Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3) (9 page)

“Not recently.”

“They’ve got everything there. There’s this hypnotist woman who can make a person believe anything. I saw her convince a man that he was a monkey. You should have seen him hopping about the place and scratching his arse! The power of the mind is a hundred times stronger than the body, the hypnotist said. And the funny thing was, when the man snapped out of it he had no memory of his a-capering about!”

They laughed at this and then talked some more, but after a while, Mary gave him the soberest look she could muster and informed him that she had to leave.

“It’s been nice talking to you mister, and thank you for everything, your friend too, but I need to start earning my money. With nothing to pay off them High-Rips, I’ll be for it and no mistake.”

Lazarus felt reluctant to let her go, especially as he knew the dangerous game which she would be playing that night. He wanted to give her money so she wouldn’t have to, but knew she would refuse. She wanted no one’s pity and no one’s charity. She had to fight the world on her own terms. She stood up to go, and leaned over to kiss him lightly upon his cheek.

“If you ever want me, you know where to find me now,” she said.

“Mary who?” he asked her. “So I know who to ask for.”

“Kelly. Mary Jane Kelly.” And then she was gone, clutching her shawl about her shoulders as she sauntered of into the crowded Whitechapel night.

Chapter Eight

In which the killer strikes again

November 17th, 1863

If this is the ‘cool’ season, then I have no wish to experience Siam’s ‘hot’ season here on the plains of Khorat. The sun is not so much blistering, but it pulses its heat from behind a screen of clouds and causes all around to fester in a humid hum of sweltering stickiness. The monsoon season ended in October and the rivers are still swollen with runoff from the mountains. We must surely be back in Bangkok by February as the hot season will be unbearable.

The rivers here are choppy and fast and it is rare to see any boats at all much less the swarms of narrow, covered canoes that carry their cargoes of indigo, teak, fish, rice and vegetables further south. But the landscape is so abundant in fruits and produce that one has to wonder what happens to it all, for there are few people about to harvest the profits. Mangrove, betel and tamarind are in abundance, as are the thick clusters of bamboo and sugar cane and with no scythe to cut them down they must surely rot away wastefully.

There is also a notable abundance of the Siamese Rosewood (Dalbergia cochinchinensis) known to the natives as ‘Phayung’. In the flatter plains further south, the cotton bush grows thick during the hot season and makes the region (if not the entire country) an exciting prospect to my countrymen. The hostilities on the American continent are a constant worry to Britain and France who rely so much on the cotton plantations of those southern states blockaded by the Union. Countries such as Siam, Cambodia and Egypt offer alternative sources, if only more well thought out trade agreements could be reached, or even protectorates established. But King Mongkut holds independence above all things despite his enthusiasm for the modernisation and even westernization of his own country. His push for a more civilized Siam is not at the expense of tradition, however, and it is a rare paradox to see at his court a harem of slave girls taught etiquette by the English governess he has employed to tutor his innumerable children.

We push on towards the northern tip of the Phu Phan range, our elephant bearing us along proudly, swatting at the incessant clouds of mosquitoes with bundles of foliage he plucks up from the surroundings for the job. I have to admire the...

...again. We are camped in what seems to be the thickest part of the forests that crawl up the mountains like carpets of the richest variety. I have to feel that we are nearing our destination and soon we shall turn our long suffering elephant around and return for the coast. I am more than satisfied with the fruits of our trip. My specimen boxes are overflowing and I am somewhat daunted by the task I have ahead of me in illustrating, cataloguing and dispatching my finds. All that remains of our trip is for Kasemchai to complete the business transaction with his mysterious mountain dwellers.

He has left me at our little camp, writing by the light of the fire, to meet with his people at some undisclosed location further in the forest. I have been forbidden from following. He does not even want me to see the faces of whom he sells his salt to. I, of course respect his wishes but I am more than a little unnerved at being left totally alone in the depths of the forest with darkness all around me, especially in the light of what we saw today.

Kasemchai, eyes always keen, spotted the tracks from the shoulders of our elephant and jumped down at once to inspect them. I must confess I saw nothing remarkable in the churned up mud at the foot of a fallen trunk but in these dark churnings, like a gypsy lady peering at tea leaves, he saw the spoor of some large predator.

“Tiger,” he told me with no ambiguity of the gravity of our situation.

They are not rare in this part of the country, those striped princes of the jungle, but I have no wish to see one up close. I am told that fire keeps them away and so I have built up our campfire as high as I dare. We have no rifle with us for we are not hunters, and perhaps it was a little foolish to leave Bangkok with no thought for self-preservation from the beasts that stalk by night. I have remembered the native technique for hunting and killing the tiger, and have procured myself a stout length of bamboo which I have sharpened into a javelin with my knife. I don’t know if I would have the gall or strength in my arms to do what I must if I am come upon in the night, but it is a small comfort at least to have a weapon of some primitive sort by my side as I lay down to sleep.

It is that pursuit to which I shall apply myself now, blanket over me and spear by my side as I listen to the jungle noises and await the return of my trusted guide; a return that I confess cannot come at all prematurely.

Lazarus was amazed by the diligence of the Berner Street crowd in the upkeep of their club and the distribution of its literature. For a people who constantly complained of not enough work, or when there was work of long hours and low pay, they certainly gave enough time and coin towards the spreading of the anarchist message. The club refused to make a profit on principal, yet hard-earned coin rolled in. Lazarus learned that most of it came from little wooden boxes nailed to the walls in factories and sweatshops where workers would drop a penny in whenever they could spare one.

The club on Berner Street came to be their second home for a while. Meetings were held twice a week and speeches every Friday night. The rest of the time was given over to socializing, poetry recitals and the occasional play extolling the socialist ideal. No alcohol was consumed in the club but the members burned the midnight oil on tea, cake and livid discussions on politics, oppression and anarchy. It would carry on well into the early hours, when they might fall asleep on some cushions for a few hours before rising and heading off to their respective jobs.

Lazarus tried to make himself useful as best he could. When he learned that the
Arbeter Fraynd
was printed on premises in a little stables in the yard adjoining the club, he offered his services as a typesetter. Rather than sticking to a regular schedule, the ‘Worker’s Friend’ went out whenever they could manage it and it was always a rush job. Although he didn’t speak Yiddish, Lazarus could put the cast metal sorts in the correct order. He found his services greatly appreciated, as nobody seemed able to commit for more than a few days at a time due to the up and down nature of their other employments.

Levitski interested Lazarus more than any of the others. He was not altogether popular and had the reputation of a lurker; a man who would idly attend meetings without offering much but the occasional recital of the anarchist mantras, or a rendition of something he had read in the papers seemingly for the sake of appearances.

Lazarus recognized a fellow charlatan when he saw one, but there was something strange about the young Russian. He was, for the most part, placid but his occasional outbursts had the ring of viciousness about them. Most in the club abhorred violence for violence’s sake despite their boasts of wanting to bring down the system, but Levitski spoke openly of bloodshed, and of burning London to its foundations so that a new order might arise from its ashes. Lazarus was not the only one who felt that his words were not altogether metaphorical.

It got to a point where Levitski must have realized that Lazarus was the only person who would willingly listen to his tirades. With increasing frequency, Lazarus found himself cornered by the young radical and pelted with monologues. It was not hard to cultivate a relationship of sorts with him, and Lazarus felt that if anybody in the Berner Street club warranted his attention then it was Levitski. They spent much time in each other’s company. Levitski even began turning up at their lodgings in Limehouse some mornings and they would walk to the club together.

Unlike a lot of the members, Lazarus rarely spent the night at the club, preferring to get a good night’s rest back at their lodgings before the drudgery of the next day’s work began. But on some nights his discussions with Levitski carried him far beyond a decent hour, much to his frustration.

It was on one of these nights when, finally able to escape the angry little Russian, Lazarus made his way down Commercial Road towards Limehouse, lighting his pipe as he walked. He had already sent Mr. Clumps home ahead of him, explaining to the mechanical for the umpteenth time that he did not require a bodyguard to walk him home every evening. Across the heads of the crowd he suddenly spotted his friend Mansfield.

Mansfield wore a slouch hat and a black cloak as one trying to conceal his identity, but to one who knew him of old, he stuck out like a sore thumb in the crowded street. The presence of his troubled friend in Whitechapel was worrisome to say the least, in the light of Mansfield’s concerns over his involvement in the murders. If he feared that he was a danger to the streetwalkers of this area then why in God’s name did he risk coming down here of a night?

The writhing mass of cobbled labyrinths that made up Whitechapel still swarmed with the grotesque and decadent visions of nightlife. Lazarus pounded down Commercial Road, struggling to maintain visual contact due to the darkness and the crowds of shuffling drunks and strutting prostitutes. He lost sight of Mansfield and cursed as he reached the end of the street before turning back, convinced he had headed off down one of the dark alleys. The task of searching each filthy backstreet was a laborious one, but Lazarus couldn’t suppress the horrible feeling that a woman’s life might be at stake.

He was partway down Back Church Lane when he heard some commotion one street over. That was back on Berner Street. A woman screamed. Lazarus cut across Fairclough Street and headed up towards the club, where he could see a man hovering at the gateway to the very yard where he had been working as a typesetter that day. The lurking man seemed to be peering in, but it was not Mansfield.

A man’s cry of “Lipski!” from within the yard, harsh and threatening, startled the observer who took a few steps backwards and then spotted Lazarus.

They gazed at each other down the gloomy street, unable to read each other’s faces. Lazarus realized that he was still ludicrously holding his glowing pipe in his hand. The man took off at a fast trot towards Commercial Road and Lazarus jogged after him, stopping at the entrance to the yard from whence the cry had come.

The yard was black as pitch and once he had passed through the wooden gates, he could barely see three steps ahead of himself. His foot bumped against something soft and heavy. He bent down to inspect it closer and found himself peering into the grotesque mask of death itself.

He guessed her to be in her forties. She had dark curly hair. Her throat had been slashed deeply, and the ground was slippery with blood. He cursed himself. He had been too late to prevent this.

There was a noise; the sound of shuffling feet on the other side of the yard. He peered into the gloom, fully aware that the killer was still near. He drew his revolver and ventured into the shadows.

“Mansfield?” he hissed, not wanting to use his friend’s name too loudly lest anybody hear it. “It’s me, Lazarus. It’s all right, I’m here to help you.”

There was no reply. He stuck to the wall and crept around. A flicker of movement caught his eye, and as he squinted he could make out a dark figure stand upright. They peered at each other through the black abyss for a while, neither moving.

The sound of a horse and cart drew near, and the small patch of light at the entrance to the yard was filled with the shadow of a man in a black coat and hat. He was mumbling some words of encouragement in Yiddish to his horse that seemed reluctant to enter the yard. Perhaps it could smell the two men lurking in the shadows, or the blood that glistened on the cobbles.

The Jew tugged on the reigns and pulled the horse a few steps into the yard. He stopped at the exact spot Lazarus had stood and seemed to notice something on the ground. He lit a match and Lazarus immediately recognized him as Louis Diemschutz; the club’s steward who regularly kept his goods in the yard’s stables. As Diemschutz bent down to inspect what he had found, Lazarus realized with unease how visible he had been to Mansfield when he had entered the yard. Diemschutz had found the body, and quickly led his horse out of the yard, muttering prayers under his breath.

Lazarus turned back to the figure of his friend, but he had gone. He had clearly taken advantage of the distraction and had fled through the narrow exit from the yard between the stables. Lazarus quietly left the yard in as much haste as subtlety would allow. He had no desire to be found at the site of a new Whitechapel killing, and Diemschutz would already be making his discovery known to the lingering members inside the club. He had to track Mansfield down.

He was now under no illusions that his friend was not the killer. He had all but seen him commit his latest atrocity. As he headed up to Commercial Road his mind buzzed with mixed emotions of grief, anger and guilt. His friend had tried to convince him, desperately reached out for help, and Lazarus had not given it. Mansfield was clearly deranged, his mind broken by some unknown malady, but he had at least the sense to know that he was mad. Whatever Lazarus had to do to help him, he swore that he would do it.

But first, he had to confront this evil alter ego; this Mr. Hyde to Mansfield’s Dr. Jekyll. And he knew where his friend was headed. He hailed a hansom and told the driver to take him to Limehouse.

The gigantic factories, warehouses and lime oasts rose up against the black sky like sinister giants in a twisted fairy-tale. The streets were silent as he paid for his cab, then made his way towards the old shell of a building that he had visited some weeks before. It had not changed in his absence and he had no difficulty in locating the small door that had admitted him upon his previous visit.