The Minutes of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  Of course I had known that Brunel was primarily interested in my work – he’d told me so himself. Ockham however seemed to be taking me for a dupe. But now unarmed, I chose to ignore his mocking tone and leave the misconception unchallenged. ‘Happy to have been of assistance,’ I said. After all, it was just one misconception in a head so obviously awash with them.

  As it was, however, the arrogance was short-lived. ‘But not just to us,’ he remarked, his voice now tempered with apprehension. ‘I fear those improvements are why Russell’s interest in the device was rekindled. I warned Brunel not to make that damned presentation.’

  ‘When I was out of town?’

  ‘I hope you weren’t offended by him not waiting for your return.’ Ockham didn’t strike me as a man sensitive to other people’s feelings. Changeable as the wind, I thought, shaking my head in reply. In truth, though, I had been. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘the man was under great pressure to go overseas, his health being so poor, and I suppose there was no guarantee he would make it back. Being an inveterate show-off, he just couldn’t resist it before he left. And as for my work here? Well, just like him I sat in on some of your lectures, but I chose to remain anonymous.’

  He returned his attentions to the cadaver but carried on talking as he worked the scalpel. ‘You are a talented teacher, Dr Phillips, but there is nothing like hands-on experience – my time in the yard has taught me that. And, besides, with Brodie refusing to take any part it looked as though I would have to carry out the operation when the time came.’

  Letting out a satisfied sigh, the amateur surgeon stepped back from the table with the detached lungs cradled in his open palms and placed them in the bowl, draping them over the heart as though he were building a pie.

  Having now had time to take in my surroundings, it was apparent that we were standing inside a wooden machine; rising up from the centre of the floor was a heavy axle which like an architectural pillar disappeared into the dimness of space above us. The millstones to which the axle was attached occupied a space beneath our feet. From the cobwebs which spanned many a crevice and corner it was evident that the mill had last seen action some time ago, but when it was in operation the grinding stones were turned by the intermeshing of a series of giant wooden cogs which took up most of the building’s interior. Elsewhere, motion would be transferred from the cogs by beams and fly-wheels, which above our heads were connected by a series of leather drive belts. These sticks and stones were of course given life by the motion of the sails outside. Although buffeted by the wind they remained stationary, but the internal workings to which they were connected creaked and vibrated, keen to be moving again.

  A flight of open stairs led up to a mezzanine floor which was really nothing more than a wide landing, and from there another flight rose through a hatch in an upper floor. Standing to one side of the lowest flight of stairs was a tall oblong object covered with canvas, looking, I thought, like a cabinet or wardrobe under a protective dustsheet.

  ‘You live here now?’ I asked, recalling the bed in the small room through which I had entered.

  ‘It’s just somewhere to lay my head. When I’m not busy on the ship I’m usually working here.’

  ‘You said “when the time comes for the operation”. What operation?’

  He looked up again, his brow still knotted with concentration. ‘Now you are here I may as well show you.’

  It was only then that I noticed the ragged hole supporting the blood bucket at the foot of the table. ‘My God, man, that’s my old dissecting table!’

  Ockham smiled. ‘Waste not want not. I was walking past the hospital one day and saw it sitting in the backyard and offered your man a fair price for it. You clearly had no further use for it.’

  ‘I suppose he threw in a gratis cadaver to go with it?’

  Ockham made no reply as he took hold of the canvas covering of the object at the foot of the stairs. With a flourish worthy of a music-hall illusionist the sheet was whipped away to reveal a glass-fronted cabinet constructed from riveted plates of iron.

  There was something inside the box, apparently suspended in a murky fluid, and I took a step closer to see more clearly. What I saw, as the submerged blur hardened into a recognizable object, came as a shock even to my jaundiced surgeon’s eye. One arm hung straight down along the side of the woman’s body and the other was bent at the elbow and folded across the lower torso. The legs were stretched out beneath and, naked as the rest of her, were crossed one in front of the other, the feet turned downward as though with tiptoes she were trying to ground herself on the base of the tank. Strands of long red hair floated above the woman’s head and left exposed a face which even in death retained a mask of rare beauty. I peered closer and satisfied myself that I had not been mistaken. There was no doubt about it. It was the body of Ada Lovelace, Ockham’s long-deceased mother.

  It took me a while to say anything, but when the words finally came I realized that for the first time much of what had gone before now made sense, if sense was a word that could be used in this circumstance.

  ‘Lazarus, I presume?’

  Ockham spoke with his face turned away from me, his gaze fixed on the inert form of his beloved mother. ‘If it hadn’t been for that damned doctor she would have recovered. It was murder, plain bloody murder.’

  ‘But she had cancer. There was surely little hope.’

  At this he turned on me, his eyes seemingly magnified through a film of moisture. ‘What is done is done. Now it is up to me to make things right, to bring her back.’

  I didn’t know whether to feel sorry for him or fear him. I could only assume that his reasoning had been impaired by too much opium. But, whatever lay behind his bizarre behaviour, there could be little doubt that Brodie had been right to describe him as ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know’.

  ‘You think that putting the device inside her will bring her back? I am sorry for your loss, Ockham, but it’s not going to work, not now, not ever.’

  ‘And I am supposed to take the word of a doctor, a virtual colleague of the man who bled her to death?’

  ‘There are bad doctors, I don’t deny that, but you cannot blame the death of your mother on the entire medical profession.’ My words were heart-felt, for, some time previously, I too had suffered at the hands of a bereaved relative; a husband who held me personally responsible for the unavoidable death of his wife.

  Ockham snorted. ‘Don’t worry, Phillips, I don’t. Cutting that murdering quack’s throat was catharsis enough. Like her he bled to death, but for him there will be no coming back.’

  He wasn’t listening. ‘Nor, I am afraid, will there be for her. How long is it now since… since she died?’

  ‘Almost six years. All that time she’s been waiting for me to bring her back.’

  ‘How the hell did you get her in there? Surely there was a funeral?’

  ‘They buried a sheep’s carcass. I paid off the undertaker and had this constructed.’ He stroked the front of the glass and I half expected the corpse inside to reach out for his hand. ‘An apothecary provided the preserving fluid and she’s been with me ever since.’

  I had seen and heard enough. ‘I can’t be a part of this,’ I blurted. ‘You need to do the decent thing and bury her. Forget this fool’s errand and get on with your life.’

  He wasn’t having any of it. ‘That’s just what Brodie said. But you’re different, I can see that.’

  ‘Brodie knows about this?’

  ‘Of course, but he was too fearful of his position. He provided some anatomical advice early on, but he didn’t have the stomach for this.’

  ‘And Brunel?’

  ‘His contribution was the device. He works with metal, not flesh.’

  I had heard him say something similar. ‘But he knew about this?’

  ‘He simply lost interest, that is all. Too many jobs requiring his attention, as usual.’

  ‘Enough Ockham, I’ve heard enough.’ With this I turned and ma
de for the front door.

  ‘But you can’t walk out on this now. We’re in this together. Tell me you’re not intrigued by the device’s potential. Tell me the idea doesn’t fascinate you!’

  ‘No, Ockham, the only thing that you and I are in together is this damned windmill, and I’m just about to change that.’

  I pushed open the front door to find my exit blocked, fittingly enough, by the door man. His pistol was levelled at my head.

  ‘Back inside, please, doctor.’

  ‘What the blazes?’ exclaimed Ockham as he reached for the pistol which, in my hurry, I had left on the table.

  ‘Leave it where it lies,’ ordered the door man who, satisfied that I had backed off to a safe distance, now had his pistol trained on Ockham.

  ‘How did you find us?’ I asked.

  ‘Been watchin’ this place fer a while. We knew you’d get together sooner or later. And when yer did we’d be sure to find what we’re after.’

  I had expected the chair man to have appeared by now. ‘Where is your boss?’

  ‘Don’t need ’im ’ere to deal with you pair. Can take the thing by mysel’, thanks very much.’ He pushed the door closed with the heel of his boot and advanced into the room. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Where’s what?’

  ‘Don’t start playin’ games again, doctor. You were lucky when we last met. But I’m in charge now and won’t be so sparin’.’

  I took a backward glance at Ockham. ‘You’d better give him what he’s after. He obviously means business.’ The man clearly fancied his chances and was taking a solo shot at glory. His superiors would no doubt have something to say about this independent action. But, whether fortunately or not, they weren’t here.

  He cocked the pistol. ‘I won’t ask again.’

  Ockham pointed up to the next level. ‘Up there, in the chest. I’ll go and get it.’

  ‘Not so fast,’ replied the door man. ‘You must be jokin’ if you think I’m leavin’ you to go up alone an’ pull a gun out of there. An’ likewise, I’m not leavin’ the other down ’ere to cause similar mischief.’

  ‘The man knows his trade,’ said an unruffled Ockham.

  Our visitor pulled a length of rope from his pocket and threw it to Ockham.

  ‘Tie ’im to the chair,’ he ordered.

  Ockham removed his coat from the chair and when I was seated began to tie my hands behind it.

  ‘What in God’s name have you been doin’ in ’ere?’ asked the door man, who only now seemed to notice the contents of the room and had a thinly disguised look of horror on his face.

  ‘That, my friend, is a long story,’ I replied.

  The door man didn’t seem interested in hearing stories. ‘Good an’ tight now. Let me take a look.’ He took a pull on the rope where it secured my elbows to the back of the chair and then tugged on the knot around my wrists. Satisfied, he gestured for him to climb the stairs.

  As soon as his back was turned I shook loose the razor which Ockham had hidden in my sleeve and, only just managing to avoid cutting my wrist open, tried to bring the blade to bear on the cord. Meanwhile, Ockham climbed the stairs, followed at a safe distance by his escort.

  I had at least expected to wait until they were both on the landing before Ockham made his move, but like the door man I was greatly surprised when something fell out of the darkness above and landed with a tremendous thud at the foot of the stairs just behind his back.

  The sack of mouldy old flour had been suspended on a rope and released when Ockham pulled a pin from the landing rail just as he laid his hand on it. The door man’s distraction was only momentary but it was enough to allow Ockham to turn and kick the pistol from his hand. He then launched himself down the stairs and the two men rolled on the floor punching and tearing at one another, each of them desperate to reach the pistol, which lay not far away.

  At last I managed to bring the blade into contact with the rope and with great difficulty was trying to develop a cutting action while holding the blade between just the thumb and forefinger of my right hand. Both men were now on their feet, and Ockham kicked the pistol further out of reach just as the door man was about to make a grab for it. In retaliation he lunged at the viscount, pushing him with dreadful force against the wall, where the small of his back collided with a lever which on impact shifted its position. Ockham had barely recovered when the mill began to grind slowly into life. First there was a whooshing sound high up in the rafters as the sails outside started to turn in the wind. Then the cogs started to mesh against one another and the axle to revolve. The movement was not a smooth one, with the cogs stopping and starting and the axle emitting a dreadful squeal – the neglected mechanism was in desperate need of an overhaul and threatened to fall apart at any moment.

  The life-and-death struggle between the two men continued, both of them apparently oblivious to the moving parts around them. The blade was biting deep now and so I pulled my wrists apart, hoping to snap the remaining few strands. As the rope dug further into my wrists I watched in disbelief as the iron tank containing Ockham’s mother began to shudder and shake. The fluid inside looked to be boiling and to my amazement the body floating within had begun to move, the arms now flexing away from the torso and the feet gently kicking against the glass panel. My God, I thought, she’s coming to life. Ockham had somehow managed to harness the movement of the windmill to give her life!

  Then the real reason for the agitation of the tank became apparent. The canvas which Ockham had pulled from the front of the tank had been tossed carelessly aside and landed on the teeth of one of the cogs. The turning of the gear was now pulling the canvas into the machine and as the tank was standing on part of that same sheet, probably after being carried into the mill entirely wrapped in it, so its movement was causing it to shiver and shake. As more canvas was eaten up so the tank began to rock, tipping backward and forward and now threatening to topple over.

  I gave up trying to snap the cord and returned to cutting. For a moment I closed my eyes in concentration, and opened them again just in time to see the iron casket rock one last time and then tip irretrievably forward. ‘The tank!’ I cried, but Ockham was in no position to do anything, as he was still grappling with his foe.

  There was a terrifying crash as the front of the tank impacted against the corner of the table, the glass shattering and the fluid gushing out to cover the floor and soak the bodies of the two men who writhed upon it.

  ‘No!’ cried Ockham, on seeing what had happened. Thrown into a rage by the sight of his mother’s shattered sarcophagus, he found new strength and for the last time pushed his adversary to the ground. Ockham let go of the door man, who slipped in the fluid as he tried to regain his feet, and before he could make another attempt his opponent was upon him, wading into him with a heavy piece of timber.

  Still bound to the chair, I was powerless to intervene. ‘No, Ockham! Don’t kill him! We need him alive! He has to talk!’

  But Ockham was in a frenzy. ‘Look what you’ve done!’ he snarled as he continued to hit the prostrate man.

  At last my bonds gave way and I lurched forward from the chair, sliding across the room as I stepped into the foul-smelling pool of alcohol. ‘Stop it, Ockham! Stop!’

  I grabbed hold of his arm as he reached up to deliver another blow, but it was too late. The man was clearly dead, his mashed brains by now exposed through the side of his skull.

  With my hand still holding his wrist, Ockham turned on me, his eyes ablaze with animal-like rage. I feared a fight but the humanity slowly returned and, once calmed, he dropped the club and lurched towards the tank, which was now propped at an angle against the table. The glass had not entirely shattered, but a large portion had broken away where it had been pierced by the sharp corner of the table. A limp arm hung from the tank, the fingers just brushing the wet floor beneath. Even as I watched, the flesh, which at first had been ivory-white, began to turn black as necrosis took hold. The long-delayed stench of decay
mixed with the alcohol fumes and created a nauseating miasma, which if we didn’t leave the building would soon overcome the pair of us.

  ‘The tank, we’ve got to mend the tank!’ blubbered Ockham as he reached down to lift his mother’s arm back inside.

  ‘It’s no use. She’s gone, Ockham. Your mother’s dead,’ I said, as though it had been the breaking of the tank which had killed her. I took a hold of his shivering shoulder and made to pull him away. ‘Leave her, man, we’ve got to get out of here.’

  All of a sudden he seemed to need no encouragement and staggered back into me. ‘She’s rotten! My God, Phillips, she’s rotten!’

  At last the truth had dawned. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘You need to bury your dead, to let your mother rest in peace.’

  Ockham looked lost, a small boy again. ‘She was beautiful, Phillips, you saw that, didn’t you?’

  I tried not to look at the blackened mass of flesh which hung from the shattered sarcophagus. A damp cushion of red hair was all that remained of her. ‘She was very beautiful. That’s how you will always remember her.’

  ‘All I wanted to do was bring her back. She meant the world to me, Phillips.’ He looked not at his mother but at the badly dissected cadaver. ‘She may have been somebody’s mother too. I wouldn’t have wished her any harm, doctor, not in life.’

  ‘I lost my mother too, Ockham, and recently my father. I know how hard it can be,’ I said, desperate to calm him and get us both away from this dreadful place. Ockham’s opium habit had done nothing but feed his insane delusions, but had it been available I would gladly have administered it there and then as a sedative. I had learned from Babbage that Ada had been prescribed a similar treatment and as a result became a slave to the fuddling powers of laudanum. The diagnosis was clear: the man was as dependent on the physical presence of his mother as he was on any drug and severing the connection between them would require as much skill as any surgical operation. Just minutes ago I had been determined to hand him over to the police, explain all and clear my name, but now, in the cold light of death and destruction, things seemed more complicated. Surrendering the pitiful creature he had become to Tarlow would do nothing to help his dangerous condition and the ensuing investigation would inevitably drag Brunel and the others into the affair. Just as importantly, the scandal might create a smokescreen behind which Wilkie’s killers could escape justice. There had to be another way.