Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3) (10 page)

It was dark and grim inside, and there was no evidence that Mansfield had returned. The cab had made good time and Mansfield would still be making his way there on foot. Lazarus exited the building and found a suitable hiding place behind some shattered crates where he could lay in wait for his friend.

As he sat there, shivering with the bitter cold, questions flooded his mind that he could not find the answers to. Why did Mansfield murder? What was the cause of his insanity? And why prostitutes? The papers asked similar questions on a daily basis and it was generally thought that prostitutes represented the easiest prey for a madman set on murder. Their lowly positions, poor familial relations and professions that required them to willingly stroll down the darkest parts of the East End with strange men set them apart as easy pickings. If this was true then, insanity or no, there seemed to be some method to Mansfield’s madness.

At last the sound of footsteps could be heard approaching. Lazarus peered from his hiding place as Mansfield made his way towards the old lime oast, and noted with fearful fascination how he carried himself so differently; stooped over and scuttling, Hyde-like. Under his arm he carried a small package.

Lazarus waited a while after Mansfield had beetled in through the side door before following in after. What little light there was shone into the building from its broken roof. Sticking to the shadows, he watched as Mansfield approached the edge of the dock and began to unravel the sinister package. He was too far away to see its contents in any detail, but Mansfield removed what looked like several pieces of meat, still dripping. These he cast into the scum-coated water, with loud splashes.

He stood awhile, staring down at the spreading ripples, mesmerized by their movement. Was this some sort of ghastly ritual? Lazarus had no doubt about the nature of the offerings. One of the previous victims had been relieved of part of her uterus. He had not noticed that the woman in Dutfield’s Yard had been cut open, but it had been too dark to see much apart from her slashed throat. But why cast this offal into the river? What monstrous thing dwelt in those murky depths that demanded blood sacrifices?

Mansfield began to sway, as if drunk. He emitted a loud, agonized moan, a howl of grief and disgust. He staggered backwards and collapsed to the dusty floor, still as if dead. Lazarus ran to him from the shadows and cradled his friend’s head in his hands. Mansfield awoke and looked at him with terror-stricken eyes.

“It’s happened again, hasn’t it?” he whispered.

Lazarus nodded, sharing his grief, although he was relieved to see his friend’s sanity return, if only for the moment.

“Oh, God, Lazarus!” he wailed. “What happened? What did I do?”

“Let’s get home,” Lazarus said. “I have a place nearby.” He could not let Mansfield alone now; partly for the safety of the girls of Whitechapel—girls like Mary—and partly for the safety of his friend.

Chapter Nine

In which some help is recruited

November 23rd, 1863

I have awoken in the strangest of places and under the strangest of circumstances. A day and two nights have passed since my last journal entry in which I expressed my fears of the tiger we had seen the spoor of.

My fears that I would not be able to sleep while such a beast prowled the surrounding forest, with only my bamboo spear for protection were unfounded for I had apparently drifted off into a comfortable slumber. I have no idea at what time I awoke, only that I had been dreaming of a screaming child. Thoughts of little Michael were on my mind as I came to but I soon realised that the screams were that of a trumpeting elephant in some distress.

I seized my spear and, once again lamenting my lack of a hunting rifle or even a revolver, set off through the trees towards the ruckus. I had no light to guide me but the sounds of the animal and accompanying human cries of alarm were as a beacon to me in the darkness. I was under no doubt that the elephant was our own dear friend, and the human cries came from Kasemchai and his mysterious acquaintances.

I came to a clearing lit by burning torches. Several figures were illuminated and they had their backs to me. They were light on their feet as if anticipating some danger. Kasemchai was there and the others, who numbered five or six, wore native garments of dyed cloth and had bare chests. Then I saw the danger that had them all so panicked. There, in the centre of the clearing was a tiger. It crouched low, tail flicking back and forth, its snarling head hissing up at the nearest man, who took several hasty steps back. None of the men appeared to be armed and were doing their best not to make any sudden movements.

As I lie in my bed now, fearfully wounded, I cannot for the life of me explain my behaviour, only that it was borne out of fear for my own life as well as that of Kasemchai and these fellows I had never met. I was the only man present with a weapon that stood a chance against the cat, and so I hurried forward and put myself between the retreating man and the beast, holding my weapon low, pointed at the face of the predator.

The tiger seemed to take great offence at this and chose that moment to pounce. There was a cry of alarm from all around as the great cat leaped towards me. I stood transfixed with terror, my arms as rigid as the spear they held. The tiger landed on its point, which sank deep into its white breast, bringing forth crimson to soak the fur. It yeowled in rage and slid closer, swiping at me with its massive paw.

Had my spear not held it at a relatively safe distance I would not be alive to write this tale down. But the blow at the animal’s furthest reach was a glancing one only that caught my left shoulder and part of my chest, ripping thick lines through my flesh almost to the bone.

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.”