The Secrets of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  However, it was Hawes himself who denied any chance of escape, as the movement of his jaw served to hold her as effectively as any gin trap. ‘Miss Nightingale,’ he said. ‘It must be three, no, more like four years since our paths last crossed.’ There was no warmth in his voice; the man was simply making a statement of fact.

  ‘We were at war then,’ replied Florence coldly.

  ‘Yes, Russia gave us a real run for our money.’

  ‘No, not Russia, I was referring to you and me.’

  Hawes laughed nervously. ‘Ah yes, our little spat. There was no love lost between us then.’

  ‘Nor I suspect now,’ returned Florence.

  ‘What do you think to the ship, Miss Nightingale?’ interjected Bazalgette, cheerfully stepping into the crossfire.

  ‘They say that in times of war she will be capable of carrying ten thousand troops,’ said Hawes, his words sewn together with a steely thread of antagonism. ‘Imagine that: enough patients to keep even the great Florence Nightingale happy for the rest of her days.’

  ‘If anyone thrives on conflict, Mr Hawes, it is you,’ snapped Florence. ‘How many men did you send to their deaths in the Crimea?’

  ‘We won, didn’t we? And in any case, war is an unavoidable fact of life, Miss Nightingale.’

  Ignoring this comment, she turned to Bazalgette. ‘The ship is a thing of wonder, sir. But tonight she brings to mind not a troopship but that first great vessel, Noah’s ark. The only difference is that this ark appears to be carrying one ass too many. Now if you will excuse me I have business elsewhere.’ She finished with a smile. ‘Goodnight, gentlemen.’

  ‘Touché,’ remarked Hawes almost admiringly as Florence calmly walked away. ‘You know, gentlemen, one day they will all be like that.’

  ‘God help us,’ said Brodie.

  ‘What on earth was all that about?’ asked a bemused Bazalgette.

  Hawes, his dander still up, was happy to provide an answer. ‘Everyone thinks she is a saint, but let me tell you, that woman is a menace, an egotistical empire-builder of the first order.’

  The man had gone too far but, sensing I was about to make the mistake of entering the fray, Ockham called me off with a shake of his head. He was right: the last thing we needed now was a personal squabble.

  With Florence’s departure I repositioned myself so that I could see the hall as a reflection in the mirror alongside which we had gathered. For a while I followed Florence’s progress as she worked the room with the same skill she had deployed over dinner. Then I spied Russell, his red-topped head standing out above the shorter men gathered around him. Eventually, though, he broke out and with Perry and Whitworth in tow strode towards us, at which point they were joined by Lord Catchpole. Ockham had seen them too and after nervously clutching the hem of his jacket shuffled slightly so as to give himself enough room in which to manœuvre when the moment came.

  Russell’s arrival prompted a unanimous expression of congratulation on his work and a comment from myself about the ship being a much more suitable venue for future meetings of the club. Ockham attracted the attention of the closest waiter, who seemed only too happy to lighten his load by distributing his entire cargo of brandy amongst us. ‘Cigars,’ I said to the waiter. ‘Could you please bring us some cigars?’

  The young man pulled two from his waistcoat pocket and handed them to me. ‘I shall get some more, sir. I will be right back.’

  Russell, who was obviously enjoying being the centre of attention, took a healthy swig from his glass. ‘If Brunel were here he could supply the entire room from that satchel of his.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Ockham, as if hit by a flash of inspiration. ‘I have some cigars.’ With this he reached into his pocket and fiddled for an uncomfortably long time before pulling out three more cigars. At the same instant there was a metallic crash and all eyes fell to the floor at Ockham’s feet.

  ‘What the devil?’ said Perry at the sight of the polished pieces of steel.

  ‘Blast!’ cursed Ockham, flicking open his jacket to reveal a gash in the lining of his pocket.

  Perry handed his glass to Whitworth and, dropping to his knees, scooped up the pieces of metal.

  ‘Sorry, gentlemen,’ said Ockham. ‘The damn things wore their way through the fabric. I should have known better than to bring them with me.’

  ‘What strange things to be carrying in your pocket,’ observed Brodie as if on cue.

  ‘Yes, very foolish of me. I had thought to hand them over to Mr Brunel, only to find that he is not here tonight.’

  Perry held the pieces in his open palms, where they rested like exotic seashells.

  ‘What on earth are they?’ asked Whitworth.

  ‘If I am not mistaken,’ began Russell, ‘they are pieces from Brunel’s mechanical heart.’

  ‘A foolish idea and a waste of time,’ snapped Brodie. ‘I don’t see why he can’t be satisfied with his achievable projects.’

  ‘Alas, this one does not appear to be going anywhere,’ admitted Ockham. ‘I have been tinkering with the bits and pieces on and off for weeks, but as you can see we have not got very far with the thing. I think Mr Brunel has given up on the idea altogether. I just wanted to return these parts to him.’

  ‘You had better take them back then,’ said Perry, pushing his hands towards Ockham.

  ‘They will make ideal ashtrays,’ said Whitworth.

  ‘Not like Brunel to give up on an idea so quickly,’ noted Russell thoughtfully.

  I thought it was time to play doctor. ‘Given his failing health I don’t think he has much choice in the matter.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Brodie.

  Ockham shrugged and took the pieces from Perry before making his exit. ‘Gentlemen, if you will please excuse me, I had better take these away. I can return them to Mr Brunel another time.’

  We watched him leave, but Russell kept his eyes fixed on the man for a little longer than the rest of us. ‘A strange character,’ was his assessment as Ockham left the hall.

  *

  The party broke up an hour or so after Ockham’s departure, the crowd gradually returning to the flotilla of boats moored against the ship’s hull. I took the opportunity to slip away and pay Ockham a brief visit in his cabin. ‘Bravo! A wonderful performance. Just the right balance of eccentricity and disinterest.’

  ‘I thought Russell may have been on to us.’

  I looked behind him to his part-prepared opium pipe lying on the bed. ‘No, not at all.’

  ‘So you think our little charade did the trick then?’

  ‘Sure of it. You did a masterful job with those replicas. I think we can safely say that, as far as the Lazarus Club is concerned, Brunel’s plan for a mechanical heart is dead and buried.’

  ‘For a while there, I was worried that the damned pocket wasn’t going to give. It took far too long to release the pieces. And do you think they were up to scratch? My hand is nowhere near as good as Wilkie’s.’

  ‘They were fine, and no one’s going to come and look for a thing that doesn’t exist, are they? But now we need to find out what it is that Brunel has in mind to do next.’

  With nothing more to be said I wished Ockham goodnight and joined the stragglers disembarking the ship, many of whom were clustered around Florence, who continued on her quest right until the very end. I looked down to the few boats still waiting, just in time to see a skiff carrying Russell and several of the others into the darkness.

  28

  Brunel advanced up the stairs ahead of me, the stick he carried a clear sign of his increasing infirmity. My suggestion that he would be wise to remain at home had been ignored and so here he was, visiting the ship to make one last inspection before her sea trial. He had been adamant that I accompany him, a proposal to which I consented so as to keep a physician’s eye on him. Most of the journey had been spent mulling over the events of the previous evening, my report on Ockham’s theatrical debut eliciting a satisfied chuckle from the impresario behi
nd it. But there was one issue we had not discussed. Despite our apparent success at convincing the others that the mechanical heart had been abandoned I was still not fully persuaded that Russell was our man.

  ‘What about Hawes?’ I asked, unable to hold my tongue on the matter any longer.

  ‘What about him?’ threw back Brunel.

  ‘Just that it occurred to me that given his position in the War Office he may have more reason than most to take an interest in the engine.’

  Brunel paused on the stairway and turned, yellow teeth pinching his cigar almost to the point of bisection. ‘Are you suggesting that he is behind all of this? Am I to believe that my brother-in-law would sanction murder?’

  I took a step back. ‘Your brother-in-law? Why, I had no idea.’

  The lacerated cigar was tossed over the side and Brunel took on the countenance of a Latin master chastising his pupil for poor translation. ‘The man’s married to my sister, for God’s sake. I presume this groundless accusation is based on information provided by Miss Nightingale?’

  I gave no reply.

  ‘Pah,’ he spat. ‘The woman has never forgiven him for the position he took against her during the war.’

  ‘I think we should leave Miss Nightingale out of this. She said nothing to single out Hawes other than to remind me that he was attached to the War Office. Her casual remark simply prompted me to reconsider the man in relation to your engine, that’s all. She bears the man no warmth but…’

  ‘But she does for you, my friend.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Brunel smiled and resumed his climb. ‘I saw the care she lavished on you when you were ill. She barely left your bedside while you were in the hospital.’

  He stopped again, turned to the rail and looked out over the river, his expression now as murky as the water below. ‘Believe it or not, I do not share Hawes’ low opinion of her. She is not afraid to make her opinions known and I respect that in men and women alike. When he commissioned me to design the hospitals for the Crimea I found her knowledge invaluable. Yes, I had some disagreements with her over the matter but what Hawes doesn’t know is that in the end they were essentially built to her specification. But, as you say, let us leave her out of this. The real question is why Hawes should go to such drastic and underhand lengths to secure the device.’

  ‘Perhaps because you wouldn’t hand it over when he asked for it?’

  ‘What makes you think he asked me?’

  ‘If your invention is as revolutionary as you say then surely the British government would want to add it to its arsenal?’

  Brunel shook his head. ‘You overestimate the foresight of the War Office. I have offered a number of ideas to Her Majesty’s Government only to have them rejected due to a blind inability to see a good idea when it falls into their lap. Why should the engine be any different? In any case, it was Russell who designed the torpedo. Even if the War Office were involved he is the guilty party in all of this, I am sure of it.’

  ‘Then what about Whitworth? Doesn’t he have an interest in building weapons? What about those guns of his?’

  ‘Any engineer worth his salt has an interest in weapons, myself included. There was my floating battery and the screw-driven warship, both of which were rejected out of hand by the Admiralty and the War Office.’ He let out a laugh. ‘And as for Whitworth’s guns, why, he stole the idea for those rifled barrels of his from me!’

  ‘Well, there you go. He’s stolen from you once – why shouldn’t he do it again?’

  Brunel stopped climbing once more. ‘He only did so because he knew I wouldn’t mind. If I had given two hoots I would have patented the design, but patents are for the greedy and feeble-minded. Now before we go on, are you sure there is no one else you would like to accuse?’

  I shook my head and we continued on our way. On the deck we were greeted by a bespectacled gentleman introduced to me as Dickson, the builder of the engines and the man whose actions had sent Brunel into a paroxysm of rage sometime previously. Today, however, Brunel’s manner was almost jovial as he questioned his fellow engineer about the status of the engines.

  After a brief conversation he turned to me. ‘Come, let us take a look,’ and then to Dickson: ‘If there is enough steam I may get you to turn them over.’

  Although no stranger to the ship I had never had the privilege of seeing its engines. Leaving the open air behind us, we entered a hatchway and stepped on to a set of iron stairs. Down and down we climbed, making our way along walkways and through narrow passages. Eventually we passed beneath the waterline, where the river made strange gurgling noises as it stroked the hull in a liquid caress. After negotiating yet another set of stairs we stepped on to a platform, its edges bounded by a balustrade, which even down here had been decorated with an interlace of wrought iron. There we stood for a while, eyes roving over the spectacular sight before us.

  The chamber was criss-crossed by a series of interconnected iron beams, some straight, some curved, behind which a cylindrical shaft the thickness of a tree trunk rose up from a vat-like drum, the outside lined with timber staves and the top capped with a polished metal lid that would not have looked out of place on the roof of Brighton Pavilion. The other end of the shaft was connected to a great disc of burnished metal, which on closer inspection also appeared to be joined to the beams at the front.

  That seemed to be the way of it: everything connected to everything else. An identical drum rose up at an opposing but equal angle to the first. But instead of a piston rising from its fluted cupola this drum sprouted a horseshoe-shaped bracket. This joined with the head of the piston where it was attached to the great disc, which seemed to be suspended by a heavy pivot secured to the top of one of the beams. All of this sat within an avenue of iron pillars supporting great vaulted arches; a cloister forged by Vulcan.

  The only suggestion that this great beast was to operate at the behest of man was a series of levers set into the floor.

  Clearly gratified by my awestruck expression, Brunel gestured over my shoulder. There, behind the stairs, was a mirror image of what I had just seen. But here mechanics were tightening nuts with giant spanners, lubricating joints and checking dials. The engines dwarfed any railway locomotive. It was more than I could do to imagine what power might be harnessed here.

  Brunel ordered me to stay put and with Dickson climbed down to move among the men and their mechanical charges. They walked across the iron floor below me, towards a man studying a large drawing draped across his raised knee. Brunel pointed to the drawing and then to the engine, his voice inaudible from my position on the platform due to the clamour of men and metal. His instructions delivered, Brunel returned to my side. The gang of mechanics made their way down the cloister and disappeared up another flight of stairs.

  Brunel explained that the boilers were in another hall somewhere behind us, and that these were currently being stoked with coal. Dickson, now standing beside the levers, studied his watch, and then, looking up, nodded at Brunel, who in return dropped his hand. The signal given, Dickson pulled back the lever. Like a waking dragon, the engine expressed a jet of steam before slowly rolling into life, the pistons and beams moving through the cloud of white vapour.

  The polished parts bobbed and turned without giving any impression of effort. Once again, Dickson looked up, and at another gesture from Brunel pushed again at the lever. In response, the engine began to pick up speed, individual elements now thrashing into a blur of steam and steel. As the speed of motion increased so did the noise – the great cracks of thunder forcing me to push my hands against my ears.

  The heat broke over us like a wave, engulfing our bodies and drying our mouths. Brunel’s eyes were fixed on the engine, as though he were hypnotized by the whirling mass of metal. Then, snapping out of his trance, he took hold of my wrist and, pulling my hand away from my ear, pressed it against his chest. His weak heart was palpitating at an alarming rate, beating a rhythm faster than any tattoo.


  The drum in his chest beat harder as the machine chewed on more steam, giving a final scream as it approached full speed. Brunel’s face was set like iron and he tightened the grip on my wrist. No heart could take this pressure and at any moment I expected it to break into a thousand pieces.

  But then at last Brunel waved his free arm in the air, signalling again to Dickson, who promptly pulled the lever back. Gradually the machine slowed to a lope, and then to a stop, and as it did so the palpitations of Brunel’s heart calmed, its movement now almost imperceptible to my touch.

  Letting go of my hand, and without saying a word, Brunel led the way back up through the hull, out into the daylight. I drank in the cool air, letting the gentle breeze soothe the back of my scorched throat. At first, all I could think of was getting back to the shore, but then my physician’s composure began to return.

  My first instinct was to get him into a cabin where I could examine him after what must surely have been a heart attack, but just as I was about to insist on this we were accosted by a vaguely familiar figure. Brunel, who by some miracle was still on his feet, spoke with the man, who from his equipment I recognized to be the photographer from the attempted launch. To my amazement the engineer agreed to stand once again in front of the three-legged camera. Behind him one of the ship’s smokestacks rose up from the deck, its cold, riveted surface providing the backdrop to what I was now certain would be Brunel’s last portrait.

  Watching him stand there, shoulders slumped and chin sinking below his collar, looking for all the world like a ghost in waiting, I recalled the conversation with Brodie, in which we had discussed Brunel’s medical condition. Could there be something to what he had told me, that Brunel and his machines were physically related in some way? Down in the engine room his heart had appeared to race in tandem with the machine, speeding up when it did and slowing down alongside it. But despite this I told myself the man was simply working himself to death.