Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3) by P. J. Thorndyke Page B

rearranging her curls, but not taking her wary eyes off Mr. Clumps.
    “What was he about?” Lazarus asked, putting away his pistol.
    “One of the High-Rips,” she replied. “Thinks he owns me and my services.”
    “The High-Rips?”
    “A gang. They take money from girls like me every week and if we can’t pay ’em then they take something else instead.”
    “I see,” said Lazarus.
    “You fellas ain’t from around here, are you?” she said, studying them.
    “No, we, ah, live in Limehouse and are just here for a meeting with friends.”
    “Well if you’re looking for a good time, my name’s Mary and I’d be happy to oblige. If I don’t take your fancy, then I have a friend who…”
    “That won’t be necessary,” said Lazarus hastily.
    She eyed him warily. “Are you a copper?”
    “No.”
    “You talk fine but your clothes say you’re a laborer. I thought you might be down here looking for that murderer.”
    “No, as I said, we were at a meeting with some friends.”
    “Well, I’m very glad you were passing, I’ll say that. Would you mind accompanying me a little further? A girl can’t get enough protection these days. I’ll buy you both a drink.”
    “That would be very nice.”
    “The night hasn’t started yet, and I always need a glass of gin to get me going. The Ten Bells isn’t far. I usually go there of a night. Is your friend all right?” She eyed the smoking hole in Mr. Clumps’s shirt.
    “Him? Oh, yes. Very strong constitution. Built like an ox.”
    “I know someone as can stitch him up if he needs it.”
    “Do you require medical attention?” Lazarus asked his companion.
    “No,” said Mr. Clumps. “Barely scratched me. I’ve stopped bleeding already.”
    “All these coppers and vigilance committees after this bloody murderer,” the girl muttered as they walked on. “They need look no further than the Hoxton High-Rips. If anyone’s murderin’ us street girls then it’s them.”
    “You really think a gang is responsible for the killings?” Lazarus asked.
    “S’gotta be. Those lot are animals. Old Martha Tabram, they said, owed them just half a crown and they stabbed her thirty-nine times, the papers said. And you just pointed a gun at one of them. Should’ve shot him.”
    “Perhaps I should have.”
    “They only get worse. Stabbing a girl thirty-nine times is one thing but now they’ve started taking organs. Some say it’s to sell to medical students but we know a message when we sees one. They want us to be afraid. They want us to think that we’re to be next to lose our guts.”
    “Were no organs taken from Martha Tabram at all?” Lazarus asked her.
    “Nope. The coppers reckon that means it wasn’t the same man who done the other two, but I dunno. What’s to stop them raising their game with each knifing? Getting a taste for it, as it were.”
    Lazarus didn’t answer. The police’s opinions about the first victim were troubling. If Martha Tabram had been killed by a different man, then perhaps it wasn’t so heartening that Mansfield had not woken up in the lime oast following her murder.
    The Ten Bells on the corner of Commercial Road and Fornier Street seemed to be a regular haunt of Mary’s, as she was recognized by several street girls and men alike who called out greetings to her which she heartily returned. It was already busy when they got there, and an elderly woman was selling roasted chestnuts by the door. They went in and found a dark booth. Lazarus refused Mary’s money and bought them all large glasses of gin.
    “Am I right in saying there’s a little Irish in you?” he asked her as she knocked back half of the stinging liquid.
    She smiled at him with big blue eyes. “Right you are. I was born in Limerick, but we left when I was still a little girl.”
    “And that’s when you came to London?”
    She knocked back the rest of her gin, wincing a little as she swallowed, shaking her head. “No. My da took us to Wales. He was an