Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3)

by P J Thorndyke

  “Come on,” said Levitski in a panicked voice, “back the way we came.”

  But the other end of the archway was blocked by two more ruffians who had snuck around from a side street. They grinned at their trapped prey.

  “Just let us pass and there’ll be no trouble,” Lazarus told them.

  “Oh, we wants trouble,” said one of the men, testing the strength in the thick piece of wood he held in his hands. “Race traitor,” he added, looking Lazarus up and down with distaste. “Don’t you know it’s bad for your health to be seen on these streets in the company of a Yid?”

  Lazarus drew his Bulldog revolver and aimed it at the man who had spoken. It seemed to have a brief effect on the group, but their confidence in numbers quickly overcame their hesitation. The man with the club advanced. Lazarus squeezed the trigger and felled him with one shot. The thugs fell back, shocked by their prey’s willingness to take a life.

  “Back off,” Lazarus warned them, chambering another round and holding the gun on them.

  The group reluctantly let them pass and soon Lazarus and Levitski were pounding down the street and around the corner, continuing northwards. They swung into a shop doorway and caught their breaths.

  “Shit, comrade!” panted Levitski. “Do you always carry a cannon?”

  “I’m a military man,” Lazarus replied. “I’ve never felt safe without one. Whether it’s mad Mahdists or East End villains, I’m always prepared.”

  “Do you see how the failure of the state and its corrupt police has left us with no option but to use violence to protect ourselves?” Levitski said.

  “I’m surprised you don’t carry a weapon.”

  “A Jewish anarchist with a concealed weapon quickly finds himself at the end of a rope,” the Russian replied. “Our time for violence will come but for the meantime we must choose our battles and marshal our forces in secret.”

  “Is that how you see the club? The marshalling of forces? To me there is far too much talk going on in Berner Street and not enough action.”

  “Not enough people like you or I, you mean,” said Levitski with a smile. “Too many philosophers and poets. Propaganda and speeches will only get us so far, we both know this. I have had my eye on you for some time now, comrade, and now I am convinced that you are of a caliber far greater than the rest of those soft heads at the club. I would like to introduce you to a select group of friends whose anarchist designs run much further than meeting Arbeter Fraynd’s next deadline.”

  “Are you a member of another club?”

  “You might say that. But it is not the sort of club where fellows sit around drinking tea and debating Babeuf and Fourier. We keep ourselves very low key. That is why I have not mentioned it to you before. I had to be sure your philosophies were sincere and that you were not a police plant or a government spy.”

  “You intrigue me, comrade.”

  “Then I shall take you to meet my friends.”

  “When?”

  “I will call on you at an unspecified time, but you must be ready to leave and be gone for some days.”

  “Well, I have already lost my job at the docks so nobody will really miss me. But days? What could be so involving?”

  “Merely one of our security measures. But there will be plenty to keep you occupied.”

  They continued to Victoria Park and heard out Yoshka’s speech. It felt like their way of saying farewell to the Berner Street club and all its useless philosophers and poets.

  When Lazarus got back to Limehouse he found Mr. Clumps entertaining Mary. She still preferred to sit by the door, as far away from the bed and its occupant as possible.

  “Any luck?” he asked her.

  “It’s mayhem out there!” she said. “Gangs are tearing apart Whitechapel looking for your friend. They reckon it’s a Jew.”

  “I know,” Lazarus replied. “But you were not harmed?”

  She snorted and tossed him a brown paper bag. “Here you are!”

  It in was a little bottle of green glass with a typically vague label that read;

  Dr. Schäfer’s Female Remedy

  A Preventative Wash for Married Women

  New Recipe - Pleasing Aroma

  Beware of Counterfeits

  “Dr. Schäfer,” murmured Lazarus. “Sounds German. I’m going to take this to a chemist and see if they can’t find out what’s in it. But first we need to test it on Mansfield.”

  “You remember what I said?” Mary said in a warning tone as she rose from the chair.

  “Of course. You’d better be off then. Just be careful. You don’t look Jewish but these mobs will take advantage of any distraction.”

  “Don’t you worry. I’ve survived worse trouble than this.”

  “Will I see you again?”

  “Depends if you need me for any more errands.”

  “Perhaps I will. Or perhaps I’ll just drop by the Ten Bells for a drink with you sometime.”

  “I can’t promise you I’ll be there,” she said. “But if I am, then yes, maybe we’ll have a drink.”

  He watched her leave and then closed the door and turned to Mansfield. “Right, then, old friend. I know this is a rough business but we have to try.”

  “She’s a lovely girl,” said Mansfield. “You do what you have to to keep her and her kind safe from me.”

  “Right you are,” said Lazarus. He uncorked the little bottle and took a whiff. It certainly was aromatic but he couldn’t place it. It was a blend of many different scents that masked something acrid and chemical beneath. “Prepare yourselves,” he said to his friends. And he held the bottle under Mansfield’s nose.

  Chapter Thirteen

  In which a new society is joined

  November 27th, 1863

  I was not wrong about the perils my suggested plan to the king might entail. I barely slept a wink for the clamour of mourning sweeping the palace and descending into the city below. The lights of torches flickered in the night like fireflies as the city remained awake with me.

  Before dawn somebody hammered on my door. I thought it would be Kasemchai but I opened it to find two of the king’s bodyguards. They spoke to me in their own tongue with much gesticulating and, in frustration at my blank expression, hauled me from my chamber in a state of undress.

  Alarmed to say the least at being dragged through the palace by a pair of ferocious Amazons, I realised that I was under some sort of arrest and thought it best to hold my tongue for the time being. We found the throne room in a state of great excitement. A man I did not recognise sat on the throne with the air of a cat that had devoured both the cream and the canary.

  Noblemen summoned from their homes (with perhaps more dignity that I had been) prostrated themselves at his feet. There were many attendants at the arms of the usurper, many more than the true king usually had about him. They wore cloaks of maroon, covering their bodies so that they resembled monks of an exotic sort.

  I was held in a vice-like grip by my two escorts like some sort of political prisoner about to be beheaded. My eyes darted around for any sign of Kasemchai but I could see none. Neither was there any sign of the true king or Prince Ksitindraditya. The current occupant of the throne was speaking in a loud voice that demanded the attention and respect of all in the room. He began pointing a thin finger at me and jabbing it to punctuate his increasingly angry monologue.

  I found myself being dragged forward and forced to kneel at the feet of this usurper. I heard the sound of a blade being unsheathed behind me and I began to panic. Iron-hard arms held my own outwards in the eagle position and stifled my struggling. I felt certain that I was about to die and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer under my breath.

  The doors to the throne room swung open and several men swept into the room, causing a great stir of confusion among the assembled court. The arms of my startled Amazons relaxed slightly at this intrusion, and I was able to turn a little to get a better look.

  My heart filled with relief. Striding thr
ough the doors like a lion returning to his den was King Harshavarman himself, with Prince Ksitindraditya by his side and a score of attendants behind him.

  The alarmed nobles did not know what to do. Should they flee in terror at the sight of this ghost? Or accept him as flesh and blood? But which king should they bow to now?

  All eyes were on the usurper, but he smiled as if he had expected the sudden resurrection of his enemy. At his command the robed attendants behind him threw aside their maroon garbs and brandished blades and short throwing spears. The scene had the feel of a trap that had just been sprung.

  The true king’s bodyguard, spurred into action by this threat to their leader whom they had thought dead until now, drew their own weapons and rallied to Harshavarman and the prince. Finding myself suddenly released from bondage, I scurried to the nearest wall and remained on my haunches while the war for the throne broke out all around me.

  I need not go into detail of the blood spilled in that room today, for I have not the stomach for it. I need only say that the battle went poorly for King Harshavarman and his followers, much to my distress. The usurper (whom I have since learned is a discontented nobleman by the name of Jayavarthon) had a remote claim to the throne and wished to accelerate the natural course of succession. Upon the reports of the king’s death, he had entered the palace and taken the throne without anybody to stop him. He somehow predicted the king’s ruse and so had his armed troops disguised as attendants accompany him into the palace. His intention was to kill both the king and his son within the palace walls, along with anybody who might bring word of this treachery to the city beyond.

  As I write this the battle still rages on through the corridors of the palace. Every single one of the king’s Amazons have been called to the fight and to do their lord proud but Jayavarthon has called on his own allies from the city, no doubt claiming that some usurper is trying to block his path to the throne.

  Currently the king has set up his base in a series of supply rooms that run off from the kitchens, which we have barricaded with everything we can find. We are outnumbered and I do not know how long we can survive before they break in and are upon us. Perhaps this will be my last entry. If I am to be knifed in my sleep then there are only a few words left to say; I love you, Sarah, and I love you Michael. I can only pray that I will see you both again.

  “Well, now we know that this foreign ointment is the stimuli,” said Mr. Clumps, placing a damp towel over Mansfield’s slumbering face.

  “And we can both be thankful for the chains you procured,” Lazarus replied, loosening his collar. The room was not hot but sweat ran down his neck, cold sweat, borne out of fear. The words spoken from the mouth of his friend had chilled him, as had the rage and the hatred he had seen in those eyes.

  That afternoon he took the vial of liquid to a chemist on Pennyfields, whom he had learned occasionally ran toxicological analyses for the police. The chemist looked at the label with distaste. “There’s a lot of this muck about,” he said, turning the bottle over in his hands to see if there was a reverse label. “Typical. No mention of the ingredients. Do a woman more harm than good, most likely.”

  “I was hoping you could tell me what was in it,” Lazarus said.

  “We ordinary chemists don’t sell this sort of thing. It’s the type of jollop people flog in the market or the Chinese in their shops round here. Probably mixed up in somebody’s cellar with whatever came to hand thrown in. I’ll take a look at it. What’s your interest?”

  “I’m a private detective pursuing a case for a client. Their daughter used some of this and my client believes it may have harmed her.”

  “Sounds like a case for the police,” said the chemist with a frown.

  “It’s just a theory for the moment, but if there’s anything dangerous in it than I shall notify the police, have no worries as to that.”

  The chemist told him to come back the next day and so Lazarus returned home. Mansfield was awake and looking sicker than ever.

  “I think it would be best if we removed you back to your hotel room,” Lazarus told him.

  “Chains and all?” the actor asked.

  “That might raise a few suspicions. No, I think that we need to get you out of the East End and reduce the likelihood of you coming into contact with any woman who may be using this ointment. I can’t imagine the ladies at the Langham are the types to resort to such precautions. At least we’ll have to hope they aren’t. It’s a bit of a gamble but I think it’s far safer than keeping you in Limehouse. God knows how many women are walking around whiffing of this stuff. Or their customers for that matter. Sex spreads scents just as it does disease.”

  Mansfield breathed deeply. “So I can return to normal life then. As normal as it can be after all of this.”

  “I would stay in your rooms as much as possible for the sake of caution,” Lazarus told him. “I still have work to do. I shall be calling on you.”

  That evening Lazarus and Mr. Clumps unlocked Mansfield’s chains and escorted him to Commercial Road, where they took a cab to the Langham Hotel. There they enjoyed a meal together and saw him safely to his room. He seemed to be in better spirits than he had been in days, possibly at the prospect of sleeping in a fine bed without the need for chains, or perhaps he was feeling confident that Lazarus was getting closer to rooting out the cause of his problem. Lazarus only hoped that he would not let his friend down.

  “Isn’t it a bit dangerous letting him go free?” Mr. Clumps asked Lazarus on their way back to Limehouse.

  “Perhaps. But we can’t keep him in Limehouse. For a start the whole of the East End with its working girls must remain a no-go area to him now. And secondly, his presence would be a hindrance in the pursuit of our mission for the government. I must say that you’ve been awfully good about this whole business, Clumps. Playing nurse for my friend is hardly in your job description. And I thank you for your trust and silence.”

  “Don’t mention it,” the mechanical replied. “My job description is to do whatever you tell me.”

  “Right, well I’m sorry to have spent so much time on what is essentially a personal matter. But now we can get back to pursuing our real business in the East End.”

  “Do you have a new lead?”

  “I hope so. Levitski has promised to introduce us to a few friends of his. Friends made of sterner stuff than our comrades at the Berner Street club.”

  The next day Lazarus dropped in on the chemist in Pennyfields.

  “A solution of Zinc and alum mixed with a watered down cologne to mask the smell,” the chemist told him. “Unfortunately I could not ascertain the type but I detected bergamot and patchouli oils as well as sandalwood.”

  “Thank you,” said Lazarus. “This is a big help.”

  “I don’t see how,” the chemist replied. “Nothing dangerous in it at all. If your client’s daughter was somehow injured, then it was not because of the contents of this bottle. Although that’s to say nothing of its ineffectiveness. It’s a scam, really, but not a dangerous one.”

  “But at least I can rule it out as the cause of my client’s complaints,” said Lazarus.

  In fact he intended to track down pure forms of every ingredient the chemist had given him and test each and every one of them on Mansfield in the safety of his hotel room. By hook or by crook he would isolate the stimulus that drove him to murder.

  The following day Levitski came for them.

  “I have spoken of you to my comrades,” he said. “And they think you would both make valuable additions to our army.”

  “Army?” Lazarus enquired.

  “Just a term we like to use. For are we not truly at war? Has not the class battle been going on since the dawn of time?”

  It was a misty morning that saw them leave Limehouse and head westwards towards Whitechapel. It was a walk Lazarus and Mr. Clumps had taken many a cold morning, when the warm and friendly interior of the Berner Street club with its hot tea and good company was a welcome
beacon to the hard up, unemployed workers of East London. But this time they veered north, crossing first Commercial Street, then Whitechapel Road. They were near Buck’s Row, and it was on the street that lay between the site of Polly Nichol’s murder and the Whitechapel and Mile End Station that their destination lay.

  Several small dwellings were squashed close together, as if the hulking brickwork of the nearby Harrison, Barber & Co. Horse Slaughterers was forcing its weight against them. Levitski led them to the front door of a tenement with boarded up windows and peeling green paint. He rapped three times and a woman opened it.

  She had dark hair and drawn, pinched features that made her seem older than her slender, shapely figure suggested. She said something to Levitski in Russian.

  “My companions here do not speak our tongue, Anna, so we must be polite,” he replied.

  “Of course,” said the woman, donning a smile. “My name is Anna Winberg and you are most welcome.”

  They were admitted to a rundown dwelling that had unfurling carpets and the barest essentials in the way of amenities. The smell of boiling cabbage and some sort of meat came from a small kitchen that led off from the living room. A coal fire burned in the grate, and above the chipped and cracked mantle was a portrait of Karl Marx. On the opposite wall was a cheap painting of some landscape in Eastern Europe.

  Several men and women were seated around the fire on mismatched furniture. They wore greasy caps and coarse clothes, and had the red-rimmed eyes and calloused looks Lazarus knew from factory and sweatshop workers.

  “Comrades,” said Anna Winberg, addressing the assembled group, “meet our new friends from the Berner Street club.”

  “How do you do?” Lazarus said.

  There were nods of acknowledgement all round.

  “What’s with the mask?” one of them said to Mr. Clumps. “None of us are wearing masks.”

  “Phossy jaw,” Clumps said automatically.