Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3) (20 page)

After the brief intermission, Lazarus returned to his box, prepared to let Mansfield see the play to its final curtain before going backstage to tell his friend that it must all stop. At a point nearing the end of the play, he became aware of the curtain behind him being opened a little, letting in some light from the lamp in the hallway. Irritated by the intrusion, he was about to turn and give the usher or the lost patron a piece of his mind when a pair of cold, hard hands grasped him around the neck and began to squeeze with terrific force.

Lazarus shoved his feet against the box’s railing and pushed backwards, toppling the chair over on top of whomever it was who was trying to kill him. The grip around his neck loosened and Lazarus struggled to his feet. From the lights reflected off the stage below he could easily see the broad, angular face of his Siamese friend from what felt like a lifetime ago.

The months of working undercover and living life on the edge in the dangerous parts of the East End had sharpened Lazarus’s reflexes. He was twice the fighter he had been the last time Westcott’s assassin had crossed his path. The Siamese’s surprise at this was written on his face as he desperately blocked Lazarus’s blows. But even so, Lazarus knew he could not beat him unless he used some cunning.

Offsetting his attacker, Lazarus seized the chair and broke it over his skull before dashing behind the curtain to the corridor beyond. He tried the door at the end of the gallery that led backstage and found it unlocked. Nipping down three steps and around a corner, he waited. The door opened, filling the corridor with light, and his enemy joined him backstage.

Lazarus made his way past the carpenter’s shop towards the small box room above the wings that led to the flies; those catwalks where the gas-men hovered above the stage, controlling the lights. Fortunately, there was nobody about and Lazarus did his best to remain in the shadows and out of sight of the gas-men, who could be seen through the tangles of ropes and pulleys, like sailors in the masts of a tall ship.

The assassin entered the room and did not see Lazarus. Lazarus seized a rope that led up into the flies and wound his fists around it, leaving an arm’s length between them as if it were a garrote. He fully intended to kill this man. He should have known that Westcott would make another attempt on his life once he had returned from his undercover work. It had to end now, or he would keep finding his life threatened by eastern assassins. When this was all over, he would track down Westcott and there would be a reckoning.

The assassin drew close and Lazarus stepped forward, looping the rope around his neck twice, quick as a cobra, and drawing on the ends tight. The man struggled, but no sound escaped his lips as his windpipe was slowly crushed. Down below, Lazarus could hear the thunderous applause as the play reached its end.

The man in his grip hurled this way and that in an effort to shake him. Lazarus found himself dragged forward towards the iron stairs that led up onto the flies. Below them was a long drop to the wings where the costumed cast huddled, ready to go out onstage for their final bow.

They hit the banister and tumbled over it. The rope whickered taut, and Lazarus felt the snapping of his assailant’s neck before gravity tore him away to plummet to the wings below.

Chapter Nineteen

In which an attempt is made on the Prussian chancellor’s life

There was so much noise coming from the audience that the sound of Lazarus crashing down into the cluster of stagehands and dressers did not reach beyond those who suddenly found themselves flattened by a man tumbling from the flies. Their cries of alarm and protest were drowned out by the continuing applause.

Lazarus scrambled to his feet and apologized absurdly to those he had landed on. Fortunately, they were much too surprised at his abrupt appearance to look up and notice the dead Siamese man dangling from the flies above them. Any attempt at an explanation on his part quickly became unnecessary, as the cast members were returning to the wings. The curtain had been drawn for the last time, and soon the wings were filled with chattering thespians congratulating each other on a magnificent performance on such a prominent evening.

Mansfield spotted Lazarus and beamed at him. “What a wonderful surprise, Lazarus!” he said, embracing him warmly. “So good of you to come and meet me backstage, but how ever did you get past security? It’s tight as a drum tonight with those politicians in the audience. But I’m forgetting your connections, of course!”

“Look, Richard, we need to talk...”

“Of course, of course, we’ll go out for drinks afterwards. But the PM and that Bismarck fellow are coming backstage to greet us! Me, meeting the PM! Who’d have thought it?”

“Wonderful, Richard, but...”

“Come on!” Mansfield took Lazarus by the arm and led him through the wings to the dressing rooms. But as they entered the corridor, they saw Stoker leading the delegation towards them. Morton was with them, looking bored. The PM seemed equally uninterested, but there was a smile on the Prussian’s face. He extended his hand to Mansfield before there was a chance for introductions to be made.

“The great Mr. Mansfield, of course!” said Bismarck in flawless but accented English. “A wonderful performance, sir! Quite uncanny. You are deserving of your reputation.”

He rambled on and Lazarus became aware of a familiar smell; a scent rather, an unusual cologne he knew from somewhere. It seemed to be coming from Bismarck, as if sweated out through the man’s pores. As soon as he realized this, he made the connection.
Prussian cologne
.

The change came over Mansfield just as Lazarus realized that he was the only man in the world who could stop the assassination now. Mansfield—or rather, Hyde—let out a bestial cry for blood and lunged forward, raising his silver-topped cane to strike Bismarck a violent blow on the skull. Lazarus grabbed his friend’s arm and found himself carried by the force of the blow, and bowled into the Prussian.

All was confusion. Morton’s secret service agents knew that an attempt had been made on the life of the Prussian chancellor, but not by whom. They filed into the narrow corridor from what seemed like several exits, and towering above them was Mr. Clumps, barging his colleagues aside to reach the fray. Lazarus was on top of Bismarck and Mansfield was on top of him. They were a pile of squirming limbs, and Hyde was still trying to kill his target. Lazarus warded off the blows with his forearms, and cried out in agony as the hard, lacquered wood cracked down again and again, bruising him to the bone, but he prevented the deadly silver top from ever striking flesh.

Mr. Clumps seized Mansfield and hauled him off Lazarus. Screeching in frustration, the maniac realized that he had failed his mission. He broke from the mechanical’s grip and took off down the corridor, bowling a secret service man over in his wake.

“Get Mansfield!” Lazarus bellowed to Mr. Clumps as several agents seized him and held his arms behind him.

Had he given his order to any other agent, there would no doubt have been some hesitation, but Mr. Clumps knew what Mansfield was and what lurked in his fevered mind. He took off after the actor like a greyhound, his size irrelevant due to his powerful leg mechanisms which carried him down the hall in great bounds.

“Longman, what the hell is going on?” Morton bellowed.

Bismarck was on his feet, and two of his aides had their revolvers drawn and were looking for any excuse to open fire on somebody.

“Mansfield’s off his rocker,” Lazarus told his chief. “I should have reported him earlier, I know, but I didn’t dream that he had this in mind.”

“You know that man?”

“We’re old friends.”

The ruffled delegation made its way out into the foyer, which was now filled with armed bodyguards, both English and Prussian. Lazarus was released after Morton had explained to his agents that he was one of them. The stragglers from the audience were being quickly ushered out into the street. As he watched them leave, Lazarus spotted a face he recognized and let out a curse.
Constantine Westcott!

He didn’t imagine that his villainous cousin had anything to do with the attempt on Bismarck’s life, and the dangling Siamese assassin in the flies was proof that Westcott was here for another purpose entirely—to ensure that Lazarus met his end once and for all. But Lazarus simply couldn’t let him get away this time. Not now that he finally had a chance to bring his cousin to account for the attempts on his life, and put a halt to the rivalry between them. He had no doubt that the house in Bloomsbury had been emptied—Westcott was too careful to remain there—and he might not get another chance to apprehend his murderous cousin.

As he barged his way through the crowd towards the rain-slicked street outside, he heard Morton exclaim, “Where the devil is he off to now?”

The wet night enveloped them—the pursuer and the pursued—as they dodged carriages that thundered down the street, iron rims skidding on wet stone. Westcott had no time to hail a cab and seemed intent on loosing Lazarus on foot. It was a futile plan; Lazarus was far nimbler and quicker than his waifish cousin and would soon be upon him.

Westcott must have known this for he headed North West, into the cordoned off area of Covent Garden that was little more than rubble. Ducking under a barrier, the pale man scurried down a narrow street that was clogged with piles of masonry and shattered bricks. Following him, Lazarus had no idea if they were on Henrietta Street or King Street, so bombed out was the place. Shells of buildings rose up on all sides; fractured battlements against an iron-black sky from which the rain pelted. There was nobody else within several streets of them. They really had entered a realm of ghosts.

The silence made tracking his quarry easier in the blackened streets. Westcott’s hurrying feet splashing through puddles echoed off the fronts of the abandoned buildings and told Lazarus where he was. Rounding a corner, he saw his cousin’s dark coattails vanish into an open doorway to a crumbling house. He followed him in and saw the trail of raindrops leading across the polished floorboards to where they soaked into the carpeted stairs.

He climbed the stairs gingerly, wanting Westcott to think he was safe for the time being. He did not know if his cousin was armed, but brought out his revolver and cocked it just to be sure.

The landing was in a shambles. Junk left in the wake of the house’s departed occupants was strewn about, probably gone over by looters after the shelling. The doors to the first floor rooms hung open. Through them Lazarus could see that half of the building had fallen away and the interior gaped open onto the rain-streaked garden of St. Paul’s Church below.

Stepping into what had once been a bedroom, Lazarus saw Westcott cowering behind a chest of drawers that was missing its interiors; cast on the floor, their contents trampled by muddy boots. A bed hung precariously over the edge, only three of its four legs touching solid floorboards.

“Your assassin is finished, cousin,” Lazarus said, holding his gun up in a gesture that suggested he was not going to shoot just yet.

“I have others,” came the arrogant reply.

“Well, unless you’ve paid them in advance,” Lazarus said, “you’re going to have a problem seeing that they carry out their assignment. Because I have no intention of giving you the chance to speak with them again.”

“What are you going to do? Kill me in cold blood? Your own family?”

The rebuke was absurd, and they both knew it. Westcott was a hypocrite if he thought that would be too callous of Lazarus. But Lazarus was not Constantine Westcott. “I haven’t decided yet,” he said slowly.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to cut a deal?” Westcott said. “You have the journal. Have you read it?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know what is awaiting you in Siam.”

“Not necessarily. A few journal scraps from a man who was given wealth by a king of a secret lost kingdom? That’s hardly a legal claim on an inheritance.”

“We could go there together! We could find out what happened to your father!”

“Sorry, Constantine. I have no need of you. And besides, he was my father, not yours. Whatever wealth he left is nothing to you while I am still alive.”

“You’re right,” said Westcott. He was standing now, framed against the blackness. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. I never knew you, and so it was easy to think of you as an unwelcome obstacle to be removed. Perhaps if we had been better acquainted, things might have been different.”

“Doubtful,” said Lazarus. “A murdering bastard is always a murdering bastard at heart.”

“As you say,” Westcott replied as he took two steps backwards.

Lazarus understood his intention too late, and on later reflection he wondered if it would have made any difference. What could he have done with Westcott? Handed him over to the police? He would never be safe. Westcott would always find a way. There was only one solution to this conundrum, but two ways of carrying it out.

Westcott chose one of them.

He vanished into the black void and Lazarus rushed towards the edge. It was difficult to differentiate the black shapes below in the garden of St. Paul’s Church; there was a bench, and a pile of rubble that had slid away from one of the bombed buildings, there a dresser, upended, and there... there was Constantine Westcott’s body, smashed and motionless, like a bird that had flown into a window and landed on the ground with its wing feathers splayed out around it; a fallen angel.

When Lazarus arrived back at the Lyceum, he found several police officers milling about. There was no sign of Morton or any of the delegation, and so he introduced himself to the inspector who was conducting the investigation.

“You’d best get over to Leman Street,” said the inspector. “Use my cab.”

“They’re in Whitechapel? Why?”

“There’s been developments. The would-be assassin has been killed. Apparently he was come upon while trying to get into a place on Miller’s Court. Probably seeking refuge with an acquaintance.”

The news that Mansfield was dead was only surpassed in Lazarus’s mind by the words ‘Miller’s Court’. That could only mean Mary. What in God’s name had happened?

He found Leman Street nearly bursting with coppers and secret service men. Wading through to the sergeant’s desk, he saw Morton through the glass of Inspector Read’s office door, talking to Mary. He barged in, wanting to scoop the girl up in an embrace, but stopped himself within a few feet of her.

“Ah, you’re alive,” he said, lamely. “Jolly good.”

Her face did not have any of the crackling energy it usually burned with. She seemed thoroughly down, as if all the joy had been sucked out of her.

Morton broke in before she had a chance to speak. “Longman, I haven’t the faintest idea where you charged off to earlier but we shall get to the bottom of that in due course. Right now we have bigger fish to fry. I’m afraid your friend is dead.”

“So I heard,” Lazarus said. “But what the devil happened? I sent Mr. Clumps after him. What was he doing at Miss Kelly’s place?”

“That was an order you had no right to give,” said Morton, his voice stern. “You are on leave of absence and were at the theatre as a civilian. Any orders given to my men should have come from me.”

“Come off it, Morton,” said Lazarus. “Are you really going to come down on me like that for doing exactly what you would have done? Mansfield, friend of mine though he was, tried to kill Bismarck. He needed to be caught!”

“And caught he may have been had somebody else been sent. Mr. Clumps is an experimental measure and cannot be trusted with delicate orders. Surely I don’t have to remind you of this.”

“Are you telling me that...”

“Clumps killed Mansfield, yes. With his bare hands. Practically tore him apart like a wild animal.”

“I need to speak to him.”

“I think we should stop referring to it as a person,” Morton said. “It is a machine, after all, for all its human characteristics.”

“What’s going to happen to him?” Lazarus asked.

“Decommissioned. We can’t trust a thing like that wandering around. Not with that kind of strength. We’re not Americans yet.”

“Decommissioned? You mean executed?”

“Call it what you like. Its service to us is at an end.”

Mr. Clumps was being held in one of the cells. He sat, patiently, his massive forearms resting on those boulders that served as knees, and his head low. The cell was damp with his steam, condensed on the rough walls, and made the atmosphere heavily oppressive.