The Secrets of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  I flicked open my newspaper and sought the illusion of solitude behind its densely printed pages. For once there was no reference to Brunel or his ship, but as usual there was a raft of stories about dramatic burglaries, terrible fires, coroner’s reports on a clutch of suicides and melancholic accidents, the latest on the bloody mutiny in India and, last but unfortunately not least, the recovery of the mutilated body of a woman from the dirty waters of the Thames.

  The latest body had come to light just the day before, some three weeks since the grisly discovery at the sewer. There was no mention in the short column of the bodies previously fished from the river, but there was little comfort to be had from this journalistic oversight as it was obvious how my coincidental departure from town would appear to the worryingly inscrutable Tarlow, who I was now certain suspected me. This was not the sort of news to bring me comfort at the outset of the journey which every father’s son dreads making.

  The train lumbered through a dark canyon of brick walls and building backs, cutting its way through the ever-expanding sprawl of London. Even so, the view from the window had more appeal than the depressing contents of the newspaper. Warehouses and factories gave way to terraced houses as we approached the city’s outskirts. Smoke and sparks swept by the window, but as we picked up speed this fog of locomotion lifted to reveal green fields and rolling hills.

  The newspaper may have been devoid of reference to Brunel, but there was no escaping the man and his influence. This was, after all, his line. Just like the station from which my journey had originated so these rails, cuttings, bridges and tunnels had sprung from his drawing board. He had personally measured out every inch of the route we now coursed along at such impressive speed. Without his Great Western Railway, my journey would have taken on a far more arduous aspect, necessitating a long and uncomfortable coach ride along uneven roads, and for this at least I offered the engineer a silent vote of thanks.

  With stops at Swindon and Chippenham behind us, the daylight was suddenly snuffed from the sky as we were dragged underground, the din of the train squeezed against walls of stone. The inside of my ears popped like a bubble under the weight of the ground above. The train raced through the dark for an age, moving for a mile or more through the not-so-solid rock. On and on we went, fixed in our seats like mice trapped in the belly of a burrowing snake. I crumpled the news in my hand and was glad to be blind to it, watching as sparks whipped past the window like fireflies in a maelstrom. We were in the Box tunnel, yet another of Brunel’s creations. Once he had fixed the best route for his railway, he wasn’t going to let the small matter of a hill cause any deviation, whatever the cost. Two years the job had taken, and Lord knows how many men perished hewing the rock.

  As ever, there had been those eager to cast doubt on the practicality of the scheme. Brunel had barely been able to hold back the laughter when he told me about the fantastically titled Dr Dionysius Lardner. The good doctor, no doubt sponsored by the engineer’s rivals, postulated that the combination of the train’s speed and the confined space of the tunnel would suffocate the passengers before they cleared the other side. There had been other detractors of the Great Western Railway, of course. Among them were the Provost and Fellows of Eton College, who believed the railway would bring London’s houses of ill repute within the range of their wealthy pupils.

  To my relief, myself and my fellow passengers were still alive and well at the other end of the tunnel. Not long after, we arrived in Bath.

  It took longer than I had hoped to find a driver willing to take me as far out of town as I required. Eventually, I managed to engage a farm cart, pulled by a skinny nag and driven by a scruffy fellow who I had no doubt would drink even old William under the table. The bone-rattling ride followed sinuous tracks and droves across the gently rolling Downs. Despite the pink glow of the evening light there was a distinct chill in the air. The only sounds to be heard, aside from the constant squeak of the cart’s wheels, were the chirrup of birds in the hedges and the lowing of cows in the fields. A more dramatic contrast to the hustle and bustle of London I could not imagine.

  But the peaceful surroundings did little to soothe my sense of nervous expectation. Dealing with patients suffering all manner of terrible maladies in the hospital was one thing; the prospect of confronting terminal illness in one’s own father was entirely another.

  My childhood home was a pretty enough little place, a stone-built two-storey house nestling into the side of a hill with a front door framed by what during the summer would have been a rose-covered trellis. Having lost all feeling in my backside, I hobbled down from the wagon and paid the driver. With bag shoulder-slung I lifted the latch on the gate, pinned to which was a small brass plaque carrying the inscription:

  Bernard Phillips MD.

  Surgery by appointment only.

  It was a lie, of course, for in truth the sound of the gate swinging open and then snapping closed would count as appointment enough for any patient in need of my father’s curative skills. The front door opened and a blur of white fur launched itself into the garden, followed in rapid succession by a woman wearing a floral-pattern apron. The little dog, my father’s over-excitable West Highland terrier, bounced around my shins, yapping and slavering over my shoes. ‘Jake, leave him alone,’ cried Lily with a laugh, hitching up her skirts as she hurried along the path.

  I put down the bag and greeted the dog with a perfunctory ‘Hello, boy!’, gently pushing it aside with my foot and holding my sister tight before stepping back so as to take a good look at her. Her dark hair was beginning to show silver strands and thin lines had appeared around the edges of her eyes and mouth. She was still as handsome as ever, though, but then doesn’t every brother say that about his sister?

  ‘Oh George, it is so good to see you,’ she gushed, fighting back tears. ‘I had convinced myself you would not be able to come. You are always so busy at the hospital.’

  ‘How could I stay away from my big sister a moment longer?’

  ‘Do not fib, George Phillips,’ she retorted in good-humoured admonition. ‘It must be well over a year since we saw you last.’

  Almost instinctively, she touched my collar, straightening it as she had so often done in years past. Mother had died not long after I was born and much of the responsibility of looking after my father and myself had fallen to Lily. It was a task to which she had taken with an at times almost irritating capability. She made to pick up my bag but I beat her to it and gestured that she should lead the way.

  ‘I will ask Mary to brew some tea. You must tell me all about London.’

  I draped the coat over a hook in the hallway and looked sheepishly towards the stairs. ‘How is he?’

  She paled. Only then did I guess that many of the lines on her face were recent arrivals, etched through the strain of tending our father.

  ‘Oh, he has his better days,’ she said quietly. ‘Dr Billings has been very good, driving over from Lansdown whenever he can.’

  ‘I should go up and see him.’

  She shook her head. ‘He’s asleep. Have your tea, then we can go up.’

  The old man was obviously in a bad way and Lily was trying to delay my inevitable confirmation of the fact. I smiled and played along. ‘I have brought you a catalogue. If you pick out a dress I’ll have it sent when I get back to town.’

  She brightened. ‘Thank you. You must tell me all the gossip.’

  Lily’s enthusiasm for such trivia had always amused me, as she had deliberately avoided any prospect of life in the city, even to the point of turning down urban-dwelling suitors. After a protracted courtship she had finally settled for Gilbert Leyton, who was the cheerful, thick-set son of a local farmer who stood to inherit several hundred acres of grazing and a burgeoning haulage business. As yet there was no sign of children and I suspected that Lily may have worked out any maternal urge on my father and myself in the absence of our mother.

  Before we retired to the drawing room I pushed open the d
oor of the surgery, glancing at the shelves packed with a multitude of bottled powders, ointments, elixirs and pills. The light reflected from the wall of glassware as though it were a crystal chandelier, a result no doubt of each vessel having recently been wiped down and polished by Lily’s restless hand.

  The room’s pristine appearance betrayed the fact that this was no longer a working surgery. I closed the door. ‘What about the patients?’

  Lily answered from the other side of the hall, holding open the door to the sitting room. ‘Dr Billings has taken them on, but it means people have to travel over to Lansdown to see him. He says we need to think about the future of the practice. Father will need a replacement.’

  ‘I told him years ago he should get a partner.’

  ‘You know full well he always hoped you would join him in the practice. But no, you had to go off and work in a fancy hospital,’ she said, somewhat sniffily.

  I stepped across the hall and into the sitting room, resisting the temptation to take her to task about the reality of conditions in the hospital.

  ‘Make yourself at home,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and find Mary.’

  I hovered for a moment in front of the fireplace, noting that the room was as immaculate as the surgery. A well-stocked bookcase sat in the corner, and between it and the fire my father’s old threadbare chair sat empty, his inert pipe and unfinished book sitting on the small table beside it. I took a seat by the window and sighed as the glum atmosphere washed over me. Over the next hour I found some solace in entertaining Lily with the modest amount of salacious gossip I had carried with me, without of course telling her anything of my own recent misadventures. Mary, my father’s housekeeper, kept us well supplied with tea. She was no doubt grateful for the labour, my sister having once again taken over the running of the house. My brother-in-law Gilbert, she told me, had kindly agreed to her moving back into the house for as long as was required. I could think of no one better qualified to act as a nurse, as over the years she had served as father’s assistant in all but name.

  Not waiting for my stories to dry up entirely, Lily suggested that we go up and see Father. I placed my cup and saucer on the tray and followed her up the stairs, bracing myself for the worst. When last I had seen him he had been a healthy, active man, gaining in years but still carrying the energy of a man in his middle life. From what Lily had told me, much had changed since then. The decline had been almost instantaneous, as though age and fatigue had finally managed to break through a door long bolted against them. On the landing she held a finger to her lips and peered into the room. A rasping cry came from the half-darkness.

  ‘Are you going to keep my son away from me all day! George, rescue me, I have become a prisoner in my own home.’ His voice was weak and wheezy but still capable of making itself heard. Lily looked back at me and rolled her eyes before disappearing into the room. I stepped into the doorway as she pulled open the curtains. The light streamed in to illuminate the large timber-framed bed on which both of us had been conceived. My father’s head, propped on pillows and framed by scrolls of silver hair, protruded from an untidy bundle of blankets. Pulling a hand free from the restraint of his coverings, he took hold of the headboard and tried to pull himself into a seated position, only to be scolded by Lily.

  ‘Father, will you keep still? I thought you were sleeping. What did Dr Billings say about getting over-excited?’ She rushed over and gently lifted his head, plumping his pillows as he eased his back up the bed.

  He looked at me, his eyes squinting as they accustomed themselves to the light. ‘They say doctors make the worst patients, but I think daughters make the bossiest nurses.’

  Pleased to see he had retained his sense of humour, I approached the bed and took his hand. His pale, paper-thin skin made his lips seem an unnatural shade of red. He squeezed my hand back as best he could. ‘Good to see you, son. Too many women in the house for my liking.’

  ‘I am sure Lily is doing a wonderful job, and you should not be so rude to your nurse. I have no intention of interfering with her regime and she’s right: I don’t want to see you over-excited either.’

  My intention was to give him a full examination but that could wait until Lily had provided me with a report on Dr Billings’ latest assessment of his condition. From what I’d already heard and seen the problem appeared to be his heart. Hard facts had to be faced. He was seventy-eight years old, and nobody lives for ever, not even doctors. All I could hope to do was take some of the strain away from Lily, help make his last days or weeks as comfortable as possible and be at his side when the time came.

  ‘I will leave you two alone,’ said Lily, passing me a chair. ‘You have some catching up to do.’ She bent down and kissed the patient. ‘But don’t talk too much, Father, you know what a strain it puts on you. Let George tell you about his times in London. I’m going down to help Mary with the dinner.’ She gave me a weak smile before closing the door behind her.

  I pulled the chair close to the bed and sat down. There was something I had to get off my chest.

  ‘I am sorry not to have been back to see you both for so long. My work keeps me in the hospital much more than I would sometimes like.’

  ‘Nonsense, my boy,’ he returned cheerfully. ‘You love your work and there is nothing wrong with that. But before we go any further I want to be sure we both understand the situation. You and I both know that I am dying. So let us face this like doctors, with the minimum of fuss.’

  ‘Father –’

  He raised his right hand to silence me and manœuvred himself into an even more upright position. ‘George, don’t interrupt. This is important. Listen to me. Your sister knows I am dying just as well as you and I. The problem is she won’t yet admit it. I’ve had a good life. I cannot tell a lie: just like everyone else I would by choice have more of it, but I am also ready for death.’ With his piece said he watched my face for a sign of understanding, just as he would do after giving me a stern dressing down for some or other childhood misdemeanour. For the first time since entering the room I became aware of the sound of his favourite carriage clock ticking on the mantelpiece.

  His small boy again, I nodded.

  The dying man smiled. ‘Good. Now tell me what has been happening in that pestilent city of yours.’

  My father’s no-nonsense attitude, which was so typical of him, had gone some way to put me at my ease, and so I began to regale him with accounts of my more interesting cases. He listened intently and, belatedly heeding his daughter’s advice, spoke very little, limiting his words to a question here or a comment there, though he chuckled in delight when I told him about Sir Benjamin’s strained relations with Miss Nightingale. It seemed as though only a few minutes had passed before Lily popped her head around the door to let me know dinner was ready. In reality I had talked for well over an hour. But her timing was perfect, as Father was beginning to nod off and, with all my travelling and nattering, I had developed a real appetite. I pulled the blanket up to his chin and followed Lily back downstairs.

  The next morning, having read the notes left behind by Dr Billings, I determined to examine the patient for myself. Another doctor’s diagnosis is something to be respected but independent corroboration is always preferential. The patient, however, had no intention of letting his son examine him.

  ‘You need not waste your time, nor mine, George. I know exactly what the problem is,’ he insisted. ‘I suffered an infarction of the heart and my days are numbered. What more is there to know?’

  It took most of the morning to persuade him.

  ‘What did I tell you?’ he said almost triumphantly as I stepped back from the bed after listening to the sorry tale his chest had to tell me. ‘No long faces now,’ he went on. ‘It comes to us all. Sit down, lad. Now you’ve got that out of the way you can make yourself useful – there are a few matters I want to settle.’

  I was at first reluctant to assist my father in the settling of his affairs but, with my medical services red
undant, concluded that the task would at least while away the hours. But first I had to go downstairs and report to Lily, who had been waiting on tenterhooks for my diagnosis. I sat her down and in accordance with Father’s instructions explained the realities of the situation to her. When I had finished talking she sat for a while, staring out towards the window.

  ‘Are you sure there is nothing you can do?’ she finally asked, as though giving me one last chance to recall a remedy which I had for some reason overlooked.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Lily. Time must be allowed to run its course. We should prepare ourselves for the inevitable. He certainly has.’

  She stood up and, hiding her emotions, briskly announced that she was taking the dog out for a walk. I knew better than to offer to join her. Lily always went for a walk when she had something important to think about. ‘The air helps me think,’ she would always say. The poor dog’s short legs had almost been worn down to the nub after Gilbert had asked her to marry him. I knew that by the time she returned, probably after shedding a few private tears, she would have come to terms with the situation.

  With Lily out of the house I rejoined Father in the bedroom.

  ‘You told her?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, Father, I told her.’

  ‘And she’s taken the dog out for a walk?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’

  The matter was closed and without further ado he began to issue me with orders. I was instructed to go down to his study and retrieve a wooden trunk.

  The study was tidier than I had ever seen it, the desk almost devoid of its usual scattered papers and documents. Once again, I detected the hand of my sister. Like the surgery, my father’s study had been strictly out of bounds when I was a child. Perhaps because of this edict the surgery in particular had always held an irresistible attraction, and when my father was out making house calls I would sometimes sneak inside and twist my tongue around the strange words written on bottle labels or ponder the use of the terrifying collection of highly polished knives and other dreadful instruments, their steel blades glinting as I reverently lifted them from the drawer of the cabinet.