by Tony Pollard
The pages of Brunel’s scrapbook were singled out for the most brutal treatment, falling to the carpet in a flurry of old newsprint and creased foolscap after being hurled against the wall. My tantrum only abated with the removal of the last item from the bag, the scent from a pair of socks worn a day too long perhaps acting like smelling salts and bringing me round. My frenzy was replaced by a slight tinge of regret as I realized that childish petulance was going to get me nowhere. If Wilkie’s fate was not to be mine then I would need to keep a level head.
The place felt damp after being abandoned for so long and it crossed my mind to light a fire. Settling for internal combustion, I poured myself a brandy and retrieved the crumpled letter from the waste basket before slumping into my favourite chair. Taking a generous slug, I unfolded the page and checked the date on which it had been written. I had clearly jumped to conclusions. The letter had been written on 28 December, while Wilkie had died just three days ago on 2 January. There was no getting away from it: Brunel had been in France at least five days, probably more, before the murder, which undermined any suggestion that he had absconded overseas at news of trouble. That was assuming of course that he had not paid the two men to do his dirty work while he created himself an alibi. But why would he go to such lengths to obtain something that was his in the first place? Immediately discounting the theory as preposterous, I drained the glass. Get a grip, man, I told myself, if you’re not careful you’ll turn into Tarlow and see the worst in everyone. The cruel reality was, however, that doing just that might be the only way of keeping myself alive.
Pulling the package from the duffel bag, I set to work opening it. The knot in the twine binding the oilcloth wrapping was too tight to loosen with my fingers and so I took a sharp knife to it. There was then some small pleasure to be had from shattering the wax seals which served to dissuade the curious. Released from their bonds, the folds of greasy cloth opened like heavy petals on an ugly flower.
Smoothing out the roughly cut square of fabric, I studied the object perched upon it. What appeared to be a carelessly constructed ball of paper was in turn unfolded and smoothed out like the cloth beneath it. The exposed object was about the size and shape of an ostrich egg. For a while I studied it without picking it up, noting the four voids cut into its two gently curving sides. Lifting it from its paper nest, I cradled it in my hands. There was a barely perceptible seam running around the entire surface, which from its golden sheen I guessed was made from brass or copper. Noticing a couple of tiny hinges, I realized that the seam was actually the point at which two halves joined to form the whole. A flick of a small latch and they opened out on their hinges, causing another object to fall out and clatter noisily on to the tabletop below.
Wrapped carefully in a protective shroud of cloth were four highly polished curving plates of stainless steel, shining like silver in contrast to the outer sheath of gold. Men may well have been willing to kill for silver and gold, but not for copper and steel. There could be little doubt that whatever value the object had lay in its function, but what could that be? I cupped one of the plates in my hand, the palm and fingers flexing to accommodate the outer sweep of the concavity. I noticed a couple of small rectangular notches cut into the edges, which looked as though they were designed to allow access to whatever was placed inside the chamber. Speculation was pointless; the brass egg and the four steel plates could have been parts of a musical box for all I knew about the world of engineering. What was apparent, though, even to my eyes, was the quality of the craftsmanship. Brunel had chosen well with Wilkie.
The large sheet of paper in which the thing had been wrapped was a technical drawing, and undoubtedly the same one I had seen on Wilkie’s desk in Bristol. There were scale drawings of what were clearly the pieces now rendered in metal and lists of dimensions written out in Brunel’s own hand. Wilkie had returned everything related to the object from its design through to its manufacture, whether this was due to instruction from Brunel or simply a desire to wash his hands of the affair I could not tell.
Puzzling the meaning of it all, I recalled that the Wilkies had told me that Brunel only commissioned them to make certain parts, without going to the bother of informing them what the ultimate purpose was. The only known fact was that, whatever it was, people were prepared to kill to get hold of it. But who were those people? Were the men I had seen in Bristol free agents operating on their own behalf or were they under instruction? If they had been commissioned for the task, then anyone could be behind the crime. Unlikely as it seemed, there was still the distinct possibility that one or more of those involved might be known to me and so, accordingly, I could trust no one.
Feeling slightly remiss at having exposed the thing, I rewrapped the plates and returned them to their housing. Instead of re-creating the paper ball I removed the sheet of drawings and, temporarily dropping it to the floor, repackaged the object in just the oilcloth. Finding a ball of string, I then retied the package good and tight. Setting it to one side, I retrieved the sheet of paper and, after properly smoothing it out, folded it into something readily concealable. With the drawing pressed within a book, which was then returned to anonymity on the shelf, the package was stuffed into the murky bottom of an elephant’s foot umbrella stand in the vestibule, where it would remain until I decided what to do with it. I was quietly pleased that the ugly curiosity, which had been a gift from a grateful patient newly returned from Africa with a nasty parasite, had at last found a use, as I possessed only one umbrella and it always seemed quite happy to spend its off-duty hours suspended from a coat hook. For once, I lifted the umbrella from its hook and dropped it into the stand, where hopefully it would serve as added camouflage.
The evening was drawing out and it was time for dinner. Stuffing the pistol into my only coat with pockets big enough to accommodate it, I closed the door behind me and with my freshly stocked purse took a cab to my club. I also carried with me a couple of pages from Brunel’s scrapbook, which would provide an effective buffer against conversation with fellow members.
On arriving I made directly for the dining room and was quickly seated at my usual table in a discreet corner. Placing my order without reference to the menu, I began to read the first newspaper cutting that came to hand. Yet again, albeit thirty years old, the news did not look good. The report concerned one of the engineer’s first projects, the tunnel beneath the Thames at Rotherhithe.
The Times
14 January 1827
ACCIDENT AT THE THAMES TUNNEL
The following letter was on Saturday laid before the Directors of the Thames Tunnel Company, which had been written by Mr Brunel, jun., when suffering great bodily pain:-
Saturday Morning, Jan 12.
I had been in the frames shield with the workmen throughout the whole night, having taken my station there at 10 o’clock. During the workings, through the night, no symptoms of insecurity appeared. At six o’clock the morning shift of men came on. We began to work the ground at the west top corner of the frame. The tide had just then begun to flow, and finding the ground tolerable quiet, we proceeded, by beginning at the top, and had worked about a foot downwards, when on exposing the next six inches, the ground swelled suddenly and a large quantity burst through the opening thus made. This was followed instantly by a large body of water. The rush was so violent as to force the man on the spot where the burst took place out of the frame, on to the timber stage, behind the frames. I ordered all the men in the frames to retire. All were retiring, except the three men who were with me, and they retreated with me. I did not leave the stage until those three men were down the ladder of the frames, when they and I proceeded about 20 feet along the west arch of the tunnel; at this moment, the agitation of the air by the rush of the water was such as to extinguish the lights, and the water had gained the height of the middle of our waists. I was at that moment giving directions to the three men, to what manner they ought to proceed, in the dark, to effect their escape, when they and I were knocked down and cover
ed by a part of the timber stage.
At this point my dinner arrived and before long I was using a fork to tunnel through a mound of mashed potato, only to watch as a flood of thick brown gravy inundated the freshly excavated void. What was becoming very apparent, from this and my previous readings was that Brunel had experienced more close shaves than I’d had, dare I say it, hot dinners. Stemming the tide of gravy by mopping it up with succulent slices of lamb, I continued to read.
I struggled under water for some time, and at length extricated myself from the stage and by swimming, and being forced by the water, I gained the eastern arch, where I got a better footing, and was enabled, by laying hold of the railway rope, to pause a little, in the hope of encouraging the men who had been knocked down at the same time as myself. My knee was so injured by the timber that I could scarcely swim, or get up the stairs; but the rush of the water carried me up the shaft. The three men who had been knocked down with me were unable to extricate themselves; and I am grieved to say, they were lost; and, I believe, also, two old men and one young man in other parts of the work.
My plate was now empty and, with dessert pending, I went on to read about an unsuccessful attempt to drag the still-flooded tunnel for bodies and to locate the offending hole in the riverbed through the use of a diving bell. The newspaper report ended on quite an unexpected note by relating an earlier incident which had occurred in the tunnel one night.
Mr Brunel, jun., and some others engaged in superintending the work, were alarmed by a voice from the farthest part of the excavation, exclaiming, ‘The water! The water! Wedges and straw here!’ This was followed by a dead silence. Those in attendance were at first paralysed by an apprehension that the men who were known to be at the spot from whence the voice was heard had been overwhelmed by some disaster.
Young Mr Brunel, however, boldly pushed forward with others to ascertain what had happened, when they were overjoyed to find the men fast asleep, and all safe. They had fallen to sleep from fatigue, and one of them made the exclamation when under the influence of a dream that the water was breaking in.
Although this closing paragraph was an almost light-hearted postscript to what was otherwise a catalogue of catastrophe, there would come a time when I too would discover that Brunel’s projects had a way of driving themselves into a man’s dreams with all the power of the raging waters in his tunnel.
Feeling almost human again, I returned home. I was ready for bed but first sat down at my desk to dash off a letter to the coroner in Bristol. I was in no condition to create a well-crafted essay so settled for a brief sketch of the facts surrounding Wilkie’s death.
If nothing else, I hoped the missive would give the authorities some pause for thought before writing his murder off as an accident. The contents of the letter would hopefully exonerate Nate from any suspected involvement but, given the circumstances, I omitted all reference to the package, its connection with Brunel and, most importantly, my own name. Satisfied that I had done the right thing by Wilkie without needlessly putting Brunel or indeed myself at risk, I sealed the envelope.
Carrying the pistol before me as though it were a warming pan, I retired to bed, and within minutes was enjoying the sleep, not of the just, but just the tired.
17
The omnibus overturned during the morning rush hour – crushing pedestrians beneath as passengers on the open upper deck were thrown into the street like jacks cast from a child’s hand. The fatal combination of a shying horse and a badly fitted wheel was said to have been the cause. Two passers-by and one passenger were dead while six passengers had been badly injured. A terrible accident by any measure but, and God forgive me for this, I was almost grateful for it, for any anxiety I had about returning to the hospital after so long was washed away in the floodtide of victims requiring immediate attention.
The serious cases were carried in on litters but there were also dozens of walking wounded, and for a few hours the scene cannot have been too far removed from the battlefield hospital described in my father’s journal. Even the injuries bore some similarity to the horrors of war, with razor-sharp shards of the vehicle’s window glass cutting through flesh and muscle as effectively as any sabre. This flurry of operations, which included a trepanation to remove pressure on the brain, numerous bone settings and one leg amputation, ensured that my return went almost entirely unnoticed among the hospital staff, or at least uncommented on. And for my own part, there was no time to fret over procedures and regimes unpractised for some time, as life-and-death decisions had to be made without the luxury of contemplation.
It was well into the evening by the time the crisis passed, and by then it felt as though I had never been away.
With the emergency over I thought it best to go along and make my presence known to Brodie, who, I was sure, would be delighted to see me back. Hoping to bypass Mumrill, I made directly for his master’s door but before I could knock it flew open and the corridor filled with a cloud of billowing crinoline. Miss Nightingale made to brush past me, but stopped and with nostrils flaring and dark eyes ablaze announced, ‘The man is impossible, quite impossible!’ Before I had time to agree with this sentiment she was off, sweeping down the corridor.
Brodie’s door was still swaying on its hinges when I poked my head into his office. He was standing at the window, fists knotted behind his back. For a moment I considered coming back at a more suitable time, but my days of tiptoeing around him were gone. Announcing my presence with a cough, I stepped into the lion’s den. Brodie turned around, his face still flushed red. I smiled at him and he beckoned me to take a seat while returning to his own.
‘So you have decided to come back to us. I believe you acquitted yourself well today.’
His intelligence took me slightly by surprise. Whoever his source was it wasn’t Mumrill; the maggot would rather have his tongue cut out than say anything good about me.
‘I believe we did the best we could, Sir Benjamin.’
‘Do not think for a moment, Dr Phillips, that we have not had to deal with a good number of such incidents in your absence.’
‘Yes, I am sure of it.’
‘And while we are on the subject of accidents I want to discuss the thorny subject of Miss Nightingale.’
‘Miss Nightingale is a formidable woman.’
His fist hit the desk. ‘She is a meddler and a burden!’
‘I think she is accustomed to getting her own way after her time in the Crimea.’
‘She has powerful friends,’ replied Brodie, returning to his feet and pacing the office. ‘She has talked the hospital commissioners into turning the hospital into…’ there was a brief pause as he wrestled with the words. ‘… into a training facility for nurses.’ He returned to the desk but only to slap it. ‘We are to become a school for nurses, sir! What do you say to that?’
‘There is a shortage of good nurses. Those few that we have are worth their weight in gold. As for the rest, well, let us just say there are times when they are more of a hindrance than a help.’ It came out as more of an endorsement for the proposal than I had intended.
Brodie produced a worrying smile. ‘Very well then, doctor. As you think it such a good idea and have already served as something of an intermediary between us, I am appointing you as official hospital liaison to Miss Nightingale on this matter, and I wish you better luck than I have had with her. You will report regularly to me. I want to know everything that transpires, but I do not want anything to do with that woman from this moment on.’
I had been back at the hospital for less than a day and had already been saddled with a task I could well do without. He had asked me to look after her in the past, to keep her out of his hair, but this was different: establishing a nursing school was a major undertaking; it would take months, years!
‘But, sir, I am a surgeon not a go-between. Isn’t that a task best taken on by… by Mumrill? He would be much better at dealing with such a sensitive matter.’
Brodie glower
ed at me. ‘You and I both know that the man is a sycophant. I am not looking for a yes man here. Nor am I asking for volunteers. This job calls for a man of… dare I say… integrity? I want this situation handled properly. If we are to have a nursing school then, by God, it will be a good one. And you, doctor, have more of an idea than anyone as to what we should expect from a good nurse. You teach surgeons, don’t you?’ I nodded grimly. ‘Well then, you should have some opinion on the teaching of nurses. And as for your other duties, I think we have already established that the hospital has managed to get along without you quite adequately these past weeks. It follows that you will manage to find time in your busy schedule to oversee this matter. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Very clear,’ I replied quietly. My capitulation had nothing to do with his flattery, which as ever he had applied with the toe of his boot. The truth was there was just no point in arguing with the old goat.
He shifted position in his seat, flexing his shoulders as though a weight had been lifted. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I will leave it to you to explain your new role to Miss Nightingale. Proceed as you see fit, but do not forget I will expect regular reports.’
‘Yes, Sir Benjamin. If that’s everything I’ll get back to my duties?’
‘Fine, I think we are finished,’ he said, as usual signalling that the audience had come to an end by returning to his paperwork.
I turned to leave but then span around on my heels. ‘Is it true,’ I asked, ‘that Mr Brunel has been sent overseas?’
Brodie replied without looking up. ‘Yes, I am afraid his condition has worsened.’
‘Sir, just what is his condition?’
At this he raised his head. ‘You need not concern yourself with my patient’s condition, Dr Phillips. The man pushes himself far too hard; that much is clear for all to see. Hopefully the change of climate will reinvigorate him. Now, if you will excuse me.’