always on the move, you see.’

‘Quite, quite. Regardless, though, we will have to conduct a thorough search of the area and bring them in for questioning. I imagine you’ll be wanting to get back to Kent anyway, won’t you, to see your Indian bride?’ He looked up at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows, his pale eyes piercing my soul. I did not know what to say to that, and even as I began my protestations, he cut me off. ‘John, you were not exactly discreet whilst you were in Kent, and although it took us a while to find out all about your movements, intelligence did eventually reach us. I have not yet pieced together every part of your lost weeks, but a picture is becoming clearer. That you became involved with a gypsy girl is no concern of mine; spies do all sorts of things in the line of duty, and are only human after all. That you would seek to hide all mention of these gypsies from me, however, is troubling. And then of course, there is this.’ Sir Toby produced a battered pocket-book from his desk drawer, and my heart sank when I saw that it was the one I had entrusted to Mrs. Whitinger to send to Jim.

‘Do not worry, John,’ said Sir Toby. ‘Under the circumstances, it was quite prudent that you should send this to Captain Denny, but all intelligence wends its way back here in the end. I’ve had our boys take a look at this again. There are gypsies named on these lists, and I wondered if they might be the self-same group.’

‘I’m sure I do not know,’ I said. But I suspected that they were—the Othersiders only concerned themselves with proven mediums, and I had met none so powerful or accomplished as the Five Sisters.

‘Are you trustworthy, John?’

‘Of course!’ I was outraged by the question, and blindsided by Sir Toby’s mounting evidence. I struggled to keep my feelings in check. ‘Haven’t I proved that?’

‘You have, John, yes. But when a man harbours secrets from us, it is like that they will grow into hidden agendas. When that happens… well, you don’t have to look far to see the results, do you?’

‘I am not my father,’ was all I could say.

‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Sir Toby. ‘But you have the same background, the same motivations… and by your own admission you had contact with this “Lillian Hardwick” whilst in Kent. When faced with your sister, seemingly returned from the grave, you may well have had the same feelings that your father had upon meeting her. No, John, I am not saying you are a traitor, but I am saying that you are a man, and that sometimes men can be weak.’

‘Not I, not this time. I did my duty.’

‘And you did it very well; exceptionally so. You never did say how exactly you came by your intelligence about the date of the invasion. I understand that you discerned the location from the Artist’s paintings, but beyond that… it seems quite a stretch for you to be in the right place at the right time, with Hanlocke captured and a dozen gypsy gunmen in tow.’

‘I did not glean any information from Otherside informants, if that is what you mean, Sir Toby.’

‘No, I don’t believe you did. Sir Arthur Furnival believes that you must have had help of an even more… esoteric kind; a pretty young gypsy fortune-teller, perhaps?’

I flushed, and this must have given me away. ‘Again… even if that is true, then it matters not. We achieved the right result; the Empire is saved. I would rather let these gypsies go on their way in peace—it is the least we can offer them in return for their help.’

‘Damn it, man!’ Sir Toby snapped at me. ‘Have you any idea of the forces you’re toying with? Were you not paying attention at the docks? Your own observations proved the truth of the Othersiders’ claims: that their world is a living hell, being somehow consumed by powers beyond their ken. That was caused by psychics, and witches, and all these other lunatics who claim to see the future, or conduct occult rituals in their mansions at the weekend. Just because the Lazarus Gate is closed does not necessarily mean we are safe; if what Sir Arthur says is true, then the psychics of this world are experiencing something hitherto unheard of, some kind of mass vision. Perhaps they’re heralding the same disaster that claimed the other side. Do you see now? If you encountered a genuine psychic on your travels, then you had best come clean about it now, because at best they will know more than we would like them to, and at worst they could be a short fuse connected to a very large bomb.’ I stared at him in disbelief, but his glowering eyes were unreadable.

‘Perhaps I can sweeten the pot,’ he said at last, his tone softening. ‘It is not our custom to leave our best agents unrewarded for a job well done. You were willing to walk out of here empty-handed, and I respect your humility, though I do not think it would have been very fair. I have already had the paperwork drawn up and signed; it is up to you whether or not you’re ready to earn it.’ He may as well have been speaking in riddles, but he took two pieces of paper from his desk drawer and passed them to me. One was signed by Lieutenant-General Sir George Byng Harman, the Military Secretary, and the other by Sir Henry Ponsonby. I scanned the words and my head began to swim.

‘What does this mean?’

‘It means, John, that if you step out of your father’s shadow and do your duty, then the card I handed you earlier will cease to be the lot of your double on the other side, and instead become your own. How does “Colonel Sir John Hardwick” sound?’

‘Sir?’

‘I have called Apollo Lycea an order many times, have I not? A knightly order, John; as ancient and proud as the Templars. The Order of Apollo answers to the Crown, and the Crown rewards its soldiers well.’

‘But to earn my promotion, I must break my word and betray my honour?’

‘No. You must choose not to betray your country, and lead us to the people you so evidently care about, for their own good.’

I thought of Elsbet’s double lying in the order’s secret facility. I thought of the things I had seen at the gypsy camp. The Five Sisters had, through their ritual, torn a hole in the fabric of reality, or so it had appeared to me. If Sir Arthur’s babbling about ‘psychic resonance’ was to be believed, their powers would now only be increased. I remembered Rosanna’s angry words to me. ‘If you do not return with Elsbet, do not return at all.’ I shuddered at the thought of reuniting this Elsbet with her kin; at the thought of that great shadow on the sky appearing over my London.

‘Sir Toby, can you promise me that they will be treated fairly?’ I asked, heart-sick for even contemplating it. ‘Without them I could not have completed the assignment, and I shudder to think what would have happened.’

‘You have my word, John. Now, complete your report.’ He turned his writing slope around to face me, and my report was upon it, his own handwritten notes filling the margins. He placed a supplementary statement sheet within the folio, and slid the whole lot to me across the desk. I took up a pen and stared at the blank sheet of paper. I had no idea whether or not Rosanna would understand my reasons, but I hated to think of her in distress because of those terrible visions. She would be brought into custody for her own protection, I was sure, and I would use my powers as an agent of Apollo Lycea to bring us together again. As for the others… Sir Toby promised fairness, and I had no reason to doubt the old man. And so, knowing that I would change the fate of those gypsies who had so laudably helped me, I amended my report and handed it back to Sir Toby.

What I did was not to secure a promotion. I would gladly have handed in my commission there and then would it have done any good. In part I did it to protect Rosanna and her sisters from the terrible fate that the Othersiders had suffered; a fate that I had seen with my own eyes, and that haunted me every moment of every day. But I knew in my heart of hearts that my real reason was to prove that I was not my father’s son; that Apollo Lycea could always rely on me to do what was needed. That the Hardwick name could be relied upon to do the right thing, for Queen and country.

As I left the Apollonian that night, I felt wretched.

* * *

That, I suppose, should have been the end of my tale. But of course, there was the matter of Rosanna and her people. I am sure that Sir Toby had told the truth—those gypsies with a price on their heads were rounded up and given a fair trial—but ‘fair’ does not necessarily mean ‘just’. I discovered only recently that Gregor was found guilty of murder, and is to hang; for all my influence now there is nothing I can do to stop it. Many of the Romani were apprehended and treated roughly—some of the children were taken away from their parents, who were adjudged incapable of looking after them, and they were promptly sent to the workhouse, where I can only imagine they endure a harsher life than any they could experience on the road. A young woman matching the description of her sister, Nadya, was arrested. I did not know—and had never bothered to ask—if Rosanna’s sisters had ever been involved in criminal activity. Nadya had briefly worked in service to a family in Dorset, and when she left to return to her people, her mistress had informed the constabulary that several valuable pieces of jewellery had gone missing. I had no way of knowing if the accusations were true or not, but Nadya was sent to a women’s prison nonetheless, on the word of a rich old woman who could have been senile or bigoted or both. Of Rosanna, there has been no word. As far as I know, she has not been found, and remains high on the order’s list of targets.

The very incident that caused me to set down this adventure on paper happened four weeks ago. I had returned to my lodgings after a night at the Army & Navy Club—the ‘Rag’, as Ambrose would have called it—which I now frequent in lieu of the Apollonian. Unlike the irrepressible Mr. Hanlocke, I could not bring myself to treat my place of employment as a club after everything that had happened. As I staggered upstairs to my room, perhaps a little worse for wear after one too many glasses of Tokay, Mrs. Whitinger had called to me. This was most unusual, as the hour was late and she was normally early to bed. She had for me a letter, in an envelope that was unaddressed save for a name—‘Hardwick’. She informed me that the letter was hand-delivered by an impudent boy. ‘If I didn’t know better,’ she’d told me, ‘I’d have sworn he was a little gypsy boy, the rascal.’

Those words made my heart beat harder in my chest. I thanked Mrs. Whitinger, and bade her goodnight. In my room, I sat staring at the envelope, almost not daring to open it. It smelt faintly of lavender perfume, and I realised that I had a tear in my eye.

Cursing myself for a fool, I tore open the envelope. Inside I found a card—my card, dirty and dog-eared. The very card, I believed, that had taken a swim with me in the Thames, and had been used by Gregor and William to identify me. On the back of it, inscribed in a small, neat hand, were the following words:

I was wrong. You are Compeyson, and I am Miss Havisham. I should have left you in the river to meet with the fate that was written. I curse the day we met.

The writing was smudged, and I fancied it was by her tears, shed with passion as she wrote. I could not shake the image from my mind, that the tears of joy that I would perhaps have once inspired were now ones of bitterness, sorrow and hatred. I had made her cry, after I had sworn that I would never in my life do as much.