Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3)

by P J Thorndyke

  “If you have the chance. But you are to report on all developments in socialist circles, Russians, Jews or anybody else.”

  Russians, thought Lazarus, remembering Katarina’s pale breasts and the scent of her perfume, crumpled sheets smelling of their sweat in a Parisian hotel room. Of course it was ludicrous to think that by coming into contact with some of her countrymen he would somehow be drawn closer to her. As the niece of a high-ranking member of the Okhrana, Katarina was no revolutionary. But for some reason, the mention of Russians made the whole business seem not altogether unappealing.

  “Who is this fellow I’m to be working with?” he asked.

  Chapter Two

  In which a fine performance is given at the Lyceum Theatre

  By the time Lazarus left Morton’s office it was too late to pursue his cobbler in Stepney. That appointment must wait for another day. And besides, he had tickets to the theatre that night and had to go home and get changed. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was showing at the Lyceum. The production had opened in Boston the year previously and was currently enjoying great success in London. But Lazarus’s interest in the play was more than a mere desire for an evening’s entertainment. He had heard of the novella by R. L. Stevenson but had not read it, his academic pursuits leaving little time for the reading of anything but scholarly works. His main reason for choosing this production in particular was that he knew the actor who played both Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

  He had met Richard Mansfield in New York, shortly after his business in the American Southwest had come to its climax. It was in the wake of Katarina’s first departure from his life that he had found himself wandering Broadway, frequenting the saloons and gambling dens of that city of dreamers and philanthropists. He was mustering the courage to return home to London and take up service with the bureau again, postponing the inevitable in a haze of whiskey and opium smoke, when he ran into Mansfield outside of Barnum’s American Museum.

  A British actor and theater manager with the Union Square Theatre Company, Mansfield was an eccentric, outgoing and endlessly energetic fellow. They had taken to each other immediately and began seeking adventure in New York’s shadiest corners; two limeys in a cultural mixing pot that exuded every exotic odor known to man. Lazarus would often attend Mansfield’s plays on Broadway and marvel at how the man could perform after a night of girls and liquor. After the shows they would hit the town once more.

  Lazarus had rarely had the time to miss old friends in the years that had followed. It was only now in this seeming lull in his life that he began to dwell on past acquaintances and the fun times they had shared. And here was Richard Mansfield himself in London.

  The hansom dropped Lazarus off at the pillared entrance to the Lyceum Theatre where a mass of patrons had already gathered. He squeezed past the throng of gentlemen in top hats and overcoats and ladies in their finest evening wear, to the lobby where he was taken to his velvet-lined box seat that overlooked the left of the stage. He rose and smiled politely as the elderly couple with whom he was to be sharing the box with sidled in and made themselves comfortable. He looked down on the rows of seats as they gradually filled up. It was to be a full house, confirming the hype the play had elicited from the press and public despite its mixed reviews.

  While many journals applauded the play’s impressive effects and grotesques, others accused it of relying on spectacle over substance and even claimed Mansfield was a ‘mechanical hack’ who, while impressively frightening as the villainous Mr. Hyde, failed to draw much sympathy as the monster’s well-meaning alter ego Dr. Jekyll.

  Lazarus cared little for reviews. He was here to see his friend and marvel at his much-touted on stage transformation into the walking embodiment of evil that was rumored to have women fainting in the aisles.

  Neither the play nor Mansfield’s performance disappointed. When he was hunched over, ape-like, as the hideous Mr. Hyde, the audience gasped in horror. It was hard to see that Jekyll and Hyde were played by the same man, as the latter’s face was contorted into such a grimace of primal rage, that Lazarus began to doubt the theater company’s claims that it was all performance and make up and that no mechanical or illusionary devices were used.

  The real shocking part of the play came at the pivotal part of the story, where Mr. Hyde murders an elderly politician by the name of Danvers Carew. Hyde attacked the man brutally with a silver-topped cane, and unleashed such a barrage of blows and stamped on the poor fellow with such ferocity, that several men in the audience leaped out of their seats in alarm, deeming that the violence on stage had surpassed the theatrical.

  But when the curtain fell to thunderous applause, the audience rose in a standing ovation. As the bulk of them made their way to the exits, Lazarus descended to the theatre floor and asked around for the manager. He was directed to a thick-set Irishman by the name of Stoker who was modestly accepting the compliments of a pair of theatergoers.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Lazarus said once the couple had departed. “I am an old friend of Mr. Mansfield. He doesn’t know I’m here but I would be most obliged if you could allow me backstage to speak with him.”

  The man scratched his thick, dark beard. “He’s a busy man, sir, being both actor and producer for this play, but I suppose if you’re an old friend he won’t mind a quick visit. But be mindful, he’s usually very tired after a performance.”

  Lazarus frowned as he was shown backstage. Mansfield had always been buzzing after a performance and ready for a night on the town. The rooms backstage were bustling with activity as stagehands hurried back and forth carrying costumes and props, and actors in various stages of undress chatted and congratulated each other in loud voices.

  He eventually found his way to Mansfield’s room, but as he approached he heard raised voices coming from within. He held back, not wishing to intrude on anything, but was able to snatch a snippet of the argument. There was a good deal of cursing. Suddenly the door flew open and a tall, thin man with white powder in his hair stormed out, rudely pushing past Lazarus on his way. He recognized him as the fellow who had played Danvers Carew, and caught a faint smear of blood on his lower lip that had begun to dry.

  Lazarus knocked on the door and peered in to see Mansfield collapsed in a chair, evidently exhausted, either from the strains of his performance or the recent altercation with his fellow thespian. He turned to look at Lazarus and then leaped up in surprised joy, the worry lines beneath his greasepaint melting away.

  “Lazarus, my dear fellow!” he exclaimed, grabbing him by the hand and reaching around to shut the door behind him. “What a welcome surprise this is! Please, take a seat in my humble quarters!” He drew up a battered old chair—a twin to his own—and offered it to Lazarus before flopping back down. He began rummaging around in the cupboard underneath his dressing mirror.

  “What the devil was all that about?” Lazarus asked, nodding at the closed door.

  “Oh, I fear that I may have overdone my performance tonight,” Mansfield replied, producing a half empty bottle of cognac and two glasses. “I do hope that Patrick forgives me. He has warned me of it before, but this night I seemed to have hurt him. My cane struck his lip, although I always try to pull my blows.”

  “Accidents happen,” said Lazarus. “You were really very good. Quite remarkable.”

  “Thank you, old friend. You don’t know how timely your visit is. I am in need of a good companion at the moment.”

  “Are you all right, Richard?” Lazarus asked. He had noticed Mansfield’s hands shaking almost uncontrollably as he drank his cognac quicker than was considered civilized. The man seemed on the verge of some sort of breakdown.

  “I fear that I am not well at all, Lazarus. I have been having such frightful nightmares that leave me in the early hours drenched in sweat and gasping for breath.”

  “You overwork yourself. You always throw yourself into things, and this acting lark is starting to take it out of you.”

  “It’s n
ot just the nightmares. Some days I feel that I am barely in control of myself. Rage grips me at odd times of the day for no apparent reason. I feel as if there is some hideous thing bubbling under my skin, threatening to consume me at any moment. You saw me on stage tonight. I almost lost myself up there and injured poor Patrick.”

  “Well look at the part you are playing,” said Lazarus. “Or should I say parts. You’ve embarked upon a disturbing character study of this Jekyll and his alter ego, and applied yourself so intensely that it has begun to affect you.”

  “I am not so sure that I don’t have an alter ego of my own.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Lazarus, you are an old friend and I trust you absolutely. I know that we haven’t seen much of each other in recent years, but I hope that time has not eroded the trust between us.”

  “I can guarantee that it hasn’t.”

  “Then what I am about to tell you must remain between us at all costs. My career, my life even, hangs on your confidence.”

  “Good God, man, spit it out. There has never been any cause for mistrust between us.”

  “I must tell you that upon two occasions in recent weeks, I have not woken in my own bed.”

  “Oh?” said Lazarus with a sly grin. “I don’t remember that was ever a cause for concern for you back in New York.”

  Mansfield did not acknowledge the jest. “I have woken in circumstances most alarming. In an old lime oast down river, my hands and clothes bloodied.”

  “A lime oast?”

  He nodded. “All alone on the dusty floor of some derelict building without the slightest idea of how I got there.”

  “Have you ever been there before?”

  “No, never! On the first occasion it took me the best part of the morning to find out where I was and how I was to get home, which I did… eventually. But what has me flummoxed is how and why I wound up there. And whose blood was on my hands.”

  “It sounds to me that you took a heavy night one evening and got into a fistfight that you don’t remember,” said Lazarus. “It’s happened to both of us before.”

  Mansfield didn’t answer, but reached to pick up a newspaper that had been folded over to display one page in particular. “Have you heard about this?” he said, passing Lazarus the crumpled paper. It was the Evening News dated the eighth of September, which was two days previous.

  ANOTHER EAST END MURDER

  EARLY THIS MORNING IN SPITALFIELDS.

  A WOMAN'S THROAT CUT AND

  HER BODY RIPPED OPEN.

  THE LEATHER APRON FOUND.

  TERRIBLE DETAILS.

  THE ENTRAILS AND THE

  HEART CUT OUT.

  Lazarus had heard of the Whitechapel Murders. Indeed it was hard to avoid the grisly details of what had been happening in the East End in the past month. Three prostitutes had been butchered in the most grotesque manner, all in the slum district of Whitechapel. The papers were full of it, claiming the killings to be the work of one man and a decided maniac at that.

  “Yes, I’ve read of this,” Lazarus murmured, setting the paper aside.

  Mansfield regarded him with bloodshot eyes. “Polly Nicols, killed in Buck’s Row on August the thirty-first. Annie Chapman, killed in Hanbury Street, September eighth. I awoke in Limehouse directly after these two murders. And I have no memories of those nights. Anything could have happened! I could have done anything...”

  “Lord, man!” Lazarus exclaimed. “Surely you are not suggesting...”

  “I don’t know what I’m suggesting!” he cried. “I’m bloody scared, Lazarus! I don’t know what’s happening to me!”

  “But this is paranoid fantasy! Coincidence and nothing more. And besides, you only mentioned two of the killings. The papers say that there was a third; the earliest. Martha Tabram was also killed in early August. Did you wake in Limehouse then, too?”

  “No, I...”

  “There, you see? What you are suggesting is simply not credible.”

  “I don’t know what’s credible these days. All I know is that something frightful is happening to me that I have absolutely no control over.”

  “You need rest and perhaps a little diversion,” Lazarus said. “How about you come out to dinner with me tonight?”

  “I would relish a chance to catch up, but I am to dine with Stoker, the manager, tonight. We are to discuss the play’s performance and further promotion. You are welcome to join us, but I fear that all the business talk would bore you.”

  “Not at all. That is, if you are sure that I am not intruding.”

  “Certainly not. We would be most pleased to have you with us. Now, just let me finish getting changed and I’ll be with you.”

  Lazarus left Mansfield in his dressing room and hung around the stage door, watching the stage hands and gas men pack up for the night. All of the artistes had already left. Eventually Mansfield emerged, looking much more composed than he was moments previously. He wore his dinner suit with a white cravat and well-polished boots.

  “Ah, you have met my associate Mr. Stoker, Lazarus?”

  “Yes,” Lazarus replied as the theatre manager came over to them. “I introduced myself earlier.”

  “Bram here is the finest house manager in all England,” Mansfield said. “And also an accomplished writer.”

  “A hobby at present,” said Stoker.

  “A hobby with encouraging prospects! And my good friend Lazarus Longman here is a world-famous explorer.”

  “Yes, I do remember reading something of your exploits in the papers,” Stoker said. “Something to do with Great Zimbabwe?”

  “That’s right,” said Lazarus.

  “That’s just the tip of his exploits,” Mansfield went on. “He’s been to India, the Americas and Egypt too, if I’m not mistaken?”

  “Egypt?” Stoker said, his eyebrows raised. “You intrigue me, sir. “I have a good friend who has been many times. Brought back all sorts of jewels and mummies. Is it true that their religion involved the resurrection of the dead?”

  “Well not as such,” said Lazarus. “It’s a common misconception.”

  “Oh, I don’t mean mummies walking around as you or I do, I speak metaphorically of course. I refer to reincarnation.”

  “Mummies walking around?” Mansfield said with a snort of laughter. “You see, Lazarus, Bram here has a feverish and demented imagination. One never knows what fantasy he’s going to dream up next.”

  Lazarus forced a smile. “Shall we be off? I’m famished.”

  Chapter Three

  In which our hero is introduced to a new acquaintance

  The following morning, Lazarus returned to Whitehall and met Morton in the long corridor outside his office. An Otis hydraulic lift took them down to a cellar deep below street level.

  Morton caught him gazing at the brick pillars and arches that looked Tudor at the very latest. “Never been down here, eh? It’s where we keep our tinkerers, tailors and quartermasters, not to mention the armory and rifle range.”

  “You said I was to meet my associate,” Lazarus said. “Is he one of your ‘tinkerers’?”

  “Not at all. I just wanted you both to get some practice in on the targets. Never know when it might come in handy during your plumbing of the depths of the East End.”

  “I can assure you that my aim is as true as ever.”

  “Well it’s just a good idea for you both to fire off a few rounds side by side. Develops a bond, you know.”

  “Will I be getting another Colt Starblazer?”

  Morton sucked air in between his teeth. “Not really inconspicuous is it, a shiny new model like that? No, I think we’ll give you something older, perhaps military issue. Firearms are certainly not uncommon in the circles you will be moving in, but you need something that rings true to your cover story.”

  “And that is?”

  “Ex-soldier. Fought in the Soudan but was injured. Now you’re just looking for good honest work. Strong man, good with your hands.
Warehouse work, that sort of thing. Those are the places that these socialist groups tend to spring from. No family in London but a sister in Kent.”

  They entered a large cellar with brick arches on either side. Several scientific-looking men in frock coats were dwarfed by perhaps the largest man Lazarus had ever seen. His rough flannel jacket strained against bulging shoulders that started a good foot above the head of the tallest scientist present. A tattered waistcoat met sagging grey trousers patched at the knees. A flat cap was jammed on his head; a head which was the most remarkable thing about him, for no part of his face was visible. Instead, a mask of tin or some other metal had been fashioned into the likeness of a square-jawed mug complete with eyeholes, nostrils and a black oval between open lips, into which the man kept jamming the end of a fat cigar before exhaling blasts of smoke.

  “Lazarus, meet your colleague for the duration of the case. His real name is withheld for reasons of security but the chaps down here call him Mr. Clumps.”

  “H... how do you do?” Lazarus stammered, holding out his hand to the imposing figure.

  The man grasped it in a gloved fist, but his grip was surprisingly gentle as he shook it. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Longman,” said the voice behind the mask. “I’ve heard a great deal about you.”

  Well, he was polite enough, that was something at least. Lazarus was put in mind of an oversized simpleton from a Dickens novel, but couldn’t remember which one.

  “Poor Mr. Clumps here suffers from phossy jaw after working for many years manufacturing warning flares for the navy,” Morton explained. “His face is ruined by the exposure to white phosphorus, and he feels the need to hide it for the sake of decency. Now, I’d like you both to get reacquainted with the firearms in our arsenal. The rifle range is just through those doors there.”

  They went through the double doors and Lazarus immediately knew how Mr. Clumps had got his name. His wide, flat feet were encased in what could only be custom-made boots, thudding down with resounding ‘clumps’ that reverberated throughout the cellar. He walked with a shuffling, lopsided gait that reminded Lazarus of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. In the room beyond, they found targets set up and a table with an array of pistols and boxes of ammunition.