Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3) by P. J. Thorndyke Page A
Authors: P. J. Thorndyke
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of the men entered the box room. The rain hammered down on him, and the slate tiles were slippery. Several came loose and clattered down to the street below as he scrambled along the roof.
The terrace ended in a gabled house, with a small balcony above a larger one. The drop was still too far, but there was a small gatehouse to St. Georges Gardens just over the mews that had a sloping roof and a little chimney. Lazarus dropped down onto the first balcony, grabbing at its iron railings. The Siamese men were scurrying along the roof much more nimbly than he had managed, not loosening any tiles. He dropped down to the balcony below and climbed up onto its railing.
Lazarus leaped through the rain and landed heavily on the slanted roof of the gatehouse, loosening an avalanche of slates. He slid down with them, landing on all fours on the gravel path that led into the gardens. He looked up. His pursuers were contemplating the balconies and the leap. Men and women walked up and down the street, huddled under umbrellas. He snatched one from the nearest gentleman.
“I say!” the man cried. “You! Thief!”
Lazarus ignored him and hurried down the street to mingle with as many people as he could see. The pavement was a sea of black umbrellas, and he knew that if his pursuers had reached street level yet they hadn’t a hope in hell of picking him out of the crowd.
He continued walking to Brunswick Square and then hailed a cab. He shook off his stolen umbrella and got in. He felt around in his jacket pocket for the bundle of papers he had taken from the journal. They had not got wet, and he quickly glanced at them. It had taken a mere moment to swap the journal pages with whatever notes and documents he could gather from the desktop, and he had only finished cramming them into the leather book and retying the string before Westcott had come into the study. He smiled when he thought of Westcott’s rage when he discovered that his precious journal contained his own notes and not the pages so valued by the both of them.
“Where to, guv?” the cab driver asked.
“Edmonton,” Lazarus replied. “I’ll give you the address when we’re near it.”
He was bruised and bleeding, but he had the journal at last and there was only one person on earth that he wanted to share his company with right now.
Chapter Six
In which our hero learns his true name
The house in Edmonton was a grotty little two-bedroom place of red brick, with a bay window that had not been washed in years. Lazarus took a key from his pocket and let himself in. It was dark inside and a single gas lamp burned in the back room. He entered and removed his cap. The old man on the couch, blankets mounded on top of him, turned and gave him a flicker of a smile.
“Hello, son.”
“Hello, sir,” Lazarus replied.
“You look like you’ve been in the wars.”
“When am I ever not?”
The man did not reply nor smile at the jest. Lazarus sat down and looked around the room. This was not the house he had spent much of his childhood in. That had been a fine place in Pentonville. His guardian and the closest thing he ever had to a father had been forced to move to more humble dwellings before Lazarus had reached the age of fifteen. The small pile of cherished leather-bound tomes in the corner was all that remained of the vast library he had whiled away many hours of his youth in, reading about Ancient Egypt, the Punic Wars, the Gupta Empire and fabled Babylon.
And the snow-haired old man, feeble with disease on the couch before him, was all that was left of the upright explorer who had plucked him from the slums of Bangkok and brought him back to London to raise as his own.
“How are you?” Lazarus asked the man, trying to keep the pity from his voice, refusing to believe that this strong man who had been his mentor and father figure for so many years was dying.
“Doc was here earlier, blasted quack,” said Alfred Longman, explorer, abolitionist and
The terrace ended in a gabled house, with a small balcony above a larger one. The drop was still too far, but there was a small gatehouse to St. Georges Gardens just over the mews that had a sloping roof and a little chimney. Lazarus dropped down onto the first balcony, grabbing at its iron railings. The Siamese men were scurrying along the roof much more nimbly than he had managed, not loosening any tiles. He dropped down to the balcony below and climbed up onto its railing.
Lazarus leaped through the rain and landed heavily on the slanted roof of the gatehouse, loosening an avalanche of slates. He slid down with them, landing on all fours on the gravel path that led into the gardens. He looked up. His pursuers were contemplating the balconies and the leap. Men and women walked up and down the street, huddled under umbrellas. He snatched one from the nearest gentleman.
“I say!” the man cried. “You! Thief!”
Lazarus ignored him and hurried down the street to mingle with as many people as he could see. The pavement was a sea of black umbrellas, and he knew that if his pursuers had reached street level yet they hadn’t a hope in hell of picking him out of the crowd.
He continued walking to Brunswick Square and then hailed a cab. He shook off his stolen umbrella and got in. He felt around in his jacket pocket for the bundle of papers he had taken from the journal. They had not got wet, and he quickly glanced at them. It had taken a mere moment to swap the journal pages with whatever notes and documents he could gather from the desktop, and he had only finished cramming them into the leather book and retying the string before Westcott had come into the study. He smiled when he thought of Westcott’s rage when he discovered that his precious journal contained his own notes and not the pages so valued by the both of them.
“Where to, guv?” the cab driver asked.
“Edmonton,” Lazarus replied. “I’ll give you the address when we’re near it.”
He was bruised and bleeding, but he had the journal at last and there was only one person on earth that he wanted to share his company with right now.
Chapter Six
In which our hero learns his true name
The house in Edmonton was a grotty little two-bedroom place of red brick, with a bay window that had not been washed in years. Lazarus took a key from his pocket and let himself in. It was dark inside and a single gas lamp burned in the back room. He entered and removed his cap. The old man on the couch, blankets mounded on top of him, turned and gave him a flicker of a smile.
“Hello, son.”
“Hello, sir,” Lazarus replied.
“You look like you’ve been in the wars.”
“When am I ever not?”
The man did not reply nor smile at the jest. Lazarus sat down and looked around the room. This was not the house he had spent much of his childhood in. That had been a fine place in Pentonville. His guardian and the closest thing he ever had to a father had been forced to move to more humble dwellings before Lazarus had reached the age of fifteen. The small pile of cherished leather-bound tomes in the corner was all that remained of the vast library he had whiled away many hours of his youth in, reading about Ancient Egypt, the Punic Wars, the Gupta Empire and fabled Babylon.
And the snow-haired old man, feeble with disease on the couch before him, was all that was left of the upright explorer who had plucked him from the slums of Bangkok and brought him back to London to raise as his own.
“How are you?” Lazarus asked the man, trying to keep the pity from his voice, refusing to believe that this strong man who had been his mentor and father figure for so many years was dying.
“Doc was here earlier, blasted quack,” said Alfred Longman, explorer, abolitionist and
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