The Lazarus Gate by Mark Latham Page B

my back on it and put my feet up. My father was a member of Apollo Lycea, and he wouldn’t have shied away from his duty, whatever the cost.’
    Ambrose looked thoughtful—almost sad, I thought—and then he said to me: ‘I met your father once, you know.’ Again, I do not know why such a simple remark affected me so, but I looked at Ambrose with expectation. All he said was: ‘Believe me, John, you are not your father’s son.’
    The words were delivered kindly, but I neither knew how to take them, nor how to respond. I swigged the last dregs of my tea and got to my feet, picked up my hat and coat, and turned to leave. Ambrose, swift as a cat, was standing next to me, placing a hand on my shoulder. I turned to him with a face like stone.
    ‘John… I have spoken out of turn. I’m sorry. I was trying to say that I think you’re a good fellow, with a good heart, but I’ve made a royal hash of it. Can you accept the apology of a blustering cad, and we’ll talk no more of it?’ He held out his hand. I paused for only a moment before shaking his hand, giving him a half-smile, and leaving the club with him. For better or for worse, Ambrose Hanlocke and I were in it together.
    * * *
    Somewhat delayed in our endeavours, we set off for Commercial Road, in the notorious Whitechapel district. It was past five o’clock by the time we approached our destination. The weather was mercifully mild, and though a chilly breeze blew periodically along the high street and whistled in at the windows of our cab, we would be spared the downpours of the previous day. The route to Whitechapel had been a circuitous one, as our cabbie had been forced to take more than one detour to avoid blocked streets. Many shopkeepers and local markets were packing away for the day, and the number of carts and workmen in the streets made progress by road somewhat laborious. I eyed Ambrose accusingly—were it not for him being a slave to his appetite, we would have made the journey in nearly half the time. Whilst the map coordinates were reasonably accurate, it still gave us more than a quarter of a mile of Commercial Road properties to investigate. Therefore, we had narrowed down our search by trawling through the clerks’ list of addresses, and had come up with two in this area. The first was noted as a spiritualist medium, a table-rapper of some small repute, going by the name of Madam Walpole, while the second was a man who was unknown to Apollo Lycea, noted in the book as Mr. F.W. Jeffers.
    The district itself lived up to Ambrose’s poor assessment of it. Drunkards, both male and female, walked the streets, along with tramps, bawds and luridly dressed ‘ladies of the night’, who plied their trade even in broad daylight. Litter, grime and detritus covered the thoroughfares, accumulating in alleyways and around the bases of rusting streetlamps like pile of autumn leaves. The unmistakeable smells of rotten vegetables and open drains mingled with the less distasteful odours of hot potatoes and meat pies from nearby handcarts.
    We came to Madam Walpole’s home first. The terraced house had a pronounced slouch, and no doubt the occupants were glad that it was sandwiched between a funeral parlour and a derelict photography studio, for otherwise the ramshackle home would almost certainly have collapsed. Nonetheless, the dilapidated little house looked out of place, almost squeezed into a gap that should not have been there. Ambrose paused uncomfortably as a prompt that I should pay the cabbie, which I duly did. I also promised him an extra shilling atop his usual rate if he would wait for us for a short time.
    We climbed three steep, uneven steps to a front door of dubious prospect, and gave three sharp raps on the iron knocker. It took some time before the door was answered, by a scruffy young woman who, I thought idly, would not be unhandsome were she to brush her hair and don clean clothes.
    ‘’Elp you, sirs?’ she asked, suspiciously.
    Ambrose