The Minutes of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  ‘Yes,’ I replied gratefully, having only the very faintest idea of why it would. Picking up speed, we sailed past the moored steamer, its cargo of passengers milling around on the deck. I hoped Nate would soon be among them.

  15

  The open mouth of the dock was girded by two great stone bastions which at low tide rose up from the muddy floor of the Avon like the walls of a moated castle but now protruded just a few feet above the high water. We had made great speed through the dock, the wind pushing us from behind, but here, out on the river, the sail slapped lazily against the mast. Fortunately, though, the current provided propulsion enough and the magnificent towers of Brunel’s unfinished bridge, having passed high over our heads, soon grew smaller in our wake.

  Despite the excitement of my embarkation Stigwood seemed relaxed and perfectly at ease on the river, the tiller resting against his hip. In stark contrast, I skulked at the prow and looked back over the deck for any sign of movement behind us. There was still a chance of the frantic cab chase playing itself out again on the river, but after two or three miles I contented myself that no vessel had set out in pursuit. Only now we were out of harm’s way did the strain of recent events show itself, my buckling knees causing me to stumble as I walked back across the deck.

  Stigwood, noticing my trouble, barked at his deckhand, ‘Gus, show the gentlemen below decks. He has yet to find his river-legs and looks like he could do with some shut-eye.’

  The boy put down the brush with which he was daubing paint on to woodwork already thick with the stuff and led the way down a ladder before ushering me into a small cabin in the stern. There, I crawled into the confined space of the lower bunk and, without pausing to remove my heat-damaged shoes, went out like a light.

  On waking, I pulled out my watch to discover I had been asleep for most of the afternoon, and by the time I reappeared on deck the sun was already sinking behind the hills to our left, or the port, as my hosts called it. Stigwood informed me that the boat was now heading north, sailing up the Severn estuary, at the head of which lay our destination. He was still at the tiller, puffing easily on his pipe. Out in the wider channel the wind had picked up and the sail billowed healthily, the taut canvas pulling us against the current.

  ‘How long will it take us to get there?’ I asked, standing beside him at the tiller.

  Stigwood looked to the shore, checking our position, and then glanced up at the sail. ‘If the wind stays with us we should be in Gloucester by noon tomorrow. We’ll moor up for the night in a couple of hours.’

  ‘You must know the river well,’ I offered, grateful for the opportunity to strike up a normal conversation.

  ‘You could say that,’ he replied with a contented smile. ‘Been on the water all my life.’

  ‘How often do you make this trip?’

  ‘Usually two times a week. Our other main run’s across the way, over to Wales.’

  ‘You never feel the urge to go to sea then?’

  ‘Never had the need. She’s a bit shallow in the draught for open water, built for the river, just like me.’

  ‘It seems a pleasant way to make a living.’

  ‘Won’t make us rich, but as long as the cargoes are there we get by.’ The riverman stepped forward from the tiller, relaxing his grip and pushing it slightly in my direction. ‘Like to take a turn?’

  I took hold of the spar, gently curved like a swan’s neck and polished smooth through years of handling. ‘Just keep her steady; she’s almost steering herself in this breeze.’

  Having cleverly pressed a second member into his crew, Stigwood went over to Gus and checked his progress with the paint job. After a few brief words he turned back to me, and with his eyes fixed on something to our stern said, ‘Perhaps you’re on the wrong boat?’

  I glanced back over my shoulder to see the packet, which had just left the mouth of the river, turning in the estuary on her central axis like the needle on a compass. With the manœuvre completed and her stern now angled towards us she began to make remarkable speed towards the open sea. I watched as she steamed off into the distance, the funnel belching out columns of coal smoke, and wondered which one of the tiny figures on her deck was Nate.

  As our journey progressed northward the estuary narrowed to something more akin to a river, giving way on either side to gently rolling hills with villages now beginning to show lights nestling in the vales between. Larger settlements crept down the slope and touched the water, where a few small boats bobbed on their moorings. The sun dipped behind the horizon and the whale-backed shadows cast out by the Welsh hills shrank back towards their source.

  Stigwood returned to the helm and nudged us towards the English shore. Gus pulled on a rope and the boom swung across the deck, the sail flapping and shuddering before filling again as we came about. Once in the shallows the sail was dropped and with the anchor tipped over the side we came to rest. Although we lay close to the shore there was no attempt to leave the boat, for like true mariners our night was to be spent on board, tucked behind the walls of our wooden world.

  It was a tight squeeze in the cabin, with just enough room for two to perch on the small wooden crates that doubled for chairs on either side of a small table. The stove had burned only while Gus had cooked a simple meal, but still gave out enough heat to warm the cramped space. My companions allocated themselves the makeshift seats and left me to sit back on the bunk in which I had spent a good part of the afternoon. Stigwood arranged three glasses before him and from a cupboard by his side pulled out a welcome bottle. In response, Gus produced a dog-eared pack of cards and a clutch of coins. Stigwood invited me to join in the game but, never having been a gambler, I declined, preferring instead to take advantage of the storm lamp suspended above our heads to do a little reading.

  I pulled my bag from beneath the bunk where it had been stowed upon my arrival and while lifting out my father’s journal checked that the package was still there, along with the pistol.

  Also looking into the bag and taking account of its contents, Stigwood said, ‘A bad business about Leonard Wilkie. He was a good chap. Didn’t deserve that, a bloody shame it is.’ It was the first time he’d mentioned the events in Bristol since we’d set out on our voyage.

  After pulling out the journal I closed the bag and pushed it back under the bunk. It had crossed my mind to remove the pistol in case I should have need of it during the night but that would have been the height of bad manners.

  ‘Don’t worry about us, sir,’ said Stigwood, astutely reading my concern. ‘I don’t know what you’ve got in there and I don’t care. Wilkie was one of us: he lived on the river and he died on the river. The least we can do is see that you get to finish whatever business you had together. Besides, I made a promise to the boy.’

  ‘I fully intend to pay for my passage once we reach Gloucester, Mr Stigwood.’

  ‘Won’t hear of it,’ he declared, picking up a card and clasping it to his chest. ‘It’s not as if you’ve put us out of our way, is it?’ Stigwood gave a wink before returning to the game. ‘Now, young man, where were we? I owe you three pennies, I believe.’

  ‘Four,’ corrected Gus as he ordered the cards in his hand.

  The journal lay open on my lap, my hand casually flicking over the pages without paying much heed to their contents. But then, switching my attention from the game to the book, I began to look out for one page in particular. My father’s journals ran into several volumes and it had not been possible to carry them all away from the house. Forced to limit myself to a single volume I had chosen carefully, aware that within its covers should be an account of my father’s experiences in one of the most momentous events to take place in his lifetime. The next hour or so was spent with my father in a derelict farmhouse on the battlefield of Waterloo, where like a spectral student looking over his shoulder I watched him cut away limb after shattered limb. He worked quickly and skilfully, entirely unflustered by the sounds of battle which all that day raged around him, b
ut despite his successes many a man died under his knife. There had been nothing in the way of bluster or boast in his account, and now at last I understood full well why he had never spoken to me of that terrible day. Little wonder he always appeared so content with the quiet life of a country doctor.

  Battle weary, I closed the book just as the card session drew to an end, Stigwood’s pile of coins by now almost nonexistent. It was time to turn in, and Gus took down the lamp to guide his way to a temporary berth somewhere in the bow. Despite already having slept half the afternoon away I was grateful to lie back in my bunk. Before falling asleep once again I determined to take a leaf from my father’s book and be more conscientious with my own efforts at keeping a journal, for there may come a time when I too have a son grateful to know the true story of his father’s life.

  16

  Only after Stigwood had retired to the bunk above me did I finally take the precaution of removing the pistol from my bag. As it happened, though, my fear of the boat being boarded pirate-fashion during the night proved unfounded. This was just as well, because in the morning I discovered the small lead ball and most of the gunpowder in one of my shoes; I clearly had much to learn before I became a proficient pistolero.

  Stigwood once again proved good to his word when the boat tied up at the dock in Gloucester just after midday. Only after we had said our goodbyes did it dawn on me that I had little idea about how to proceed from there.

  My aim was obviously to get back to London, but finding that the next train went first to Bristol, where Wilkie’s assailants might yet be residing, I decided to bide my time and take the train to Birmingham late in the afternoon. But then, when I retired to a nearby hostelry to take lunch, it became apparent that my funds were running dangerously low. This would not have been so bad if all I had to worry about was my train fare but a porter in the station had told me that there would not be a train from Birmingham to London until the following day, which meant that I would have to find overnight lodgings. The thought of spending the night huddled among mail sacks on the station platform was enough for me to constrain my appetite and despite the mouth-watering smell of steak pie and other culinary delights I settled for a bowl of soup and a mug of ale.

  While I waited for my soup the innkeeper was good enough to loan me his newspaper. Taking a stool at the bar, I examined the front page of the Western Times and quickly settled on a short report in the bottom corner:

  TRAGIC ACCIDENT AT BRISTOL DOCKS

  A man was killed in a waterside fire in the early hours of yesterday morning. The body of Leonard Wilkie, a respected mechanical engineer, was pulled from the dock in which he is thought to have drowned while fleeing a burning building. The engineer’s workshop, in which the fire broke out, was entirely destroyed, along with an adjoining property. The son of the deceased, Nathaniel Wilkie, is missing, though witnesses claim he was seen uninjured but in a distraught condition at the scene of the accident. Police are eager to learn of the young man’s whereabouts. The cause of the blaze has yet to be established but is thought to have originated in the forge, where a fire burned constantly. Mr Wilkie was best known for his work on the engines of the famous ship SS Great Britain, the creation of Mr Isambard Kingdom Brunel, which was built locally.

  Although the dispatch lacked detail it was clear that Wilkie’s murder was being treated as an accident and I had to repress a face-tightening flush of anger at the thought of his killers getting away scot-free. Was the local coroner such a fool as to have overlooked the wounds on his head? Even if these had been misinterpreted as injuries sustained in a fall I could only hope that a post mortem would find his lungs clear of water and thereby provide indication enough – for a man needs to be drawing air to drown. Being in no position to offer my own professional advice, I took comfort from the fact that Nate appeared to have succeeded in a clean getaway.

  The soup provided some much-needed warmth on that cold January afternoon but did little to suppress my appetite. By the time the train pulled into Birmingham station my rumbling stomach was in open competition with the noise of the engine. A place to rest my head came in the form of a rather shabby boarding house. It was all I could afford, but the landlady was good enough to provide a plate of greasy stew, which I guzzled eagerly without taking the time to study its contents too closely. My odyssey finally came to an end the following afternoon when I arrived back in London. A journey that should have taken no more than a few hours had taken the best part of four days to complete.

  By now lacking enough money even for a cab, I joined the pedestrian traffic on the pavement and set out on foot for the bank.

  Noise and bustle was everywhere – crowds of people in such a hurry to get about their business. Even those whom I doubted had any business to be about were eager to be elsewhere. The streets were choked with vehicles and the air heavy with a heady mix of aromas, all of them unpleasant. In addition, the place seemed so dirty, the cobbles, bricks and mortar caked in a skein of grime. I had expected to be glad to be back, but by the time I got to turning the key in my door a black humour had settled upon me – a city grime of my own mind’s making.

  Why had I not before considered the possibility of finding my rooms ransacked or, even worse, encountering my pursuers inside? But it was already too late; I had crossed the threshold. Even if I did choose this moment to run, escape seemed an unlikely prospect, especially when my foot slipped on the litter of post that had accumulated on the carpet beneath the letterbox. In any case, I was done with running. If they wanted the package badly enough to have killed Wilkie then, damn it, they were welcome to it. I would simply hand it over and in return would hope to be left alone.

  Fortunately, though, the place was just as I had left it, untidy but not ransacked. But taking nothing for granted and with the pistol in my less than steady hand, I went from room to room, pushing the doors fully back against the walls, tugging aside drapes and even looking under the bed. I was alone. This was just as well, as in the cold light of common sense I realized that my surrender of the package was unlikely to stay the murderous hand of men such as those responsible for Wilkie’s death. Then, as my nerves calmed I saw the bright side. Why should they know where I lived? Having given them the slip in Bristol I was surely home and dry, just another face in a city of hundreds of thousands.

  I placed the pistol on my desk and returned to the front door to check that it was properly closed. With the bolt thrown I picked up the post and quickly sorted through it. There was last month’s copy of the Lancet, some circulars, and in among them a couple of letters – all very boring. Apart, that is, from the envelope on which my address had been scrawled by the unmistakable hand of Brunel. I studied it more closely and, considering that calling at his offices to hand over the package was to be my next task, was rather perturbed to see that it bore a French postmark. Rushing back into the parlour, I opened it. This time, to my relief, there was no key inside.

  Calais, 28 December 1858

  My Dear Phillips,

  You will only be reading this letter if you have returned from your father’s home. I pray that this is due to his recovery but if not then my deepest sympathies. My apologies for putting you to the trouble of a trip to Bristol (if indeed you made the trip) only to find me away from London on your return. I myself am in France, but not for long. Due to a sudden downturn in my health, and at the insistence of Brodie and my good lady wife, I have been packed away to warmer climes. I am informed that a touch of the sun will reinvigorate my constitution. I must also admit that the opportunity to get away from the infernal wrangles over the ship was not unwelcome.

  By the time you read this I will be well on my way to our final destination – Egypt (the place was the least objectionable of those suggested by Brodie).

  With this revelation I was forced to pause and take a moment. Then, after a deep breath or two, I continued reading.

  I say OUR destination as I am accompanied not only by my family and most of the household but an
other member of your profession. Though coming highly recommended by Brodie, I have yet to establish to my own satisfaction that he knows his backside from his elbow, let alone my own! It would of course have been a pleasure to have you accompany me as personal physician and I am sure that you would appreciate the ancient wonders that await our arrival in the land of the Pharaohs. However, you have your own domestic concerns, and once again my commiserations on your father’s perilous condition, and upon your return I am sure you will be eager to resume your important work at the hospital.

  I look forward to finding the ship fitted out and ready for her sea trial on my own return, but with Russell at the helm in my absence I dare not hope for too much. I have yet another infuriating letter from him in front of me in which he professes to be my obedient servant, though if he were I would gladly give him a good thrashing.

  But enough of my complaints – my ‘guardians’ would be disquieted to see my vexation, which as they do not tire of telling me is bad for my condition. Once again, my apologies for not being there to take delivery of the package, I look forward to doing so when I get back. I am sure when I do you will find its contents of great interest. In the meantime please take care of it for me. Should the opportunity arise I will write again to keep you appraised of our progress. I would appreciate it if you could attend the next of our gatherings and make certain that adequate minutes are kept – I fear things slipped somewhat in your absence and those fellows need someone to keep an eye on them.

  Your obedient servant,

  Isambard Kingdom Brunel

  I scrunched the letter in my fist and tossed it into the waste-paper basket. How typical of Brunel to leave me here with the package and all the dangers associated with it while he went sightseeing in Egypt! I fumed and fizzed, stamping about as I unpacked my bag and threw its contents hither and thither.