The Lazarus Gate (6 page)

He puffed on his cigar, and turned back to the window. I let his words sink in, forcing myself to focus on the details, the nuances. Sir Toby would not be the type of man to say anything without certainty of its effect, and I was not prepared to let him trick or cajole me before I knew what I was letting myself in for.

‘I take your point, Sir Toby,’ I said. ‘But you talk of the Empire as if it is in real danger. From within or without? And even if I were to join your group, whatever that may be, I cannot believe that the fate of our nation rests on the decision. I am—was—a simple soldier. It sounds as if you are speaking of spies; espionage and secrets.’

Sir Toby did not turn around. He swilled his whisky around his glass and took a sip.

‘As I intimated previously, our group represents various government agencies, from the constabulary and the judiciary through to other, less public departments. We meet here, and exchange information here, in the closed quarters of the Apollonian. We have resources at this place that our enemies and rivals could only dream of. We are represented by Apollo Lycea, the sigil of our justice, and have been for many years.’ He paused to stub out his cigar. ‘Did you know that the statue of Apollo at the front of this building was once empty-handed? Now, he holds a bow. The layman knows little of such ancient symbolism, but the golden bow represents our group. In the Lycean Apollo, the god of light, truth and prophecy becomes the god of archery, and a protector against the many evils of this world. Wherever you see the symbol of Apollo Lycea in this city, know that you have found a sanctuary from the wolves that beset the doors of the Empire. We are the Order of Apollo; warriors of an otherwise benign society; the right hand of the Crown.’

He looked at me with a flicker of emotion in his eyes. I thought it a sign of passion, which would ordinarily have been endearing in such an otherwise cold and emotionless man, but in this case I was taken aback by the bombast of his words.

‘With all due respect, Sir Toby, I do not understand why you would consider me equal to the task. I am barely fit again after my ordeal, and I am no longer a serviceman.’

‘Captain Hardwick,’ said Sir Toby, more gently, ‘you are of greater use in this matter than you can possibly imagine. Look here.’

Sir Toby took up a dossier from his desk and placed it in front of me. I opened the cover and flipped through the first few sheets of paper, and realised that it contained a comprehensive account of my service history.

‘You have dealt with some of the most dangerous rebels in the Empire, helping to secure peace for an entire province of southern Burma. You have fought well on two different continents in three separate campaigns. You have encountered more than one group for whom the sowing of seeds of terror is a viable tactic. More tellingly, Captain, you have been through a trauma that would test the mettle of even the strongest-willed soldier, and you have not been found wanting. You are here, and whether or not you are physically recovered, you appear mentally sound, which means you have exactly the fortitude that I require… that your country requires.’ He looked at me fixedly.

‘Sir Toby, whatever reluctance I may have to resume active duty, I would never knowingly turn my back on my country. But I must know more. What exactly are you asking me to do?’

‘I am asking you to investigate, Captain. Investigate and, if necessary, infiltrate this group of anarchists. Unearth as much about them as you can, aid our agents in the capture of these cravens… in short, turn your entire attention to this case, and bring it to a satisfactory close.’

‘Infiltrate…’ I muttered. My mind wandered at once back to Burma. Back behind enemy lines, and back to darkness. I pulled my attention to the room once more, eyeing the old man warily. ‘I am afraid, Sir Toby, that my initial appraisal of your letter may have been correct. You must have me confused with someone else.’

‘I am never confused,’ he said flatly.

‘Well then, perhaps you misjudged me. Despite your rather flattering appraisal of my service history, I joined the army too late. I never rose past captain; and beyond surviving Burma I do not believe I particularly distinguished myself. Though I miss army life, certainly, I do not seek a return to active duty. I want to go about my business, to write my memoirs, to embrace society, to—’

‘To follow in your father’s footsteps?’ This was the second time he had cut me short, and the second time his words had felt like a slap to the face.

‘My father?’ was all I could manage to say. Marcus Hardwick had been a man of action, who had served for most of his adult life in India, Egypt, China and Afghanistan. As a boy I had longed for those times when he returned home on leave, thrilling at his stories of adventure in far-off lands and playing for many blissful hours with the strange gifts he brought back for me. Yet later on, in his eyes, I had spent too many years doing too little, struggling with university life and trying to write for a living despite his disapproval, which had been copious.

‘He was one of ours, too. A good man, who gave his life for the cause. I understand he has seen you well provided for now that he is gone.’

How could he possibly have known about my father’s affairs? He was either telling the truth about my father’s affiliation with the Apollonian, or had been spying on me. Even then I suspected both were true.

‘My father died in Afghanistan, ignominiously in his bed, the day after the battle of Kandahar,’ I said.

‘And for thirty years up to that point he was a member of this club; an agent of Apollo Lycea; and my friend. In thirty years, he never shied from his duty, on the field or off it. He breathed not a word of his double life to anyone, least of all his family. I do not believe that your mother, Dora, God rest her soul, ever knew that your father was an agent of the Crown as well as a superb soldier. As I understand it, he pushed you around from pillar to post, never laying down roots, moving to wherever his next assignment took him.’

I looked at Sir Toby in disbelief. He was telling me of my father’s double life as what? A spy? And he was doing it as if it were as natural as breathing.

‘I am sorry that you never got to know that man as I knew him, John. I am sorry your childhood was not a perfect one. I am especially sorry for the loss of your dear sister, for it must have grieved you as much as it did Marcus. She was a sweet child, and no mistake.’

That, too, struck a nerve. I had been a solitary child; the loss of my one true childhood friend, my sister Lillian—Lily, we called her—had made me an awkward boy, happy to spend hours alone with only books and my imagination for company. The tragedy destroyed our mother, but if her passing had affected my father, he had not shown it. He had provided for me well enough, certainly, but his expectation was always that I would follow him into the army. When I began to show ambition for following a literary path he had dismissed me as a fool and a dreamer. My mother passed away before my twenty-first year, a shadow of her former self. It pains me how cold my father had been towards me at the funeral. We had not spoken after that day, and the next time I heard any word of him at all was when a young ensign had brought me the telegram informing me of his death in Afghanistan. At that time I was already struggling financially and academically, and it had dawned on me that I needed to reconcile my memories of him, to follow in his footsteps and perhaps redeem myself in his eyes. I had written a letter to Horse Guards the next day, and before long I was commissioned a subaltern in the Sixteenth Lancers, the Queen’s Own; his regiment, with his reputation to live up to.

‘Be under no illusion,’ Sir Toby said, seeing the pain writ large across my features, ‘your father was a good man; a noble man. He saved countless lives across the globe. He once saved my life, if you can believe an old man like me could ever see any kind of action.’

I could believe it. Sir Toby may have been old, but he still looked formidable.

‘As his son,’ the old man continued, ‘I know there is more to you than meets the eye. In fact, a letter found its way to me last week from Colonel Swinburne in Rangoon. He writes that you showed remarkable fortitude in the face of indescribable hardships; that you survived where lesser men would have perished; and that he is confident that, through it all, you betrayed no secrets of any value to the enemy. That, my boy, is not the description of an officer who has never distinguished himself. It is the description of an exceptional soldier, and a dutiful one at that.’

‘This is all rather a lot to take in, Sir Toby,’ I said, wavering.

‘Indeed it is. And I will tell you all that you need to know in good time—about your father, and the work that he did. But for now, Captain Hardwick, I must have an answer. Are you with us?’

When I next spoke, his eyes fair glittered with triumph. He knew he had me.

‘Supposing I take the job. To whom will I report, sir, if I may be so bold?’ I addressed him as if he were my senior officer, quite deliberately.

‘This is not an orthodox position I am offering you, Captain Hardwick. There will be no headquarters, no barracks, nor even an office. You will have considerable freedom to conduct your enquiries as you see fit, without the need to hand in reports every five minutes. To assist you, all the resources of this club will be at your disposal. If you accept the post you may consider yourself an honorary member and come and go as you please. Your membership will remain active as long as you get results; after all, in order to keep you on the books indefinitely, some other poor so-and-so will be blackballed. We can’t sponsor you out of charity.’ He paused for a moment, smiling to himself. It is lucky that I took no offence, as he was not about to apologise. ‘Some of the other members will be engaged in similar duties to yourself,’ he continued, ‘and these will make themselves known to you in good time. Such men are of the highest calibre—some even have the ear of the Palace—so you can be sure they can be trusted. Discuss the case with them freely, ask for their aid when necessary, and report to me only when you feel you cannot proceed alone. I shall put my trust in you to do your duty in this matter.’

‘Then you presume that I will accept?’ I said, trying to maintain all due respect and not a little composure in my tone. Sir Toby had given me very little in the way of explanation as to the nature of this new venture, and yet he turned his head to me, with a flicker of a smile on his lips as if I had said something amusing.

‘My dear boy,’ he said, ‘how could you refuse?’

* * *

Sir Toby suggested that I familiarise myself with the club immediately. To that end, Holdsworth introduced me to the club secretary, Albert Carrington, in order to have my honorary membership ratified. Carrington was an officious man in his late middle ages, and such a stickler for procedure as I had never encountered outside the army stores. I was told that I would have to wait at least a week for my papers and business cards, including a certificate of my induction into ‘Sir Toby’s order’; however, Carrington signed a docket endorsing a temporary membership, allowing me free run of the magnificent building in the meantime.

After regaling me with a list of benefits of membership and club rules, some fascinating, others tedious, Carrington informed me that I was to dine with an established member of ‘the order’, and that this man would ‘show me the ropes’. It was a minor imposition, but I was eager to have answers to some of the many questions that were filling my mind, not to mention the fact that I was famished after a busy day.

* * *

My first impression of Ambrose Hanlocke, my dinner companion that evening, was not entirely a favourable one. I had expected a military man, one of Sir Toby’s stiff-collared ‘warriors’ of Apollo, but the man sitting in the formal dining room was anything but. He was no older than me, I guessed, tall and rakish, with oiled black hair and a well-groomed moustache. He was immaculately dressed in fine evening wear, though he appeared a little too debonair for the austere, Regency refinement of the surroundings. From the moment he spoke, I decided that Ambrose Hanlocke was a rogue, albeit a likeable one. It would not be long before I discovered just how right I was.

The dinner was magnificent; fine food prepared by a French chef in four courses, with good wine. It was the best meal I had eaten in many a year, and I think perhaps it showed. Ambrose leaned over to pass comment during the fish course.

‘That’s the thing about the club,’ he said, waving his knife to indicate the surroundings, ‘cheap to those who can afford it, off limits to those who can’t. I eat like a king in here at least once a week, for no more than the cost of my membership—in other words, John, such luxury is free to the likes of you and me.’

I smiled politely. Ambrose made no real effort to keep his voice down, and I was sure he was being more crude than would be considered acceptable by the clientele.

‘Mind you, it wasn’t so long ago that the quality of the food in here was rum, to say the least,’ he continued. ‘Positively rag and famish; may as well have dined at the bloody Reform Club. Still, this new Frenchie knows how to cook. Parisian, you see; bit too much sauce for my tastes, but bloody good all the same.’

‘Have you been a member for long?’ I asked, hoping to turn Ambrose from his bullish course of conversation.

‘Six years,’ he replied, before stuffing a forkful of sole into his mouth. ‘Or is it seven? I forget—a while, anyhow.’ He mumbled his words, his mouth half full of food.

‘And you make regular use of the facilities?’

‘Too right old chap, and I recommend you do the same!’ he remarked. ‘The Apollonian is like a palace—in fact, I’ll wager it’s better than most palaces; all Portland stone, marble, electric chandeliers and plush ottomans. Imagine the cost of running such a home—yet for ten guineas a year we have joint proprietorship of all this. The library, coffee rooms and fine dining… everything. We have footmen in livery, mosaic floors and antique silverware. We can order wine from the stores that would cause the head waiter at the Savoy to question the extravagance. In short, John, everything is of the best, and it costs next to nothing.’ He grinned, and finished off his fish with gusto.