The Minutes of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  ‘No,’ he said, pointing to a disturbed patch of water beneath the arm of a crane mounted on the vessel’s bow. The iron gantry supported a heavy cable which, like a fisherman’s line, disappeared beneath the surface. Another line was suspended from a crane located on the side of the great ship, not far from where Russell and I were standing.

  ‘You mean he’s in the water?’

  ‘Aye, he’s on the end of that cable leading off the barge.’ Glancing across at the crane on our ship, he went on to explain, ‘The rope there snapped and the crate it was lifting fell into the water. We tried grappling hooks but couldn’t get it to catch, so the intrepid Mr Ockham has gone down in a diving bell to find the crate on the riverbed and attach a new rope.’

  ‘I have heard of such a thing,’ I said, recalling a mention in Brunel’s clippings. ‘How exactly does it work?’

  ‘It’s just like a big church bell really. The sides are sealed but the bottom is open. When lowered into the water the difference in pressure between the inside and the outside keeps the water out and so enables men to work on the bottom for anything up to half an hour before the air starts to run out. It’s ideal for recovery jobs like this. But you wouldn’t get me inside it.’

  ‘My God, how long has he been down there?’

  ‘I’d say around half an hour.’

  I couldn’t take my eyes off that little patch of water, half expecting Ockham’s lifeless corpse to bob to the surface. Then the engine on the barge crane hissed into life and began to reel in the lines.

  ‘Here he comes,’ announced Russell as the surface of the water began to boil. The crane pulled the rust-coloured bell clear of the river, swinging it out over the barge, where it dripped water like a wrung-out sponge. A man on the boat signalled to the crane operator, bringing the bell to a halt before the boatman hammered against its side. With the waters broken Ockham dropped like a newborn from the bottom of his metallic womb on to the deck of the barge, where he was handed a blanket by one of the crewmen. Another signal and the bell was lowered on to a timber platform. With the bell recovered the crane beside us throbbed into action, sending up a cloud of smoke and steam as the rope dangling from it went taut as a bowstring. Presently, the water broke again and a cheer went up as a sodden wooden crate appeared on the end of the rope. Within minutes it was sitting on the deck of the ship, where a pool of water quickly formed around it.

  ‘It would have taken us weeks to replace those parts,’ said Russell with a satisfied smile. ‘There’s your man, doctor. Forgive me if I leave you now. As ever, another very busy day.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Russell. I will await his return.’ But even before I had finished he was gone, striding down the deck and shouting at his assistants as they struggled to keep up on either side of him. It was a relief to see him go, for I had still to strike him from the list of suspects, which with the recent removal of Ockham had become all the shorter.

  The small boat moved to the platform where I had embarked and from there Ockham made his way up the flight of stairs, the blanket still draped over his shoulders.

  ‘My congratulations on your exploits in the diving bell, Mr Ockham, a terrifying-looking machine.’

  He was dressed in moleskin trousers and a heavy seaman’s sweater, oil-stained and worn through at the elbows; once again, not a wardrobe one would associate with an aristocrat. When he spoke his tone was less than warm. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to find me here.’

  ‘I thought you might be able to provide me with some information.’

  At this he made to walk around me, the blanket now serving as a hood. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I am very busy,’ he said, stepping out on to the deck and heading for the nearest door.

  I called after him, ‘Mr Brunel sent me.’

  He stopped dead in his tracks. ‘But he’s been away for months.’

  I pulled the letter from my pocket and waved it as though it were a passport and Ockham an obstructive foreign official. ‘He’s in Egypt, having a wonderful trip from the sound of things. He writes in it that I should look you up and… well, he says that I am to give you the package from Bristol.’

  On hearing this he pulled the blanket from his shoulders and, draping it over a forearm, walked back towards me. ‘The package?’

  ‘Yes, the package I brought from Bristol on Mr Brunel’s behalf.’

  ‘And you are to give it to me?’

  ‘That’s what the letter says, but there is a problem.’ Before I could continue Ockham grabbed me by the shoulder and began whispering aggressively into my ear.

  ‘What do you know of Wilkie’s fate? Tell me, what do you know?’

  Slapping his hand away I stepped backwards and replied angrily, ‘Wilkie was killed before I took delivery of the packa – ’

  Ockham put a forefinger up to his lips, and hissed, ‘Quietly, man. Do you want everyone to know of your involvement?’

  ‘I was not involved,’ I protested. ‘I was simply collecting the package as a favour for Brunel. Wilkie’s killers then chased me out of Bristol and have since held me at gunpoint. I was hoping that you may be able to answer some questions for me.’

  ‘Then you had nothing to do with Wilkie’s death?’ asked Ockham, his eyes now tinged with red. ‘You didn’t kill him?’

  The accusation angered me further. ‘My God, man, what do you take me for? His son helped me escape, for pity’s sake.’

  Ockham stared at me for a while, still not sure whether I was telling the truth. Then at last he said, ‘You had better come with me. We cannot talk safely here.’

  I followed him to the door, which gave way to a flight of stairs illuminated by a skylight. We climbed down three flights before entering into a long corridor lined on both sides with doors. We stopped at a door marked 312. ‘This is the third-class accommodation,’ said Ockham as he pulled a key from his trouser pocket. ‘They let me use a cabin while I am working on the ship. It’s not much but it’s better than the dusty space I had over at the yard.’

  The first thing to strike me was a sickly-sweet smell, which clung to the inside of my nostrils like treacle. Familiar as I was with the drug’s painkilling properties, I immediately recognized the tacky aftertaste of opium smoke.

  Knowing much more about him than I had a minute earlier, I looked about the small room for more clues to the secret of this enigmatic fellow’s character. A narrow bunk was set low along one wall and was hinged so that during the day it could be folded flat, though Ockham seemed to prefer using it as a couch. The opposite wall supported a small table, which could also be folded flat if required. In the corner a washstand held a metal bowl and pitcher. There was a single gaslight mounted on the wall over the table but at present the only source of light was a small glazed porthole set into a hinged brass frame. I could see no sign of the pipe which he had not long before used to stoke his habit.

  The floor, what there was of it, was for the most part taken up with stacks of books. More volumes filled a shelf above the bunk, which had been knocked together from remnants of wood and looked to be a hasty modification by the occupant rather than part of the cabin’s standard fixtures and fittings. Much of the remaining wall space was covered by scraps of paper. They varied from lined pages torn from notebooks to large off-cuts from previously discarded technical plans. All manner of sketched diagrams and scribbled notes were represented in Ockham’s bijou gallery.

  Observing my interest, Ockham proceeded to tug several sheets from the wall before stuffing them under the pillow on his bed. The first to be removed was a portrait of the young woman I took to be the object of his affections and who seemed vaguely familiar. She held a fan in her gloved hands, pale face turned outward with rosebud lips pursed invitingly, her hair resting in flaxen cones against well-defined cheekbones. Although I had given the picture only the most casual of glances it was apparently enough to ignite my host’s jealousy.

  With a large patch of the wall now laid bare he said, ‘Take a seat,’ and pulled
the only chair from beneath the table, preferring himself to lean against the bulkhead next to the porthole. ‘Show me the letter.’

  I pulled the paper from my pocket and held it out to him. He unfolded the sheet and although less than happy to take his eyes off me began to study it.

  ‘And the package?’ was all he said after handing the letter back to me.

  ‘It was stolen from my lodgings three weeks ago. Someone kicked in my front door, searched the place and took it.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ockham confidently.

  ‘Well then, perhaps you could tell me who took it? All I know is that it wasn’t the same men who killed Wilkie.’

  Ockham stepped forward and reached beneath his bunk. ‘I know that also,’ he said as he rummaged around. After discarding two books and several scrunched-up sheets of paper his hand reappeared clutching a hessian sack. Clearing more books from the table in front of me, he put it down and reached inside to pull out the polished casing of Brunel’s mechanical heart.

  ‘It was you!’ I yelled, jumping to my feet and struggling to pull the pistol from my coat pocket. ‘You broke into my lodgings!’

  With lightning speed Ockham pulled something from the washstand. There was a flash of steel and the dreadful sensation of something very sharp pressing against my neck.

  ‘Ever heard of Ockham’s razor?’ he asked, with a new menace in his voice. Being entirely incapable of speech, I tried to nod my head without moving my neck, ‘Well, this is it. And if you don’t sit back down it will cut your throat.’

  Pulling an empty hand free from my pocket, I regained the seat and at Ockham’s insistence placed both hands on the table while he sidled around from the other side to pull out the pistol. Only then did he remove the razor from my neck.

  ‘I took the package because I believed you had killed Wilkie. Brunel told me he had asked you to collect the parcel, and then your arrival in Bristol coincided with Wilkie’s death. What conclusion was I to draw from such a coincidence? It would appear I was wrong, and for that I apologize. Might I suggest we try and find out who was responsible?’

  I rubbed my neck, and on examining my fingers was much relieved to discover no blood had been drawn.

  ‘How did you find out about Wilkie’s death? And how in God’s name did you know it happened while I was in Bristol?’

  ‘A supplier from Bristol arrived at the yard. He knew the man. The news spread quickly; Wilkie was well liked. And there was a story about a stranger there when the body was found – a doctor, he said. Who else could that be?’

  ‘I see. Brunel left the country before Wilkie’s death, and I think we can assume from this letter that he still doesn’t know. Have you tried to contact him?’

  ‘I would not know where to send the letter.’ He shrugged. ‘All Brunel told me was that he was going to Egypt. At least now we have an address, but who knows whether he is still there?’

  Ockham suddenly seemed a little embarrassed by the gun in his hand. Gripping it by the barrel, he passed it to me. I stuffed it into my pocket as though it were a snuffed-out pipe. ‘Don’t know why I bought the damn thing; this is the second time it’s proved useless.’

  ‘Second time?’

  ‘I was visited by the two men responsible for Wilkie’s death. I saw them in Bristol and they managed to track me down in London, Lord knows how – but as you said, they may have been looking for a doctor. They held me at gunpoint while they questioned me about the package’s whereabouts.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Let’s just say they were very disappointed to learn that someone had beaten them to it. Well, at least you can stop following me now. I suppose it serves me right, though: there was once a time when…’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Ockham, interrupting my confession. ‘Following you? I have been doing no such thing.’

  Seeing no reason to doubt him, I let the matter drop. Ockham, too, had other matters on his mind and, pondering my fresh information, he seated himself on the end of the bunk. Leaving him to think, I took a closer look at the object on the table, in part I suppose to distract myself from the thorny issue of my shadow’s identity. No longer did the hinged casing hold loose parts, for the mechanism had been assembled.

  ‘Beautiful, but alas not yet finished,’ said Ockham, watching me like a protective father uncertain of a stranger’s intentions towards his child.

  It was indeed a thing of beauty, looking more like the work of a jeweller than an engineer. There was a danger that just looking into its sparkling surfaces would be enough to blind my rational doubts about the practicality of the device. ‘I read the minutes, I know what you’re trying to build here.’

  ‘It was never meant to be a secret. But then there was Wilkie’s death, and now you tell me you were held at gunpoint. Somebody obviously wants this thing very badly. So here it is: Brunel’s smallest machine hidden on board his largest.’

  ‘I would say that the underside of your bunk is about as secure as my umbrella stand, and look what happened to it there.’

  ‘We will need to move it. But it has been so convenient to work on it here. I can even fashion parts down in the workshop. The others just assume that I’m making something for the ship.’

  ‘You say that it is not yet finished – how much is there left to do?’

  ‘Quite a bit: the entire valve assembly needs reworking, and I am still awaiting the delivery of some parts which are beyond my capabilities to manufacture.’

  ‘Like those commissioned from Wilkie?’

  ‘Yes, the same principle: a specialist up in Sheffield.’

  I explained that the one thing I had learned from the chair man was that he had expected Wilkie and then me to be in possession of the entire, finished device, not just a few parts. Their initial intelligence had been flawed, and having killed Wilkie needlessly I doubted they would make the same mistake again. As long as our adversaries were under the impression that the heart was still in an unfinished condition there was a chance they would leave us alone, and only strike again when they knew their prize was ready for collection.

  We were both agreed that the source of this intelligence, and indeed the mastermind behind the affair, was a member of the club, and that this was knowledge we could use to our advantage.

  ‘Tell me, Ockham,’ I said, taking another look around the small room and wondering once again about the apparently irresistible attraction of Brunel’s curate’s egg. ‘What brings a viscount to… to this place?’

  ‘I see that someone has been telling you tales about my pedigree.’ He took the heart from me and sat back down on the bunk.

  ‘Sir Benjamin told me you were the grandson of Lord Byron.’

  He laughed. ‘I am named after him, Byron King-Noel, Second Viscount Ockham.’

  ‘Quite a mouthful.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Ockham with more than a touch of bitterness, ‘and along with the silver spoon, much good it has done me. I prefer to be plain old Mister.’

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question.’

  Ockham looked to where his books lay. ‘It is all down to dear old grandfather really. Have you ever heard of Mary Shelley?’

  ‘The writer?’

  ‘She was a close friend of my grandfather’s. About forty years ago they were spending time together in Switzerland, at Lake Geneva, along with her husband Percy Shelley. There was a doctor also, a fellow named Polydori. Well, for want of anything better to do on a wet afternoon, my grandfather suggested they each write a story, but not just any story; it had to be a tale of the macabre, a ghost story.’ Looking suspicious again, he suddenly stopped and asked, ‘Are you sure you haven’t heard this before? It is quite well known, you know.’

  I shook my head and assured him that it was all news to me and, satisfied with my answer, he continued. ‘Well, the idea for Mary’s story came from a dream, or should I say a nightmare. Her story impressed the others so greatly that she later expanded it into a novel.’

  �
��Frankenstein!’ I announced triumphantly, at once recalling why I had recognized her name and in the same instant feeling grateful to my father for making books no stranger in my childhood home.

  Ockham nodded. ‘Have you read it?’ I shook my head again. ‘You should – you are an anatomist, after all.’ He returned his attentions to the books on the floor. ‘Here, take this copy. You will find it an interesting read. My mother first read it to me as a child and it has haunted me ever since. It tells the story of a doctor, much like yourself, who creates a living man from the remains of the dead, bringing life from death.’

  ‘Hence your interest in the mechanical heart?’

  ‘Just imagine,’ he said, becoming much more animated, ‘being able to bring new life or extend an old one through mechanical intervention. The heart would be just the beginning; there would come a time when we could replace every organ with an artificial counterpart.’

  ‘Forgive my pessimism, but there is no way that this thing could work, not on the basis of our current knowledge. Why, man, it would be like walking around with a cannonball lodged in your chest.’

  ‘Very true, but is that a reason not to be paving the way for the future, not to try and improve our knowledge about both the mechanical and medical possibilities?’ He was now speaking with an almost evangelical fervour, his hands gesticulating like a preacher’s in mid-sermon.

  ‘Hence the Lazarus Club. Bringing engineers and scientists together to exchange ideas?’

  Ockham nodded. ‘Well, that’s what Brunel used to call it, until that old stick-in-the-mud Brodie pointed out that we were in danger enough of earning the wrath of the Church without using such inflammatory titles. He was right, of course: we would only court controversy if anyone, shall we say of a less enlightened persuasion, caught wind of us trying to interfere with God’s will, or even playing God ourselves.’

  ‘Is that what you are doing – playing God?’