The agony was intense and blotted out much of what followed. I do not remember hitting the ground, only a frantic terror that the beast might not be dead and still had another swipe left in its powerful limbs. I remember snatches of native language which was unintelligible to me, and of being carried somewhere. Then nothing.
This room in which I have awoken is a curious one. It is of stone but richly decorated. Wooden doors conceal the rest of the building from my eyes, but they are painted with such garish designs that they have kept me amused for many hours now. A small slit window with stone bars carved into twists lets in the jungle air but I have not had the strength to rise up and see what view I have.
The pain in my arm and chest is excruciating. I assume somebody has sewn me up, but I cannot inspect the wounds myself for they are bound tightly with cloth through which only a few spots of blood show. A strange old native man comes to check on me regularly and gives me draughts of foul tasting infusions.
Kasemchai has also been to visit and it is from him alone that I have been able to draw any sense. I killed the tiger; that he explained, with wide eyes. He says that it was a feat that has lifted me up into the very highest esteem of the people amongst whom we now dwell. This act is only surpassed by my saving the life of a royal prince of this city who must have been the man desperately trying to edge himself out of the beast’s range.
“City?” I exclaimed at the mention of the word.
“Big mountain city,” Kasemchai explained with a grin. “No white man been here before. You very honoured.”
That at least explains the root of his secrecy during our journey. But why should a city remain such a big secret? There are dozens of varying sizes in Siam, but even Henri Mouhot made no mention of one so far north and in such a depopulated place as Isan. I have so many questions and long to be up on my feet to seek the answers, but I fear that it will be many days before I have the strength to go exploring. Here comes my doctor again.
The Evening News
1 October 1888, Fifth Edition
THE WHITECHAPEL HORRORS.
HORRIBLE MURDER OF A WOMAN NEAR COMMERCIAL ROAD.
ANOTHER WOMAN MURDERED AND MUTILATED IN ALDGATE.
ONE VICTIM IDENTIFIED.
BLOOD STAINED POST CARD FROM "JACK THE RIPPER."
SPECIAL ACCOUNTS.
A HOMICIDAL MANIAC
OR
HEAVEN'S SCOURGE FOR PROSTITUTION.
While Lazarus had been awaiting the arrival of his friend outside the lime oast, Mansfield had been able to kill a second woman. That would always weigh on Lazarus’s conscience; that he had been hiding behind a crate while another woman was being butchered. Her name had been Catherine Eddowes, a prostitute who had met her end in Mitre Square, at the western end of Commercial Road. Her throat had been slashed, her face mutilated and her intestines pulled out. Her uterus and kidney had been removed, and only Lazarus knew that those particular items were now at the bottom of Lime-kiln Dock.
There was much discussion in the papers about the un-mutilated condition of the first victim of that night. The murder of Elizabeth Stride—a middle-aged Swedish immigrant whom misfortune had turned to prostitution—had clearly been interrupted and the papers told of two men who had come forward as witnesses; Diemschutz and the first man who had fled upon seeing Lazarus. Fortunately, neither could give much information that could be useful to the police. For now, Lazarus felt confident that he and Mansfield were safe.
The city was in an uproar. Why hadn’t the police caught the killer? The fourth and fifth victims were on the mortician’s slab and, the killer was taunting the police by sending letters to the press. Two had been received. The first, addressed ‘Dear Boss’, boasted of the previous killings and challenged the police to catch him. The second, a grubby postcard, spoke of the double murders and had many convinced that it really was penned by the killer, as it was received by Scotland Yard before the details of the recent atrocities had been publicised.
Lazarus wasn’t fooled. Half the East End was savvy to the double event within hours of the police arriving on the scene, giving any pathetic thrill-seeker ample time to pen his hoax to the Yard. And the real killer was in his bedsit, under lock and key, sleeping like the very dead.
Mr. Clumps, silently loyal as ever, asked no questions when Lazarus staggered in with Mansfield draped over his shoulders in the small hours of the morning. He lay the actor down on the bed while the mechanical heated up what was left of their dinner over the fire. Mansfield was barely conscious but Lazarus forced some tea down him, along with a bit of bread and hot sausage. Then he slept, deeply, occasionally whimpering like a frightened child.
Lazarus decided that it was time he got him some help.
The Ten Bells was heaving with customers that evening, and the old woman selling roasted chestnuts was at the entrance again. Lazarus led the way as they waded in through the thick pipe smoke and press of bodies to the booths at the back. People parted for Mr. Clumps’s massive form and Mansfield looked around nervously. Scanning the crowd for Mary, Lazarus hoped that he would not see her with a customer. There was no sign of her and so they went to the bar and ordered pints of porter.
As they stood drinking, there came the sound of a commotion on the street outside. Several customers dashed out to find the cause. Lazarus and his companions set down their drinks and joined them.
There was already a good deal of people standing on the pavement, shouting and laughing as two women fought in the street. They screamed abuse at each other and tugged each other’s hair, scratching and punching each other’s faces in their fury. The light curls identified one of them as Mary and she was clearly winning, egged on by the spectators who favored her. The other was a blonde woman; a little older but clearly in the same profession.
The two wildcats tumbled over onto the muddy cobbles as they pounded and pummeled each other. Mary quickly gained the upper hand, clambering atop the blonde woman. With a savage swing of her fist, she sent blood streaming from her opponent’s nose. The woman cried out and let go of Mary’s hair. Mary got up amidst a roaring cheer and glowered down at the beaten woman, hands on her hips, her beautiful face twisted with proud triumph. The blonde woman scrambled to her feet, clutching her bloody nose and took off down the street, aided by a hard kick to her hind quarters from Mary’s boot.
The crowd roared with laughter and many shouted their congratulations to Mary.
“You saw her off and no mistake!”
“Gave that tart a right hidin’!”
“She won’t be back, Mary!”
The scene over, the crowd meandered back into The Ten Bells and Mary stood rubbing the mud off her skirt.
“I hope I never get on your wrong side,” Lazarus said as she came towards them.
She threw him a smile. “There’s too many bag-tails as it is round the Ten Bells. Mesself and a few of my pals, this is our patch and God help any bitch who thinks otherwise.” She looked at him with her head tilted to one side, her bright blue eyes curious. “What brought you back to Whitechapel? Couldn’t keep away from me, eh? And you’ve brought another friend.” She examined Mansfield’s clothes. “Quite a toff he is too.”
“Um, thank you,” said Mansfield not sure if he had been complimented or not.
“You are a mysterious one, Mr. Longman,” she said. “I don’t feel that I know what to make of you. One minute you’re a docker, the next a companion for well-dressed men. One day I’ll get the story from you.”
“I need a favor, Mary,” Lazarus said.
“Well then,” she replied. “Let’s go inside and have a talk. I could do with a gin, anyway.”
Chapter Ten
In which the darkest depths of the human mind are plumbed
‘Fat women, dwarfs, a living skeleton and a giant; enough to rival Buffalo Bill’s Red Indians!’ advertised the gaudy sheet of canvas above the entrance to the establishment in Spitalfields Market. One of many showcases of the novel, the bizarre and the g
rotesque to be found in London, people thronged there of a night to satisfy their curiosity concerning all things strange and exotic for the entrance fee of a penny. On Saturday nights, dancing Zulus performed.
Lazarus paid the young lady at the entrance for the admittance of four and they wandered into the lobby. The building had once been a furniture warehouse and had since been draped with green velvet. The scarred and dusty wooden floorboards supported a variety of extraordinary and shocking exhibits reportedly donated by the British and Foreign Medicine Institute. Pickled fetuses, children with two heads and bizarre animal hybrids floated in jars of formaldehyde. Wax models of terrible deformities and diseases were gawped at by men and women in their evening dress, squirming and blanching at each and every new monstrosity that caught their eye. They drank it up with voyeuristic relish, all to the jolly tune of the organ grinder that filtered in from outside.
In the corner of the room a penny peepshow depicted gruesome portraits of the Ripper killings, and attracted a considerable crowd of both rough locals and well-dressed people from further afield, demonstrating that bad taste truly transcends class. Lazarus and his companions did not stop to waste their attention on any of this, and Mansfield did a fine job of swallowing his unease. Instead, they made their way into the next room where the main attraction was to be held.
A bill next to the sliding doors advertised the talents of Miss Buki; ‘Gypsy Mystic, Mind-controller and Hypnotist!’ This was what Mary had brought them to see. Lazarus had to confess as he gazed at the garish poster with its ludicrous depiction of an exotic woman projecting what seemed to be rays of light from her forehead, he seriously questioned the worth of their visit. But Mary was convinced by the woman’s talents, and Lazarus so desperately wanted to help Mansfield that he was prepared to go through with just about any old bunkum.
The room was beginning to fill up and the few chairs that encircled the stage were inadequate for the number of people who pressed in to catch a glimpse of the mystic’s show. Mr. Clumps parted a way for them, and not for the first time Lazarus found himself in awe of the effect mere size could have on a crowd. Several seated men even gave up their seats for them and nervously scuttled off.
As they sat down, Lazarus picked up a tattered pamphlet that had been left on his seat by its previous occupant and examined it. It was a ‘penny dreadful’; one of those cheap and lurid publications that serialized the melodramatic exploits of folk heroes and villains. It was the title that caught his attention. Sweeny Todd the Demon Barber and the Bath of Blood; a Romance of Exciting Interest. He thumbed through it, reading a few paragraphs. It was hardly Dickens but seemed entertaining enough.
A man emerged on stage and greeted the audience as the manager of the establishment before presenting Miss Buki herself. Lazarus set down the penny dreadful as a modestly-attired woman sauntered onstage with quiet dignity. She was not young, but might still be considered attractive with her silver hair and dark, foreign eyes. Lazarus had expected a frumpish old woman with big hair and too much jewelry, mumbling incoherently over a crystal ball, as he had seen at many fairgrounds and travelling circuses. She did not sit but instead stood facing the audience. Behind her was a table spread with an array of various objects; a jug of water and a glass, a comb and a brass-handled mirror among other things.
She proceeded to amaze the crowd with mind tricks, making one volunteer drink the water, convinced it was vinegar, causing him to retch and spew to a roaring applause. A woman was brought forth and made to believe that she was a barber, and proceeded to comb and cut an imaginary person’s hair whilst the audience howled with laughter. Another man was brought up to the stage and after a few suggestions in Miss Buki’s hypnotic voice, became so terrified of his own reflection in the mirror that he cowered and cried for mercy.
At last Miss Buki bowed. The audience bellowed out their approval and the roof was almost lifted by their applause. The gypsy lady swept off stage and Mary turned to Lazarus, regarding him expectantly. “Not too shabby, eh?”
“Not at all,” he agreed. “Very entertaining.”
“Miss Buki is a good friend of mine. When I came to London she was my only friend, really. She took me under her wing and got me my first lodgings. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
They got up and followed Mary through the crowd as the manager presented the following act; a pair of young women whose special ability involved the lifting of heavy weights by their teeth. They went back out into the lobby and through a side door that led backstage.
Miss Buki was to be found in a small dressing room barely large enough to contain the table and chair that occupied it, much less four visitors.
“Mary, is that you, chavi?” she said, rising.
“Hello, Miss Buki,” Mary replied.
“Welcome, my dear, welcome! And your friends too!”
They squeezed into the little room and Mary and Miss Buki embraced. The room was stuffed full of various artifacts pertaining to its occupier’s vocation. As well as the usual gypsy knick-knacks, there were a surprising number of books piled up on shelves, diverse in subjects from history to science. Rolls of paper sketched with spidery diagrams of the brain and the human anatomy were stacked up loosely, and an alarmingly real-looking skull peered down from a top shelf. All in all, the room gave the impression of belonging to a surgeon with a flair for colorful trinkets.
“Well, my dear,” said Miss Buki, catching Lazarus surveying her quarters. “You look a little surprised.”
“I must confess that I am, Miss Buki,” he said. “I had expected something a little... different. I see you have a keen interest in the scientific.”
“The study of the mind is as fine a science as that of plants or animals,” she replied. “Unfortunately, it’s a study little recognized by institutions or the greater public, who show more care for witchcraft and crystal balls. Don’t be fooled by my performance on stage for it is naught but science boiled off to simple tricks to amuse a crowd, akin to using a Brougham to pull firewood. It’s a sad fact that I must keep up the pretence of mysticism and mummery to display a purer science that would be better suited to lecture halls and universities. But I have done my best to keep the charlatanism to a minimum. No bloody crystal balls I said to the manager when he hired me. I ain’t no stick and rag show. But that’s all people want though. Bloody crystal balls and tarot cards. And I don’t do no dukkering neither, I said. If people want their palms read then they can bugger off to any old fairground come the summer months.”
“Then you are not a real gypsy?” asked Mansfield.
The woman frowned at him, showing some offence. “I most certainly am, mister! I was born to the clans of Kent though my family has its roots in Hungary. I have roamed far a-field in my time, with the caravans of the eastern steppes where the black forests meet snow-capped mountains, and there is no river in England that I have not voyaged down. Gypsy I am, and proud of it too. But it is late and I am tired. You had better tell me what you are here for, so I can see if I may be of any service.”
“Miss Buki,” Lazarus said. “We have come to you on account of my friend Mansfield here. He is very troubled and we wish to call upon your skills as a mesmerist to ascertain the cause of his torment.”
Miss Buki turned to Mansfield and fixed her beady eyes on him. “I’m not a doctor, lad.”
Mansfield cleared his throat with discomfort. “I… uh… ahem, I have troubled sleep. Sometimes I wake up in places without knowing how I got there. I have done terrible things without any memory of doing them. It’s like a part of my personality takes over involuntarily. I feel that there is an evil presence inside of me struggling to break through. I fear that I may not be able to contain it.”
“Really?” said Miss Buki with raised eyebrows. “That is most interesting. I have heard of these so called double-personalities but have never met one with the condition.”
“Then I am not alone?” Mansfield asked, his eyes glimmering with hope. “There are others? It
is a condition then, and I am not merely a lunatic!”
“One man’s lunatic is another man’s prophet,” said Miss Buki sagely. “It is often a matter of opinion. But yes, there have been documented cases of individuals displaying more than one personality, sometimes up to three or four, all fighting for control of their soul.”
“Is it possible to communicate with any one of these personalities without the others interfering?” Lazarus asked her. “Like in a séance?”
“A séance?” Miss Buki remarked, the corners of her lips turning up in a smile. “This is a science, sir, not a parlor trick. But you are right in one thing; our understanding of the human mind is akin to our understanding of the cosmos in that we may only peek around the corner and make assumptions on what we may see. Hypnotism can be used to bring one personality to the fore but whether or not the others will stand by idly, I cannot say. Nor can I say with any certainty that hypnotism will work at all.”
“But will you try on Mansfield?”
“Gladly, if only out of my own interest in this rare disease.”
“Mary, would you leave us?” Lazarus asked.
She turned to him in surprise. “Leave? Why?”
“This is a very personal and private matter for Mansfield. He would be embarrassed to reveal so much of himself to you. Please allow Mr. Clumps to accompany you.”
“I am to leave too?” the mechanical asked.
“I wouldn’t want Miss Kelly to be left unattended in such surroundings,” Lazarus told him.
Mary rolled her eyes. “A chaperone? Such a gent. But you do realize what I do for a living?”
Lazarus gave her a pleading look.
“Oh, all right. But I don’t see what the bleedin’ fuss is about. We’ll be just outside waiting for you.”
Once they had gone, Lazarus turned to the gypsy woman. “There is one other thing before we begin, Miss Buki. My friend often takes to raving and displaying violence when his darker nature consumes him. Is there somewhere we may go where he could be restrained?”
Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3) Page 9
