The Lazarus Gate (40 page)

I was brought back to the present by the arrival of Gregor. The big man sat on a low dry stone wall next to me, and passed me a cigarette.

‘I have seen some things, friend John, that I did not think were possible,’ he said, pausing to take a draw. ‘I had no time to think on these things at the time, but I have time to think now. Who were those people? Who was that woman?’

I did not know how much to tell Gregor, or how much he would understand. Though I had come to think of him as a good man, he was not made for outlandish philosophical theories about mirror universes and magic portals. But he did not deserve a lie, so I told him, as best I could, what he needed to know to understand the threat, if not the cause.

‘They are agents; spies,’ I said. ‘Like me, I suppose, but enemies of the Crown. As far as I know, their mission is to cause anarchy and chaos, until they are strong and we are weak. Then they will strike.’

‘Why? To what end?’

‘To take over the world.’

Gregor nodded acceptance. I think perhaps he needed to hear that our enemies had a purpose of great import, in order to make sense of the despair and anger he was feeling. I could understand that.

‘When we were fighting,’ he said, ‘you told me that they were here for the Five Sisters. Look, friend John, we are Romani, we are nomads… we are nobody. If someone wants to rule the world, they kill kings and politicians—the leaders of the great nations, not a little gypsy princess. Why did they do this thing? Was it because we helped you?’

He was trying to sound reasoned, but this last question was delivered with emotion that betrayed him. He had trusted me, and did not want his suspicions to be true.

‘No… I don’t know,’ I answered honestly. ‘Until last night they believed me dead, just as my employers back in London must believe me dead. No, I believe they would have come for the sisters, whether I had been here or not.’

Gregor nodded, and sat in silence with me for a while. When Rosanna approached, Gregor made to say something, to console her perhaps, but no words would come. She squeezed his shoulder and gave him some silent word, at which he left us alone. Her eyes were red from crying, but the tears were passed. Her features were set.

‘It isn’t over, is it?’ she asked.

I shook my head. What could I say?

‘I brought you here, John,’ she said. ‘I knew the dangers that we faced, the risk you presented, and yet I took you in anyway. It was… foreseen.’ Her voice cracked. ‘But I should not have gambled Elsbet’s life. If I had known…’ Now a tear came, and she blinked it back. ‘All of us knew the risk… but not her, John; not her…’

I held her, and saw that she was tensed, fists clenched.

‘Rosanna, listen to me,’ I said, suddenly struck by an idea: the seed of a plan that began to take root. ‘I should have died in London, but I was given another chance. I wish I could have saved Elsbet. I would do anything to make it right, but there is still danger ahead. Those people, our enemies, will be back. Now that they know I’m here, I think they will be more determined still. Rosanna, you say my coming was foreseen? Well, then I am ready to face my destiny. But for that, I need you. I need your sisters. I need the Sight.’

‘John, not now, this is not the time!’

‘There is no time,’ I said. ‘Don’t you see? Everything that has happened to us has been for a reason. Elsbet’s death can’t have been in vain. If we are to avenge her, we must act. We must find out what our enemy plans to do next, and we must stop him. Whatever it takes.’

* * *

Rosanna had begged me for one day to perform the proper rituals for Elsbet, and I had relented, on the condition that the camp moved so that the Othersiders could not easily find it. The gypsies spent the rest of the day and much of the evening moving what remained of the camp further east, and this was no easy task. Horses that had fled during the night had to be caught, carts had to be prepared or even constructed from spare parts to provide transportation for the infirm. Some of the men were appointed as scouts and guards, and patrolled the locale ceaselessly for any sign of would-be attackers. Through all of this, the funerary rites for Elsbet were begun. Her body was washed and bound by those camp followers who were not of Romani blood, for a Rom may not touch the body of the deceased. Elsbet’s nose and mouth were filled with pearls so that evil spirits could not enter her body. Her favourite possessions were placed alongside her, whilst everything else that she owned was burned, removing all ties that her spirit had with the camp so that she would not be forced to walk the earth for ever after. Half a dozen messengers were sent out from the camp in all directions, to take word of Elsbet’s death ‘to the ends of the earth’—only when her friends and distant relatives received the news and came to Rosanna’s camp could the funeral be held. Until then, Elsbet’s name could not be uttered out loud, and her sisters would wear only white or red garments as a symbol of their mourning. I was touched by the intricacy of the preparations, and amazed at how little direction the gypsies required—they all seemed to know what was required of them, and mobilised as if for war, with an efficiency that would pride the greatest industrialist.

I helped where I could, but in the afternoon I took my leave of the camp for a few hours. That night, we would set our plans in motion. Gregor told me where to meet up with them later that evening, a secret location where the Othersiders would surely not find them, and I left him my shotgun, hoping he would not have need of it before my return.

My purpose that day was to visit Faversham, and meet with the caretaker of my old house. It was possible that the man would have some knowledge about the comings and goings of the Othersiders, whether he understood their motives or not. I suspected that he would be ignorant of the details, but I would be on my guard—I could trust no one until the affair was brought to a close.

I rode into Faversham and found a small inn to stable my horse and refresh myself. I asked there about the whereabouts of Thomas Baxter. I was in luck, as it was one of the market days in the town, and thus the main bar was busy with patrons. Amongst the farmers, gamekeepers and ploughmen in the inn, my rather battered tweeds, flat cap and even eye-patch did not attract much undue attention, and I was told that Mr. Baxter could be reached through the offices of Boughton & Sons estate management, off Market Place. With time of the essence, and a sense of grim purpose about me, I set off to the office.

It seemed that Mr. Baxter was under the impression that my father was very much alive. When I identified myself as John Hardwick, owner of Bluebell Cottage, he presumed that Marcus Hardwick had either passed away recently or had signed the deeds to the property over to me personally. His office had received the instruction from the solicitor, Mr. Fairclough, that the house was to be attended to regularly, but then less than six months ago Brigadier Sir Marcus Hardwick had come ‘back from the dead’, and had informed Boughton & Son’s that there had been a terrible mistake; that he had not perished, and that the Ministry of Defence had gotten his papers mixed up. Since then, Mr. Baxter had been employed to keep the place tidy but very little else.

This revelation, that Lazarus could have been so brazen for so long, rather took me by surprise. And what was I to tell poor Mr. Baxter? That the man he took with his own eyes to be Marcus Hardwick was an imposter? Or a ghost? No, I could not raise any alarm. Instead, I thought on my feet and sold Mr. Baxter a lie—lying, it seemed, was becoming second nature to me.

‘Don’t worry, Mr. Baxter,’ I said, ‘my father is in rude health. Indeed, you are right enough—he has signed the cottage over to me in the hope that, now I am returned from service abroad, I might settle down and perhaps even find a wife. I see you’ve done a fine job of looking after the place, as I called in just last night. I expect my father will call in again from time to time—if he does so, do remember me to him. I’m afraid we’re rather like ships passing in the night these days.’

That should set the cat amongst the pigeons
, I thought. Though I did not have much time to be pleased with myself before Baxter surprised me again.

‘And your sister, sir. Miss Lillian—will she be coming back now that you own the place? Lovely girl, she is. Sad, though, I always thought, that she still always dresses in black, in mourning for your dear old ma, God rest her soul.’

I almost lost my composure at this statement, but took a gulp of tea to collect my thoughts before replying.

‘I fear the memories in that house are proving more than my sister can bear, the delicate soul that she is. Still, you know Lillian—who can tell what she will do next.’

He laughed with me conspiratorially at this jest, though inside I was like ice. In our own world, my gentle sister had died a child, sending our mother into a fatal spiral of melancholia, and leaving me alone to disappoint our father. This harridan from the other side, however, was cruel and dispassionate.

I concluded my business with Baxter as quickly as I could, promising him that the necessary paperwork and deeds of ownership would be with him as soon as I returned to London. In truth, I had no idea then if I would take up residence in Bluebell Cottage when this affair was over, if it was ever over, but I would certainly pay one more visit to pull down that blasted gate!

As I returned to the stables, I remembered to purchase a newspaper from a lad in the high street. When I glanced at the front page the whole world seemed to shrink around me, and I realised that there was no further time for delay. It read:

The city has been plunged into panic, as yesterday London suffered its worst day of anarchy since the Fenian attacks of ’85.

With explosions causing mayhem at Gallions Reach, East Ham, Ilford, Hampstead, Crouch End and Islington (in that order), this marked the first time that serious casualties had been inflicted by these dynamiters. Several public buildings were damaged, including a civic hall and library, and more than forty people are believed dead or mortally wounded.

As doctors and fire-men struggled to help the injured and dying, London was subjected to the ugly face of urban society as mass looting took place along evacuated high streets. Late in the evening, fires blazed as the beleaguered city was hit by several arson attacks in Mayfair, Southwark and Battersea.

Assistant Commissioner Bruce of Scotland Yard has sworn today that the perpetrators of these heinous crimes will be brought to justice. He reserved particular disdain for those members of the ‘criminal underclass’ who brought such shame on the greatest city in the world with their ‘despicable and cowardly capitalisation on events of real tragedy, for nothing more than avarice’.

I could read no more. How could it be that I had spent the day in a bustling town, and had heard no one so much as mention this news? The good people of Faversham evidently believed themselves far removed from the affairs of the big smoke; how different their actions would have been if they’d known that the anarchists had struck just last night, a few miles from their homes. Or just how much danger these atrocities posed not just to London, but to the entire globe! I realised then that my consideration for Rosanna’s feelings had caused me to delay my plans. I was now more certain than ever that I needed their help to plan my next move, and I had to return to the gypsy camp at once. I purchased an ha’penny map and a storm lantern with the last of my coin, and set off to the agreed meeting place, near a little village on the far side of the expansive Denge Wood. It would be growing dark before I arrived there, and I could not afford to be tardy. And yet, despite my determination, I was reluctant. It was not merely a tearful yet happy reunion with my recently bereaved lover to which I rode; I was on my way to a séance.

I
t was well past midnight. The sisters were clothed all in white, and seated on the floor, huddling together in a conspiratorial circle, with a conspicuous space in their line where the departed Elsbet would have sat. They whispered in a language that was unlike any I had ever heard. The tent was lit only by five candles—one for each of the sisters, living and dead—and the flickering light danced across the silks that lined every inch of the tent walls, throwing a cold and eerie cast upon a scene that by daylight would be cheery and gaily coloured.

A young traveller sat on a stool in the corner opposite me, with a sketching pad in hand. He was not of the blood, but an Irishman, apparently descended from a family of witches. I was told he was a sort of amanuensis, whose role was to interpret the visions of the sisters, and help guide them through the dangerous world of the spirits now that there were only four of them. I was positioned by the tent door, an observer only, and I felt like a complete outsider.

Since returning to the camp, Rosanna had barely spoken a word to me. Gregor had told me that she was unhappy about holding the ritual that night, that her gifts would be clouded by her grief, and that it was bad luck to navigate the afterlife with one so recently deceased. And yet she knew how important it was. She alone of the sisters, as the eldest and wisest, understood that their earlier premonition called for great sacrifice. She was doing it for me, but that did not mean that she could not resent me for asking it of her. I had tried to thank her for her sacrifice, but had been coldly reproached for my efforts, and had thus kept a respectful distance until the hour drew near. Any questions I had about how the séance would proceed were met with cold stares and snapped instructions—and so I sat in my chair, quietly and patiently, until they were ready to begin.