The Lazarus Gate (12 page)

‘Can’t say as I’m sure about that, sirs. But I thank you for your concern, and I consider it fair warning. I’ll be on me guard from now on.’ There was something about Madam Walpole’s manner that made me suspect her of holding something back.

‘Does that mean you have, or have not, received such visitors?’ I asked, perhaps a little impatiently. Her eyes flicked over to me.

‘Now sir, I can’t rightly recall every Tom, Dick or ’Arry to come through these doors. Seems to me, though, that you’ve done your duty, and warned me about these wretched reporters. If they’ve already been ’ere, then what’s done is done. If they ain’t, then I’ll surely be on the lookout. Now, will that be all, gen’lemen?’

‘Madam, it is of paramount importance that we find these… crooks,’ I said, and even though Ambrose’s muted groan was almost palpable I was not deterred from my course. ‘If you have any information, I am sure we can come to some arrangement to…’

‘Make it worth me while?’ She completed my sentence for me. ‘I’m very sorry sirs, to have put you to any trouble, but I’m afraid I cannot help you further. Please, I must ask you to leave me to my preparations.’ She rose, a little infirmly. I was frustrated at the abrupt end to the interview, but to press her would have been beyond good manners—I could only hope that she would have a change of heart, or that perhaps we could return another time and try to gain her confidence.

Ambrose, however, must have realised that his act had won us little; he stood, thanked our hostess for her hospitality, and was already seeing himself out while I engaged in the farewells. I thanked Madam Walpole for the tea, and followed Ambrose’s lead out into the hall, from where I saw him already engaging the driver of the hansom.

‘Madam Walpole,’ I said, attempting one last gambit so that our time was not completely wasted. ‘Do you know of a local man by the name of Jeffers? A Mr F. W. Jeffers?

‘I ’ave nothing to do with that man—tapped in the head he is. I s’pose you’ll be warning him about these mysterious callers too, will you?’

‘So he is in the same line of work as yourself?’ I said, trying desperately not to sound clueless.

‘Pah! Ee’s no respec’able medium, if that’s what you mean. Fancies ’isself a fortune-teller, ’ee does; thinks ’ee can see the future. Nobody calls on Frank—not if they want to hear any sense.’

I thanked the woman again, and stepped over the threshold. However, though our business was concluded, the medium had not finished with me. She placed a hand on my arm and gently bade me stop. I turned to her, and realised that she was concealing herself from Ambrose’s view in order to take me into her confidence. There was something odd about her in that moment—her eyes were glassy and unfocused. She leaned forwards and whispered to me in her rasping voice.

‘A message for you, for though we have never met I have foreseen your coming.’ Her strong accent was softened—the voice sounded unlike her own.

‘A message, from whom?’ I asked, the merest hint of charlatanry causing me to tire of her elusive nature and mysticism.

‘The sins of the father shall be visited upon the son. There is no escape from the house of the dead.’

I stood for a moment dumbfounded, and looked at the woman uncertainly. I was about to say something else, but she was clearly not about to engage me further. Even as I heard Ambrose brusquely calling me to hurry up about my business, the woman was closing her door.

* * *

I took my seat in the cab, unnerved despite not truly believing Madam Walpole’s theatrics. The hansom rattled away, and I eventually realised that Ambrose was remonstrating with me. He’d had to repeat himself several times before I came to my senses and was able to rebut him in kind.

‘Bloody hell, John, are you even listening to me? I’m not sure you’re fully recovered—perhaps you should go home and leave the interviews to me. We can’t afford to go back empty-handed.’

‘You barely got us through the front door,’ I argued. ‘I feel sure we could have salvaged more from her.

‘No, we wouldn’t. I thought you had experience with interrogation? The thing with people like her is that you must never let them think that the information they possess is of importance to you. As soon as they think there’s something in it for them, or that you’re with the authorities, they’ll clam up tighter than a muckworm’s hatband.’ He was right, though I resented his bluntness. I did have experience of interrogation, of course, but the subject was a sore one for me, and I found myself wondering if Ambrose was alluding to the fact that I had been on the receiving end of enemy questioning rather than conducting it myself.

The cab had not far to go before reaching the next address, but I was glad to save on walking with my leg still sore. We crossed the road and approached a tall, red-brick building with a starboard lean, which made it loom quite alarmingly over the alleyway beside it. The pawn shop at its base was boarded up, and it was hard to tell from the cracked and peeling signage whether or not it was still in business. However, our purpose lay with the occupant of the flat on the second floor, and so we pushed open the battered front door and took the stairs to the address in question. The stairwell smelled foul; a confection of urine and liquor, so strong that Ambrose took out his handkerchief and held it over his face as we climbed. The stairs were hard work for me, and my wounded leg ached, but we soon found ourselves outside the door to flat 143c Commercial Road. I rapped on the door, but received no answer. I rapped again; nothing. Ambrose put his ear to the door and listened intently.

‘Not a sausage old chap,’ he reported. He poked his head over the stair rail and looked first up and then down the stairwell, craning his head to one side as he listened for any movement. He crept back to the door, leaned his cane against the wall, placed his handkerchief on the floor, and knelt down, one knee on the handkerchief. I looked on, bemused, as Ambrose reached into his jacket and pulled out a small roll of leather. He opened it up on the floor, to revealed a set of lockpicks, screwdrivers and skeleton keys.

‘Ambrose!’ I exclaimed—although even now I wonder that I was surprised at all—and was instantly hushed for my trouble.

‘Make yourself useful,’ he whispered, ‘and keep a listen out. If anyone comes, whistle and act naturally. And by naturally, I mean at ease, soldier.’

Ambrose set to work with his pins and lockpicks, deftly manoeuvring them around the lock and listening for the tell-tale sounds of the mechanism’s acquiescence, until before long there was a single, loud click, and Ambrose swung the door open. He looked smug as he waved me inside, and quietly closed the door behind us.

The door led into a dark, cluttered sitting room. The flat itself seemed surprisingly large, but in such an unkempt state that I had to wonder if anyone lived here at all. The curtains were drawn across the two large windows—I opened one pair to let some light into the room, but the last weak rays of the early evening sun found it difficult to pierce the grime-smeared glass. Ambrose looked around the room in disgust, walking silently as a cat whilst poking at piles of books, newspapers and dirty laundry with his cane.

‘I suppose we should make a thorough search now we’re here,’ said Ambrose. ‘I’ll take a look in here, though I don’t know where to start. Call me if you need any help.’

I nodded and moved to the door at the far end of the room. Beyond it was a hallway that reeked of damp and something fouler. Four more doors led off the narrow passage, and the endmost door was ajar, so I went to that one first, listening for any noise within before pushing the door open. I am not sure what I was afraid of; after all, Ambrose and I were working for the Crown. However, I had the strangest feeling of unease being in that horrid, claustrophobic flat, and Ambrose’s eagerness to put us on dubious moral ground had not helped my disquiet.

The room I found myself in was a large bedroom. Again, I threw open the curtains to find discoloured, filthy and cracked sash windows in order to shed light on my search. Of course, I had no idea what I was searching for. Other than the name of the occupant, Mr. Jeffers, we had no information to guide us. All we knew was that he was a so-called psychic, though we had only the word of Madam Walpole on that score. I trod carefully around tall stacks of newspapers—almost exclusively old copies of
Sporting Life
as far as I could tell—interspersed with piles of dirty laundry. I was about to start rummaging through a large chest of drawers, when it occurred to me to ensure that the flat really was empty before continuing. I left the bedroom, and could hear Ambrose carelessly rifling through Jeffers’ belongings in the living room. With a shake of my head, I checked the other rooms, the execrable smell growing stronger as I moved through the flat. I discovered a quite noisome bathroom, a second, sparsely furnished bedroom, and finally a parlour. The room was light and airy compared to the others, with the drapes wide open. However, when I stepped into the parlour the assault on my senses was most unexpected. First, I saw the clear signs of a struggle; the room had been ransacked, broken crockery and ornaments were strewn around the floor, the table was overturned, and a wooden stool was smashed into pieces. Then the smell hit me—the unmistakeable odour of death and decay. Pressing my handkerchief to my mouth, I moved around the room cautiously, but did not have to look far before I saw the man’s body lying on the floor near the window, obscured by a tatty armchair. Flies buzzed around the corpse, which looked many hours old to me, possibly even days. I took my hand away from my mouth just long enough to call to Ambrose, and returned it hastily to stifle a cough.

I looked around for some clue as to what had happened, and was distracted by a red smear on the windowpane. It seemed to have been rubbed across the window by an outstretched hand. The fingermarks in the blood were plain. As I stooped to inspect it, my attention was drawn outwards—the window faced the alleyway outside, and directly across from me was another window from the next building along. There, standing watching me, was a young woman. I had almost not noticed her; I had probably glanced at her before and not realised she was there, for she was clad all in funerary black—black fitted jacket, like a riding coatee over her slender form, high-collared blouse with black ruffs, and dark brown hair fastened back severely beneath a black bonnet. What attracted my attention was her face, a pale, beautiful visage framed against the black of her clothes and the shadows of the room behind her. Her skin was like white marble, shining in the wan evening sunlight, and her large eyes sparkled, almost violet, and yet were utterly impassive. There was something about her manner that was cold and aloof and, although she was pretty, she seemed strangely unfeminine. But, more than that, she was strangely familiar; a figure from a dream half-remembered.

My concentration was broken by a peculiar and incessant vibration, accompanied by a strange noise, a humming sound of ever-increasing pitch. It was faint at first, but was gradually growing louder. How long it had been present, I cannot say, but now it was clear, and getting louder and more shrill by the second.

‘Ambrose!’ I shouted again, and again there was no reply.

I sensed something new and strange. The air in the room seemed to change—even now I find it difficult to describe, but it seemed to cloy, moving like a vista shimmering in intense heat. The shadows around the corners of the room began to grow thicker, and the entire room appeared to ‘bend’, as if viewed through aged glass. The hairs on the back of my hands and wrists were on end, and the velvet drapes began to rise gently, as though being pulled by some unseen force. My eyes were drawn towards the far end of the room, to where the curtains were being attracted; there I saw, as if for the first time, a closed door, which I assumed must lead to a closet of some sort. Incredible as it sounds, I cannot be certain that the door was even there before. Around the edge of the door shone a faint, golden light that spilled from every crack. Worse, as the trilling noise ebbed and flowed in horrid, ululating waves, the door appeared to distort and heave, as though it were breathing. My own breath became ragged, and I thought that I must be hallucinating. I rubbed absently at my left arm, feeling almost sympathetically the prick of McGrath’s syringe once more into my vein.

I snapped my attention back to the window. The girl was still there, but now she was smiling; a sly, sinister smile that chilled me to the core. And she was not alone. She held my gaze, with an expression of triumph on her face, and blew me a kiss before turning away from the window and disappearing out of sight with two other figures dressed in black. Male or female I could not tell. Whoever she was, she was certainly brazen, but I had no time to dwell on her. The noise grew louder still, and Ambrose had not answered my call. Unsure what to do first, I turned to the body, whoever he was, and a memory jolted me to my senses. The body; the woman in black; the humming noise—I had read of these things before, in the police report at the Apollonian; the testimony of Sergeant Clegg of New Scotland Yard. Panic gripped me; there was a chance that the coordinates we had received were a liaison point for the anarchists, and that they were right now across the alleyway in the adjacent building. There was an equal chance, of course, that this building was the target for the next dynamite attack, and I knew I could not stand around waiting to find out. I needed help, and quickly.

I raced from the room, shouting ‘Ambrose! Ambrose! Run for it!’ at the top of my lungs, but as I entered the living room and made for the exit, Ambrose was nowhere to be seen. The front door was wide open and I ran through it as if the hounds of hell were on my heels. I pounded down the steps as fast as I was able. By the time I reached the final flight, my blood was thumping in my ears, my chest was on fire from the bruises I had sustained the previous day, and I could feel the stitches in my leg pulling apart. The door to the flats was wide open. I could hear the trilling noise even there, echoing around the stairwell. As I ran out of the front door, my world seemed to fall apart. An explosion ripped through the building above me, deafening me in an instant. The expelled air from the corridor within the building rushed through the door behind me, and the force of the blast propelled me into the road, where I was thrown upon the cobbles amidst flaming rubble and debris from the apartment. Everything seemed to spin as I struggled to hold on to consciousness. A cab—was it my cab?—sped away from the building as the horses bolted. I rolled onto my back and gazed up at the black hole that had opened up in the midst of the building. 143c Commercial Road was now open to the elements, and judging by the flames licking around the blackened rent in the brickwork, there wouldn’t be much left of the flat to salvage. I somehow hauled myself up, though I could not walk in a straight line. I looked around helplessly; there were bodies in the street, men and women caught in the blast or hit by rubble. Some were already digging for their friends; others were crawling away in scorched and bloodstained clothes. My head felt light, and I put a hand to it only to pull it away, slick with my own blood. I could make out screams and shouts, and another fearful trilling noise. But this time it was a police whistle, and I staggered in its direction, thankful that help had arrived.