Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3)

by P J Thorndyke

  He handed her the slip of paper. “Go to these addresses. Question the people the victims lodged with. Ask about their habits, of any odd traits; anything that might set them apart from you and the other women of Whitechapel. They’ll trust you, you’re not the police. And you’ll be finding out things the police won’t have thought of. That’s what’s most important; anything that the police might have dismissed as irrelevant.”

  “And what will you be doing?”

  “I’ll be visiting the crime scenes to see if I can dig anything up there that might be of use.”

  “Wrong. You’ll be making bloody well sure that that friend of yours stays in his bed and doesn’t get up to his old tricks again. Because if he kills again, Mr. Longman, I’ll peach on both of you so that you’ll both swing!”

  Her temporary silence was good enough for Lazarus. It bought him some time at least, and who knew what she might turn up? She’d have a damned better chance at getting answers from the women in those dosshouses than he or the police did.

  When he returned to the bedsit, he found Mr. Clumps standing outside with the chain he had been sent to purchase.

  “Has your friend gone home?” the mechanical asked.

  “Yes,” Lazarus replied. “Help me get Mansfield secured.”

  Mansfield was not happy about being chained up like a mad dog, but he begrudgingly accepted it as necessary. “How long am I to remain here in your lodgings?” he asked Lazarus. “I am due to perform again in two days.”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Hyde will have to be put on ice for a while,” Lazarus told him. “In more ways than one. I’ll get a message to Stoker.”

  “It’ll ruin the company...”

  “There are far greater things at stake here.”

  “Yes, you’re quite right.”

  “I’ll not rest until I find out the root of your madness, Richard,” Lazarus told him. “We’ll have you back on stage in no time.”

  True to his word, Lazarus wasted no time and was out that night, scouring the scenes of murder in Whitechapel. But he found that the only thing they had in common was their squalid and neglected appearances and the fact that all were dark, out of the way places where a woman would have to be mad or desperate to venture into with an unknown man.

  Buck’s Row was narrow and shaded by warehouses. The lettering on one read; Browne & Eagle. The other side of the street was lined by a shabby two-storey terrace with dulled, curtained windows.

  The back yard of 29 Hanbury Street where the body of Annie Chapman was discovered was filled with junk and broken furniture. The fence against which her body had been dumped was ramshackle and crooked. Lazarus could detect the yeasty smell of the Black Eagle Brewery over on Brick Lane.

  Mitre Square was reached by a gloomy, narrow entrance called Church Passage. Warehouses of three or four stories faced it on all sides. Kearly & Tonge was spelled out in large letters on the side of one of them.

  Lazarus noted all of this down. It was late. Prostitutes were propositioning him and men were eying him suspiciously, as well they might eye anybody walking around Whitechapel with a pencil and notepad in the middle of the night. He decided to leave Dutfield’s Yard until tomorrow. He could have a snoop around there when he went over to the club in the morning.

  When he got back, he decided to try out a few things on Mansfield. His friend was awake and, still chained to the bed, was accepting a cup of tea courtesy of Mr. Clumps who was holding it up to Mansfield’s lips in one massive paw.

  “He doesn’t make a bad cuppa,” Lazarus said, taking over from the mechanical who shambled over to the fire and poked at the glowing coals.

  “Not too bad, although you boys could do with owning a strainer,” said Mansfield, spitting out a tealeaf onto the blanket.

  “Richard, I’d like to try a few experiments on you.”

  Mansfield sighed. “I don’t think I’m up to it, old boy. I can’t cope with another episode, not two in one day.”

  “I know it’s hard on you but we must try to isolate the cause of your episodes. I’ve been out collecting potential stimuli. Now, let’s see...” he held up his pad with the words ‘Browne & Eagle’ and ‘Kearly & Tonge’ written in block capitals. Mansfield stared at them with a blank expression.

  “Nothing? Hmm.” The yeasty smell from the Black Eagle brewery was something else he’d like to try and would see about getting hold of some fermenting beer later in the day. But for now it was best that they all got a little rest. As the cot was occupied, he bedded down on the floor with his blanket around him.

  Chapter Twelve

  In which an ointment of foreign origin is purchased

  November 26th, 1863

  I spent the early part of the day sketching the carvings and bas reliefs of the citadel. This is a little out of my area of expertise and it feels strange to be sketching manmade images instead of the works of nature. I can only imagine what a fine study Henri Mouhot would make of all of this. But as he is dead and there is likely to be no other white man admitted to this mountain stronghold, I must do my best to record all I can as best I can. But good God, there is not enough lead in my pencil nor strength in my arm to record all this wonderful city has to offer!

  Kasemchai came to me a little after lunch. “King very sick,” he said.

  I replied that I had been made aware of the fact during our audience with his majesty yesterday.

  “Worse today,” Kasemchai said. “If he die then we must leave very quickly.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Many here do not like white man in Midnight City. If king die then we may die with him.”

  “But surely Prince Ksitindraditya will ensure that we come to no harm. He will be king if Harshavarman dies, yes?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Noblemen do not like king or his son. Maybe mutiny if he die.”

  I began to understand the gravity of the situation. Any kind of coup in the wake of the king’s death could prove very problematic for us. I decided to find out more about the king’s health. I am no doctor, but concepts of medicine here leave very little to be desired by western standards. Perhaps it was some mild malady easily remedied? I told Kasemchai to take me to the palace, where we interviewed several of the king’s court as to the nature of his majesty’s illness.

  I was told that the king’s illness was not a contagious one and was suffered by him alone. No wound caused it and it had only troubled him for a month or so. It was (the attendants believed) a punishment from the gods.

  I demanded to be taken to the royal kitchens to examine his majesty’s food preparations. I was not sure that he was being poisoned, but the symptoms suggested some dietary cause. I cannot for the life of me understand why they do not employ a food taster.

  His majesty’s diet is a fairly plain one considering his station in life. Pork, poultry, mountain river fish and rice seem to be the bulk of it with little flavourings but for lemongrass, Lao Coriander and several native flowers. I examined these and recognised Bombax ceiba and Sesbania grandiflora, but there was also a white blossom which I did not recognize as a flower often used for culinary purposes. I asked one of the cooks what it was and he told me it was pear blossom.

  “No,” I said. “Not pear blossom. These are too tubular.” I had an uncomfortable feeling as I examined them. They had been chopped up, but by looking at some of the larger pieces I could imagine how they looked on the branch and I gradually came to the conclusion that they were from the Strychnos nux-vomica tree; the source of the deadly poison called strychnine.

  ”Very poisonous!” I warned them all. “These are making the king sick!”

  The blossoms do not contain as much poison as the seeds of the tree which are known as ‘Quaker Buttons’ but whoever is poisoning the king obviously wants his death to appear as the result of a long sickness rather than murder.

  The palace guard—who are female, I must add—were promptly called for and they were all for dragging the cooks to a court of execution until I in
tervened. “Very easy to mistake for pear blossoms,” I instructed Kasemchai to translate. My guide was showing signs of reluctance to get involved, but I would not let three innocent men be executed for something that, in all probability, was not their fault. “Whoever wants the king dead probably slipped these into the kitchens in place of pear blossoms.”

  This seemed to pacify the guard and had the three cooks wailing their thanks for my intervention on their behalf. The episode brought me to the attention of the city’s prime minister and I have just come back from another audience with the king and his most trusted circle of advisors.

  The king thanked me once again for my services to him and I was permitted to remain and sit in on the council with Kasemchai translating. They were discussing how best to root out the traitor now that his plot to poison the king had been foiled and his majesty’s health would soon be on the mend.

  “Perhaps I may be permitted to make a suggestion,” I told Kasemchai.

  He looked at me askance. “Be careful,” he said. “You are popular now but king is still king and you are a foreigner.”

  “But if his majesty would just hear me out...” I said, but our discussion had already caught the king’s attention and he demanded to know what we were talking about.

  “Your majesty,” I said through Kasemchai. “One way to draw out the traitor is to make him think that his plan has succeeded.” I was met with blank faces and so continued. “Make him think that your majesty has died and he will surely make his move with all haste. Then, like a Venus flytrap, you may close your jaws on him.”

  “A ruse?” the king replied, and he discussed this with his councilors and prime minister. After a while he turned to me. “An excellent idea. We shall let this traitor think he has won and then, strike when he is overconfident.”

  There was much to prepare in the execution of the plan and so we left his majesty and his council to it. But even as I write this I can hear that the first part of the plan has been put into motion, for the wails of the harem for their lost king echo through the palace. Tomorrow will be an interesting and possibly dangerous day.

  Mary’s eagerness to see an end to the Whitechapel murders did not disappoint Lazarus, for she knocked on their door early the next morning. While Lazarus had been playing detective at the various murder sites, she had spent the night visiting the dosshouses on Flower and Dean Street and the one in Shoe Lane. She hovered on the threshold, looking at Mansfield who sat propped up in bed, his arms bound down with chains.

  “You can come in,” Lazarus said. “Mansfield is quite harmless.”

  She came in but sat on the chair near the door. “I’ll just perch here if it’s all the same to you.”

  “I don’t blame you for mistrusting me, miss,” said Mansfield.

  “If I had my way you’d be locked up at Commercial Street Station right now,” Mary replied. “Got any gin? I’m dead beat and me feet are killing me. I haven’t a penny to my name neither with all the tramping about I’ve been doing instead of earning.”

  Lazarus fetched the bottle from the chest of drawers and poured her a glass. It was too early for him to join her but she didn’t mind drinking alone, knocking it back and holding her glass out for another. “I got no money for rent, that’s what really worries me. I’ll be out on the street if I don’t get back to work and put in some overtime.”

  Lazarus reached into his pockets and counted out some shillings for her. She looked at him without taking the coin. “It’s not charity,” he promised her. “I just don’t want you getting into bother on my account.”

  “Well, all right. Let’s call it my pay for doing your job for you.”

  “Did you find anything out?”

  “Maybe. There was nothing at Flower and Dean Street, but there was a woman in the casual on Shoe Lane who knew Catherine Eddowes. I asked her all the stuff you told me; what was she like, how she dressed, and all. I also asked her if she had any personal belongings left over. The woman seemed a bit tight-lipped about it, but I pressed her and she told me that as the woman was dead now it didn’t do no harm for her to have taken a few bits and pieces for herself.”

  “What sort of bits and pieces? Anything she didn’t have with her when she was murdered won’t be our stimulus.”

  “No, and for the most part it was just a comb, a bit of broken mirror and some undergarments. But I got to thinking what you said about smell. Well, we bag-tails have to be careful to avoid getting with child. Some syringe themselves out with a solution of zinc, alum, pearl ash and other nasty stuff after a man does his business. Some just use vinegar. Mesself, I just make a punter pull out before he reaches his jolly heights. Saves mess. Anyway, there’s this new potion on the street what’s become quite popular. I don’t know what’s in it. Probably just some jollop that does no good but it don’t half pong. It’s got some perfumed scent to it probably to cover up the smell of all the horrible stuff that’s in it.”

  “And Catherine Eddowes used this stuff?”

  “Must of done ‘cos this woman I spoke to pinched a bottle of it from her after she died. What do you reckon? Is this what we’re after?”

  “It could be. But there’s only one way to be sure. Mary, I want you to go and procure me a bottle of this stuff.”

  “All right, but if I bring it to you, you just let me get a good distance from here before you start waving it under his nose. I don’t want to be anywhere near him when he turns.”

  “Absolutely.”

  As she opened the door to leave, she nearly bumped into a figure on the doorstep. It was Levitski. “Friend of yours?” Mary asked Lazarus as the Russian stood back to let her pass.

  “An associate, yes,” Lazarus replied.

  Mary gave the Russian Jew a queer look before she headed off on her errand.

  “Levitski,” said Lazarus. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, comrade,” the Russian replied. “Had company last night?”

  “No, she just stopped by for some breakfast. Her brother was a friend of mine before he got the cholera. I look after her from time to time.”

  “Very charitable of you. If only more Londoners were as selfless as you are, we wouldn’t have need of bloody revolution.”

  “I’m surprised to see you so early, Levitski. I take it you wish to go to the club?”

  “I thought we might take a wander over to Victoria Park to hear Yoshka’s new speech.”

  “Damn! I forgot! Apologies, comrade, I’ve had a busy time. I’ll just get my coat.”

  “And comrade Clumps too?” Levitski tried to peer in and Lazarus quickly blocked his view. It would not do at all to let Levitski see Mansfield chained to his bed. That would take some explaining.

  “Actually, he’s feeling a bit under the weather. Had a little too much to drink last night. He won’t be joining us.”

  “I see. Thought he had the constitution of an ox, that one. Very well, shall we be off?”

  Lazarus left Mr. Clumps to care for Mansfield. He had to admit, the mechanical was turning out to be a perfect nurse.

  They cut through Mile End and passed a tailor’s that had recently seen some violence. The pavement glistened with broken glass and a woman sat cradling a man’s bloodied head. She was weeping. The name above the broken window was a Jewish one.

  “What the devil happened here?” said Lazarus.

  “There’s been attacks all over the East End,” said Levitski. “Against Jewish businesses. People beaten up. It started in Whitechapel early this morning but has spilled over into other districts.”

  “Why?”

  “The Ripper. The prejudiced press have everybody convinced it’s a Jew that’s the killer. Most people can’t bring themselves to believe that an Englishman could be capable of committing such atrocities and that it has to be a foreigner. And the police are looking for a suspect nicknamed ‘Leather Apron’. Well, everybody knows that most of the Jews in London wear leather aprons according to their trades as tanners and bootmakers.
”

  “But that’s madness!”

  “Believe me, my friend, it takes but the tiniest of sparks to blow a powder keg. I have seen it in my homeland; prejudice and hatred will mount and mount until the barest whisper of suggestion breaks the dam.”

  As they headed further north, they appeared to be approaching the heart of the tension. Two more shops had been vandalized and an old Jew lay beaten and groaning in the street. Fortunately, his life had been saved by a quick rallying of his neighbors some of whom, Lazarus was relieved to see, were Englishmen who had chased the mob away.

  “They’re heading across Hamlet’s Way,” said one of them. “Watch yourselves.”

  “There’ll be a bloody pogrom in East London at this rate,” said Lazarus. “Where are the police?”

  “Far away from wherever they can be of any use, as usual,” said Levitski.

  They cut across Hamlet’s Way and saw the wake of destruction left by the mob. There did seem to be a police presence after all, as a group of uniformed coppers came jogging around the corner and headed east.

  “Come on,” said Lazarus. “We don’t want to go where they’re headed, assuming they’re even on the right track.”

  They nipped up a side street and noted how deathly quiet it was. Jewish businesses were boarded up with their owners barricaded inside. Other shops and homes had their curtains drawn, their inhabitants pretending that violence was not stomping up and down their streets.

  They ducked into an archway and just before they reached the sunlight on the other side, the mob shambled into view. ‘Mob’ was a generous word for this group of ruffians. There were five or six of them, armed with bits of chain, lengths of wood and pipes. They appeared to have broken off from the main body of troublemakers to scour the side streets and alleys for easy pickings. In seeing Lazarus and Levitski, they clearly felt that they had found some.

  “There’s a pork-dodger!” cried one of them and they advanced with the slow pace of those who had the luxury of taking their time with their prey.