Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3) (21 page)

“Why did you do it, man?” Lazarus asked, once he had convinced the copper on guard to leave him alone with the murderer. “Couldn’t you have brought him in alive? Was he really so violent that you had to...”

“After what he tried to do, yes,” came the reply. “I would have killed him a hundred times over if I could. I didn’t know the other girls but when I think of Mary and what his intentions were I get... confused.”

“He tried to kill Mary?”

“Yes, I followed him all the way to Whitechapel. Why was he there? Why Mary? I don’t understand!”

The mechanical’s voice seemed to be injected with some emotion which Lazarus found heartbreaking to hear. He remembered how Mr. Clumps and Mary had eventually taken to each other, like a big gentle bear playing with a little girl. It seemed that he had developed some sort of feelings for her, simple things such as they were.
A mechanical with a heart...

“Hyde wanted to kill her,” Lazarus told him. “After failing to kill the Prussian, he took off, hoping to fulfill his bloodlust elsewhere. Like when he killed Catherine Eddowes after I interrupted his mutilation of Elizabeth Stride. Once that monster is set in motion only blood can pacify him.”

“But why Mary? He would have encountered plenty of prostitutes between the Lyceum and Miller’s Court.”

“Because of me,” said Lazarus. “He wanted to kill her to hurt me.”

“I’m sorry, Lazarus. I couldn’t help myself. I knew it was wrong and yet I could not stay my hands.”

“Don’t apologize,” Lazarus said. “You did perhaps what I had not the courage to do.”

“They’ll put me out of use now, won’t they? Take me apart.”

“I’ll put in a good word,” Lazarus said. “See what I can do...” He was a liar and he knew it. He wouldn’t be able to convince them. He was the only person in the world who understood what had happened. How could anybody else even begin to comprehend a mechanical’s devotion to a common whore? Mr. Clumps would take the fall. The murders in Whitechapel would stop and the Ripper’s identity would never be known. And Lazarus would say nothing. He owed Mansfield that courtesy. His memory must not be tarnished for the sake of the good man who had fought and lost the battle against his dark half. The working girls of Whitechapel were safe, or at least a little safer. That was what was important.

Mr. Clumps jetted out a cloud of steam and lowered his cigar. “I failed my makers,” he said. “I’m supposed to protect lives, not take them. I’m supposed to mirror the compassion of human beings. But I killed a man. It’s because I’m too much a machine, isn’t it?”

“No,” Lazarus replied. “It’s because you’re too much a man.”

Chapter Twenty

In which Lime Kiln Dock receives its final sacrifice

Mary was gone from the inspector’s office when Lazarus returned. He found Morton reading a note from the telegraph operator. “God, what a night!” he said.

“What’s up now?” Lazarus asked him.

“I’ve had our fellows keeping their eyes open for Pedachenko these last few days,” Morton said.

“And now he’s been spotted? Tonight?”

Morton nodded. “In Limehouse. Our agent lost visual contact, but he’s there somewhere. We need to get all our lot over there right now and close the net before he stows away on some steamer. Can I count on you too?”

“Of course,” Lazarus said, but he was already on his way out of the office.

Limehouse
. There was just one final piece of the puzzle that eluded him, and he was confident he knew where he would find the answer.

The old lime oast he had visited twice before began to feel like an old, down-and-out but familiar friend. There was nobody about as Lazarus stepped down from the cab and headed towards the entrance.

There was evidence of some activity in the dusty interior. Boxes, open and empty, lay discarded on the dockside, and almost went unnoticed by Lazarus as he gazed with widening eyes on the extraordinary sight before him. In that one glimpse of the fantastical, all of his questions were answered. He now knew why Mansfield had been depositing his grisly trophies into the grim water of the Limehouse Basin. They were not sacrifices, but signs; breadcrumbs left in the woods for him to follow.

Mansfield had known what was concealed beneath those waters. Even with Hyde running rampant in his fevered brain, driving his movements, he had still managed to do these final, desperate acts after each murder while his mind writhed with revulsion.

It was not a huge thing; no bigger than its cousins Lazarus had seen in America. Its shiny surface glistened with the moisture and green slime hung in great clumps from it; evidence that it had been submerged for quite some time. Made of greenish copper, it was inlaid with brass hatches and a bulbous glass dome formed its front, resembling a huge, hideous eye. And within that eye, like dark thoughts seen through the window to the soul, Lazarus could see movement.

This was a contraption for one or two men at most, designed for infiltration rather than warfare; the perfect vehicle for sneaking along London’s waterways. This was how Pedachenko intended to escape to Russia. It would not take him all the way, of course, being a short distance vehicle, but Lazarus did not doubt that a larger vessel would meet it somewhere in the North Sea to carry it home.

Sounds came from within its iron hull as the crew prepared for voyage. Lazarus wasted no time and made a flying leap onto its slimy sides. Scrabbling for grip, he managed to grasp the open hatch cover and pull himself on top. He peered down and saw no sign of anybody directly below him. Drawing his revolver, he clambered down the iron rungs and boarded the craft.

A world of brass dials, enamel levers and glass-covered valves greeted him, all lit by the flickering of a nearby gas lamp. The craft was long and tubular in design, intersected by wheel lock doors. Up ahead, he could see the cockpit with the pilot making ready. Lazarus wondered that the skipper had not gone mad all alone in this metal cigar at the bottom of Limehouse Basin for God knows how long. Trips to the surface for air and supplies must have been strictly limited for the sake of security.

It seemed too easy. Kill the skipper and Pedachenko wasn’t going anywhere. But Peachenko was behind him. Lazarus scrambled behind some sort of machinery that led from the boiler to the screw, just in time to avoid being seen by the Russian as he emerged from the aft, having deposited some cargo. He stopped to secure the hatch Lazarus had just entered through, sealing the three of them in together.

Calling out something in Russian to the skipper, Pedachenko walked right by Lazarus, ignorant of the intruder. The boiler had already been ticking over, and the skipper engaged some mechanism that began the turning of the screw. Lazarus became aware of movement as the submarine drifted gently forward. It also began, alarmingly, to sink. If he was going to act before they got out on the open sea, then he had better do it as soon as possible.

He rose, revolver in hand, and advanced on the cockpit. He could see the skipper’s back, hunched over the controls, but of Pedachenko there was no sign. A shot rang out, deafening in the close quarters, the flash of gunpowder lighting up the cockpit. The bullet missed Lazarus but hit something behind him, sending off sparks.

Lazarus replied with two shots of his own. At least one hit the skipper in the back, sending him lurching forward, blood spattering the glass dials.

“It’s over!” Lazarus called out to Pedachenko. “This craft will never leave the Thames.”

“Mr. Longman,” came the Russian drawl. “Your ability to survive does not cease to amaze me. I had you down as dead in the rubble of London, as so many are.”

“Thanks to you.”

“I was merely a figurehead. I’m not the megalomaniacal puppet master you may see me as. The people of London were revolutionists without a banner long before I came to this city. All they needed was a push in the right direction. I’m rather proud of them, aren’t you? Who would have thought that the great British Empire was nearly overturned by a rabble of tailors, machinists and dockers?”

“Those people were free and innocent before you meddled with their brains and turned them into monsters.”

“How naive you are. I merely had to fine-tune them, and only a handful at that. The rest were just begging for somebody to believe in, somebody other than your government and your queen. If I had not fitted the glass slipper, then no doubt somebody else would have done so in one year, five or ten. Your empire is doomed, you see? Your own people can’t even stand to be its subjects.”

“Aren’t you denying yourself some credit?” Lazarus asked. “You fine-tuned a handful perhaps, but what tuning! You would give the zombi-makers of Africa a run for their money in manipulating people to do your will, like mannequins dancing on fishing line. One of them was my friend and that is why I am going to kill you.”

“Your friend? I must say, you have me at a disadvantage.”

“Richard Mansfield. Learn the name, because I want it to be on your mind when your life leaves your body.”

“You can’t bring down an empire without breaking a few minds,” said Pedachenko with a daring smile. “I’m sorry if I upset you, but a government agent like yourself must understand the necessities of war.”

“Necessities of war,” said Lazarus. “Pawns, you mean. To be sacrificed like sheep to some god who will never reveal himself? And let’s not forget the side effects of your manipulations. In your eagerness to fulfill your mission, you have been responsible for the most diabolical series of murders this country has ever known.”

“You mean the whores of Whitechapel? How were we to know that Mansfield was a maniac? Those victims are his and his alone. And the lunatic even kept bringing their body parts back here to pelt at this submarine like some sort of shit-chucking chimp.”

Lazarus found himself capable of a short laugh. “You bastards made a monster that you were unable to control. And his lunatic antics brought me right to you.”

“Yes, very handy. A final loose end for me to tie up.”

A deadly hail of bullets went Lazarus’s way and he rolled to the left, miraculously dodging the rain of death. The sound of them ricocheting off metallic surfaces could be heard at the bottom of the hallway, as well as the smashing of glass as several instruments were destroyed.

Lazarus opened fire but found himself shooting at empty air, for Pedachenko had vanished back into the cockpit. His bullets thudded through the glass canopy and water began leaking in, like fountains spat from the mouths of cherubs.

Lazarus dodged another two bullets as he got to his feet, but then heard the Russian’s gun clicking empty. He cast his own aside. He wanted to kill Pedachenko with his bare hands and he knew he was capable of it.

As he entered the cockpit, his adversary gave up reloading his revolver and hurled himself at him. They hit the deck together and rolled, each trying to lock their hands around the other’s throat. Lazarus wound up on top, letting Pedachenko do his damndest to strangle him while he contented himself with pounding the Russian’s face with both fists.

Blood leaked away from mouth and nostrils to mix with the muddy Thames water that sloshed around them. Pedachenko spluttered as he got a mouthful and Lazarus grabbed his throat and squeezed, letting his body weight do most of the work. His thumbs dug in to the Russian’s windpipe and the rising water aided him in his butchery. Pedachenko’s face was submerged. He mouthed vain pleas beneath a murky, swirling vortex.

When the body beneath him went slack, Lazarus released his fingers and realized that he had been screaming the whole time. He stood up. The water was up to his knees. Pedachenko was lost beneath the lapping tide that was filling the cockpit and rushing down the length of the submarine.

There was a shuddering jolt that nearly knocked Lazarus off his swaying feet as the vessel hit the bottom of Limehouse Basin. Only then did he remember that he was locked in a metal tube many feet underwater.

He waded his way towards the hatch, and as he clambered up the ladder he knew it was useless to try and open it. He tried anyway, and it wouldn’t budge. The hatch would never open until the pressure within the submarine matched the pressure without. And that left plenty of time for drowning.

It was an agonizing wait as the water level rose, inch by inch. Lazarus wished he had shot more holes through the cockpit canopy just to speed up the inevitable. He clung to the ladder as the water rose up around his chest. Soon his head was bobbing against the hatch like a cork that had been pushed too far down into a bottle. He took a deep breath as it reached his chin and began to fill his ears.

When he was completely submerged he tried the hatch again. It still would not budge. He didn’t know how long he could hold out if the equalizing of pressure took much longer. His lungs began to scream for air and he scrabbled at the wheel lock again. It gave a little but the outside pressure was still very strong. Jamming his feet against the rungs of the ladder, he heaved with all his might. The lid cracked open a little, then a little further, getting easier with every inch he forced it to open.

Finally, it swung open and clanged back against the hull. Lazarus shot from the opening like a launched torpedo. Kicking for all he was worth, he wound his way to the surface and broke through it with a gasp of freedom.

“Our teams are dredging Limehouse Basin as we speak,” said Morton, handing Lazarus a brandy. “They’ll turn up Pedachenko’s corpse sooner or later. And that submarine too. That will be the real treasure. It sounds fabulously advanced and we can only guess at how its capture will affect our own naval developments. And you’re sure it was not powered by mechanite?”

“Certain,” said Lazarus sipping at his brandy. He was in dry clothes and the fire in Morton’s office crackled merrily, but he still felt cold and damp. “Why would you think that the Russians would have any mechanite?”

“Troubling reports from Alaska,” said Morton.

“Alaska?” Lazarus said. That’s still Russian territory, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and dangerously close to the United States. The concerns of two decades ago that the Russians might sell the colony to the U.S. out of fear that we would take it from them in war came to nothing. But their reasons for holding on to it may present an even greater problem. The Tsar’s support of the U.S. is a badly-kept secret, but he has been prevented from openly giving aid to them by the fear of war with us. Now it seems his courage has been bolstered.”

“How so?”

“Factories springing up in the easternmost parts of Siberia. Nothing to do with the fur trade. These are war factories, right on the United States’ doorstep.”

“Are they planning to take British Colombia? That would mean all-out war with us.”

“Certainly, but we fear that their intentions are even worse than that. Infrastructure seems to have increased on both sides of the Bering Strait. There has long been an idea that the strait could be crossed by three bridges via the two Diomede Islands. Such a plan has been proven troublesome due to weather conditions. But our sources say that it is not impossible for some sort of tunneling program to succeed where an overland crossing might fail. You yourself have witnessed the effectiveness of steam-driven tunneling machines.”

“Yes, beneath the deserts of Arizona. But what use would it be to join Alaska with Siberia?”

“If a formal alliance exists between Russia and the United States, then such a tunnel from Cape Prince of Wales to Cape Vostochny would be an immense advantage to them. Men and supplies could be ferried between continents in less than a day. And we fear that the U.S. may even renege on the mechanite embargo which, until now, both the U.S. and the C.S. have abided by. Russia’s eternal support could be bought with just a few tons of the stuff.”

“Meaning bad news for us,” said Lazarus thoughtfully. “And if the U.S. dealt mechanite to the Russians, perhaps the Confederates would be willing to trade with us, which is, I imagine, the very thing you fellows are hoping for.”