Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3) by P. J. Thorndyke Page B
Authors: P. J. Thorndyke
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Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society. “He bled me and is making me drink powdered nitrate with camphor water and laudanum.”
“Just do what he says,” Lazarus urged. “It’s for the best.”
Alfred doubled over in a wracking cough that lasted nearly ten seconds and brought the sweat out on his brow. “Gah! Confound this thing!” He wheezed down lungfuls of air. “Now, my boy, tell me what you’ve been up to and why you look like you’ve been engaging in bare-knuckle fisticuffs down at the docks.”
“I have the journal, sir,” Lazarus said. He reached into his pocket and showed his guardian the handful of papers.
Alfred’s face grew even paler and he swallowed as if preparing himself. “Finally you have it. Are you sure it’s the one?”
“The journal of Thomas Spencer Tyndall,” Lazarus confirmed. “The very man you believe was my father.”
“No doubt about it, my boy. When I caught you trying to lift my timepiece in that back alley in Bangkok, the only white street urchin in the whole city, I knew that you were something special.” His lips parted in a smile of fondness at the memory. “You were such a scrawny thing but you put up such a fight when I accosted you! The other street boys had been teaching you how to fight Siamese style.”
Lazarus smiled. “I wish I had been a better student. I wouldn’t have so many lumps to show for myself today.”
“I couldn’t understand how a white boy, surely of European extraction, could have wound up living in doorways and eating toasted gutter rats,” Alfred continued, his eyes misted over with reminiscence. “I did all the research I could, consulted every known traveler in those parts and all I could dig up was the name Tyndall.”
Lazarus knew the story well, for it was all he had to cling to of his former life. Thomas Tyndall had been an English botanist who had moved to Bangkok with his wife and young child to study the flora of Siam. He had vanished on some trip into the hills, and his wife had died soon after. Of the child, nothing further was known. Alfred Longman was convinced that this child was the bare-footed urchin he had found living the life of a tough little pickpocket. He had rescued this boy from poverty and crime and renamed him Lazarus in honor of the saint who had been brought back from the dead.
“The journal had been purchased by a wealthy fellow in Bloomsbury,” Lazarus said. “Your man Walters was a rather unscrupulous dealer. He knew I wanted the journal, and yet he sold it only days before our appointment.”
“Walters is a degenerate gambler,” said Alfred with distaste. “His debts have consumed his family’s wealth, and that house on Cavendish Square is a ruin of its former glory.” He then sighed. “Much like my own turn of fortunes. Our academic pursuits are not the only thing we have in common, it seems. But how did you get the journal from this man in Bloomsbury? I hope you didn’t ruin yourself.”
“The bruises you see on my face are all I let them have of me,” said Lazarus. “I was caught red handed in the man’s study and his Siamese thugs gave me a thorough going over.”
“Siamese thugs?” Alfred asked.
“But I had switched the papers before I was caught and made off with the real goods,” Lazarus added with a grin.
Alfred frowned with disapproval. “You take too many chances, my boy. You always have. Your pursuit of ‘adventure’—or what others would call outright danger—has always stood in the way of you becoming a serious scholar.”
The grin vanished from Lazarus’s face. His impetuousness had always been a point of contention between the two of them. Alfred was the typical bookish type who saw the act of travel and physical application of archaeology as a necessary evil, while Lazarus, although bookish too in his own way, had always thirsted to see the places he had read about, to feel the history etched in the weathered stones of far off lands. To him the pursuit
“Just do what he says,” Lazarus urged. “It’s for the best.”
Alfred doubled over in a wracking cough that lasted nearly ten seconds and brought the sweat out on his brow. “Gah! Confound this thing!” He wheezed down lungfuls of air. “Now, my boy, tell me what you’ve been up to and why you look like you’ve been engaging in bare-knuckle fisticuffs down at the docks.”
“I have the journal, sir,” Lazarus said. He reached into his pocket and showed his guardian the handful of papers.
Alfred’s face grew even paler and he swallowed as if preparing himself. “Finally you have it. Are you sure it’s the one?”
“The journal of Thomas Spencer Tyndall,” Lazarus confirmed. “The very man you believe was my father.”
“No doubt about it, my boy. When I caught you trying to lift my timepiece in that back alley in Bangkok, the only white street urchin in the whole city, I knew that you were something special.” His lips parted in a smile of fondness at the memory. “You were such a scrawny thing but you put up such a fight when I accosted you! The other street boys had been teaching you how to fight Siamese style.”
Lazarus smiled. “I wish I had been a better student. I wouldn’t have so many lumps to show for myself today.”
“I couldn’t understand how a white boy, surely of European extraction, could have wound up living in doorways and eating toasted gutter rats,” Alfred continued, his eyes misted over with reminiscence. “I did all the research I could, consulted every known traveler in those parts and all I could dig up was the name Tyndall.”
Lazarus knew the story well, for it was all he had to cling to of his former life. Thomas Tyndall had been an English botanist who had moved to Bangkok with his wife and young child to study the flora of Siam. He had vanished on some trip into the hills, and his wife had died soon after. Of the child, nothing further was known. Alfred Longman was convinced that this child was the bare-footed urchin he had found living the life of a tough little pickpocket. He had rescued this boy from poverty and crime and renamed him Lazarus in honor of the saint who had been brought back from the dead.
“The journal had been purchased by a wealthy fellow in Bloomsbury,” Lazarus said. “Your man Walters was a rather unscrupulous dealer. He knew I wanted the journal, and yet he sold it only days before our appointment.”
“Walters is a degenerate gambler,” said Alfred with distaste. “His debts have consumed his family’s wealth, and that house on Cavendish Square is a ruin of its former glory.” He then sighed. “Much like my own turn of fortunes. Our academic pursuits are not the only thing we have in common, it seems. But how did you get the journal from this man in Bloomsbury? I hope you didn’t ruin yourself.”
“The bruises you see on my face are all I let them have of me,” said Lazarus. “I was caught red handed in the man’s study and his Siamese thugs gave me a thorough going over.”
“Siamese thugs?” Alfred asked.
“But I had switched the papers before I was caught and made off with the real goods,” Lazarus added with a grin.
Alfred frowned with disapproval. “You take too many chances, my boy. You always have. Your pursuit of ‘adventure’—or what others would call outright danger—has always stood in the way of you becoming a serious scholar.”
The grin vanished from Lazarus’s face. His impetuousness had always been a point of contention between the two of them. Alfred was the typical bookish type who saw the act of travel and physical application of archaeology as a necessary evil, while Lazarus, although bookish too in his own way, had always thirsted to see the places he had read about, to feel the history etched in the weathered stones of far off lands. To him the pursuit
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