Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3)

Onyx City

Published by P. J. Thorndyke

Copyright 2015 P. J. Thorndyke

Contents

Chapter 1 - In which a journal of some import eludes our hero

Chapter 2 - In which a fine performance is given at the Lyceum Theatre

Chapter 3 - In which our hero is introduced to a new acquaintance

Chapter 4 - In which Limehouse offers several clues

Chapter 5 - In which the journal is obtained

Chapter 6 - In which our hero learns his true name

Chapter 7 - In which two friends are found in unlikely circumstances

Chapter 8 - In which the killer strikes again

Chapter 9 - In which some help is recruited

Chapter 10 - In which the darkest depths of the human mind are plumbed

Chapter 11 - In which an investigation begins

Chapter 12 - In which an ointment of foreign origin is purchased

Chapter 13 - In which a new society is joined

Chapter 14 - The kingdom under the streets

Chapter 15 - In which our heroes return to the world above

Chapter 16 - In which the revolution begins

Chapter 17 - In which London faces another Great Fire

Chapter 18 - In which a second night is had at the theatre

Chapter 19 - In which an attempt is made on the Prussian chancellor’s life

Chapter 20 - In which Lime Kiln Dock receives its final sacrifice

Epilogue

Onyx City

Chapter One

In which a journal of some import eludes our hero

The butler who admitted Lazarus Longman to the house on Cavendish Square had the air of one who had nothing of enjoyment left in life but the promise of retirement. He was sizing Lazarus up as if determining whether or not he should be sent around to the tradesman’s entrance, when Lazarus spoke.

“I don’t have a card. I have been in correspondence with Mr. Walters and he invited me. The name’s Longman.”

“Ah, yes, sir,” the butler said, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “I have been told to expect you. This way please.”

The house must have been a fine one once, but now the floorboards creaked under threadbare carpets and gloom hung about the place like a pall. It looked like it had never been a family home. The only pictures on the walls were mezzotints of bridges and watercolors of foreign parts. Cobwebs dangled from the lamp fittings and chandeliers. If Cornelius Walters employed a maid, Lazarus decided, she should be flung out on her ear.

They entered a library, although for all the foliage about, Lazarus wasn’t sure that it didn’t double as a conservatory. Skylights and windows let in large amounts of light, which couldn’t have been good for the books that were lined up on mahogany shelves, interspersed with pots dangling their green tendrils onto the shelves below. Occasional oddities like mammal skulls and small antiquities gave the place the air of a haphazard museum.

In a wicker chair sat an elderly man with a small pair of spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. His hair was snow white and swept across a balding pate. “Ah, Mr. Longman!” said the man. He did not rise from his chair, but motioned to an identical one opposite.

Lazarus sat down and accepted the old man’s hand. “Mr. Walters, it is a pleasure to finally meet you in the flesh.”

“Likewise, sir. And I must say that you are younger than I imagined. Tea?”

“Please.”

“Bring us a pot, Peterson,” Walters said to the butler, who nodded and ducked out of the room.

Lazarus loosened his collar and looked around at all the plants. “Is all this humidity good for the books?”

“Not at all. But these books you see here are not in the least bit valuable. Junk mostly, but I can never bear to throw a book out. My library upstairs is where I keep my real treasures. The conservatory is merely where I choose to spend most of my time. The bones ache at my age, you see. I only keep books in here because there is no other place for them.”

“And it is a particular volume that I am here to examine,” said Lazarus.

“I know, and I must apologize for wasting your time.”

“Wasting my time?”

“You see, I did possess the journal you spoke of and fully intended to sell it to you, but alas, a fellow came calling with a better offer and I let him have it. I know it wasn’t particularly polite of me, but I am trying to run a business here, such as it is. My fortunes of late have dipped a little, as I am sure you can tell.”

“That’s quite all right. I am a little disappointed though. And a little surprised that another individual should express an interest in such an obscure curiosity.”

“It’s not too hard to fathom,” said Cornelius. “The journal, though one of a kind, is an invaluable resource on the mountain peoples of Siam. It is a firsthand account and the mysterious fate of its author makes it doubly interesting.”

“The author’s fate is no mystery,” said Lazarus. “Thomas Tyndall died in Siam.”

“Under extremely unusual circumstances, as I’m sure you will agree.”

“Nevertheless, I find it uncanny that somebody who shares my interest purchased the journal within days of our last correspondence.”

“You are very disappointed, I can appreciate that. Allow me to make some way in amends. The gentleman left his calling card, and you may have it should you wish to approach him with an offer.” Cornelius rifled through a stack of newspapers and letters on the side table, upon which stood a Japanese bonsai tree in a glass bell jar. He retrieved a calling card and passed it to Lazarus.

It read;

J. C. TURNBULL

Fine Boots, Shoes and Pumps

REPAIRS DONE PROMPTLY

57 Copley Street, Stepney

“A cobbler interested in an explorer’s journal of Siam?” asked Lazarus in astonishment.

“A hobby, perhaps. Come to think of it, I don’t remember you telling me your profession, Mr. Longman.”

“I didn’t.”

“I suppose it would be crossing the boundaries of professionalism to enquire as to your own interest in the journal?”

“You’re right,” said Lazarus smartly. “It would.” He rose and clutched the rim of his bowler hat. “I must leave you now, I’m afraid. I’m a very busy man.”

Just then, Peterson the butler entered, bearing a tea tray.

“Sorry, I can’t stop for tea. This was a professional visit after all, and there is little further to discuss. Thank you for your time and the card.”

“Not at all, Mr. Longman,” said Cornelius Walters. “I wish you all success in your pursuit.”

Lazarus gritted his teeth as he stepped out onto the street and heard the door close shut behind him. He was being given the runaround, that much was certain. What was less certain was why.

He spotted the four-wheeler and its horses on the other side of the street. It was a Clarence, known as a ‘growler’, usually privately owned, although it was becoming more common in recent years to see second hand examples put into use as Hackney carriages. Often they showed some trace of the former owner’s coat of arms on the side, but this one had a glossy, black finish without a single adornment.

Its door opened and a face was thrust out. Lazarus felt he had seen it before somewhere but could not quite place it.

“With us, Longman,” the face said brusquely. Lazarus immediately knew who they were and why there were here; the unadorned carriage, the two men who knew his name and had undoubtedly been waiting for him, following him even. These were men from the bureau.

He felt his feet walking him over to the carriage without remembering giving them the instructions to do so. The last thing he wanted was to get drawn into more entanglements with the government. He felt as if he had only just been released from their clutches, after narrowly avoiding a prison sentence or a swift departure from the world at the hand of a state-employed assassin. In fact, how could he be sure that these men in their carriage weren’t just that? But no, why wait two years to kill him?

Two years had passed since he had returned from Egypt in disgrace. Not only had he failed in his mission to return the French Egyptologist Eleanor Rousseau to her fiancé in England, but he had directly disobeyed orders and greatly endangered British relations with the Confederate States of America. The C.S.A.’s ignorance of his involvement in the devastating crash of its dirigible, the
CSS Scorpion II
, was the only thing that had saved Lazarus from being thrown to the wolves. All aboard had been killed but him and Katarina Mikolavna; the Russian agent whom he had fallen in with.

Or was that fallen in love with?

Two years—and he still thought about her every day. Two years since she had left him gawking on the platform at Gare Montparnasse in Paris like a foolish schoolboy. He had accepted that he would never see her again. His brain knew that. But his heart still hadn’t received the news.

“Where would you take me?” he asked the men in the carriage.

“To see the Gaffer,” said the man who had spoken.

They both wore grey suits. One had a moustache and the other wore spectacles. They had the bored airs of those who rarely left London and spent their lives passing correspondence between others with vastly more exiting lives. Lazarus knew the type.

“I don’t suppose either of you know what he wants to see me about?” Lazarus asked. “Or doesn’t he tell his lackeys that much?”

Their faces soured and for a moment Lazarus thought he was going to receive a fist in his face. But these two were probably more used to pushing piles of paper around than actual people.

“Just get in, Longman,” the man with the spectacles said. “No need to be bloody-minded.”

Lazarus did so, and soon they were clattering along Regent Street towards Charing Cross. They headed down Whitehall and turned into an unassuming courtyard beneath a brick arch. There were some other carriages in the yard, their drivers tending to their horses. A casual passerby might have thought the place a mere coach yard. Only a trained military eye would have spotted the camouflaged pillboxes high up on the balconies of the surrounding buildings.

They entered a small tradesman’s entrance and climbed a narrow carpeted stair that led onto a landing with three doors. A portrait of Queen Victoria hung opposite a rectangular window, the light breaking her severe face into a criss-cross of bars.

One of the doors led to a long corridor that extended deep into the unknown depths of whatever building they were now in. Portraits of prime ministers going all the way back to Sir Robert Walpole peered down from the walls. A secret serviceman in a plain dark suit sat by a door with his legs crossed, reading the Times. He looked up at Longman, did not smile, and returned to his paper.

“You know where you are and what to do,” said one of Lazarus’s escorts.

“Aren’t you going to hold my hand when we go in?” Lazarus asked him.

“You’re on your own, treasure hunter.”

The two men departed, leaving Lazarus to open the door and walk in. The secretary rose from her desk and ushered him into the office beyond with a customary knock and opening of the door. She closed it behind him.

Morton sat behind his inordinately large desk and did not rise. Lazarus needed no invitation to occupy the plain chair set before the gargantuan mahogany slab, and sat down.

“Good of you to come, Longman,” said Morton, rising to pour them both some cognac.

“Had I a choice?”

Morton smiled and handed him his glass. “I’ve missed you, old fellow.”

“I’m afraid the feeling isn’t mutual.”

“Yes, I understand you’ve been keeping yourself busy. Lectures at King’s College, talks at the British Museum and a book on the Akan people, that sort of thing. Not to mention further pursuits in archaeology and anthropology. Something to do with Siam now, isn’t it? Going back to your roots?”

“It’s perhaps time that I did.”

“Well it’s all very commendable. Can’t pay all that well though, I’d imagine.”

“I do all right.”

“And your father? Is he still living in that house in Edmonton?”

“Guardian,” Lazarus corrected him. “Yes he is.”

“Ill, I heard.”

“Pneumonia.”

“Second time?”

“Third.”

“You know there are some very fine doctors at Guy’s Hospital.”

“You know I have not the means. Are you suggesting that I work for you again? Is that why I’m here?”

“You’re needed. All of our agents are. Difficult days are ahead.”

“Except I’m not an agent anymore. You damn near had me thrown in prison after my last assignment.”

“And with good reason. Your blatant disregard for orders nearly caused an international crisis.”

“Good job everybody onboard that dirigible perished, eh?”

“The truth of the matter is that I’ve got far too many agents in the field right now and not enough on home turf, which is where things look set to flare up in the foreseeable future.”

“What’s the business?”

“You have no doubt heard of Otto von Bismarck’s visit in two months time.”

“The Prussian President? Or is he the Chancellor of the German Empire now? I haven’t kept up with the situation.”

“Both in effect; they have been merged. Since his League of the Three Emperors fell apart, he has been looking for allies against Russian expansion. His visit to London in November is part of a ploy to side with us and absolutely nothing must interfere with it. Relations with Germany have been strained of late, and although Bismarck is concerned with peace above all else, his new Kaiser is an aggressive sod and will think nothing of declaring war on us regardless of what his chancellor thinks. He’s already begun construction on a new navy, and even has colonial desires—which is something new for Germany. The feeling in parliament is that Bismarck must receive British support if only to hold Kaiser Wilhelm by the collar.

“We’re worried that some sort of trouble during the visit might stir things up between us and the Germans. Bismarck has made himself thoroughly unpopular with leftists all around the world due to his anti-socialist policies. And we have more than our share of reds here in London. You recall that dreadful business last year?”

“The Trafalgar Square riots? Yes, I was due to give a speech at the British Museum but it had to be called off.”

“The East End in particular is a tinderbox awaiting a spark. Revolutionist groups, anarchists, labor strikes. The PM is worried that some of these lunatics might try and assassinate Bismarck. We’ve got our fair share of Polish Jews too, another group that despise Bismarck with a passion. None of them can be allowed to get near him.”