The Minutes of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  ‘No, I am afraid not. We searched the boiler room thoroughly but found nothing out of the ordinary. Had it not been for your close encounter I would have been happy to write the entire thing off as a false alarm. You will, I am sure, understand my caution, given the importance of this voyage?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then I will bid you good morning. I must discuss today’s tests with Captain Harrison.’

  I was certain that Russell knew more than he was letting on, but I wasn’t going to let that get in the way of breakfast.

  After finishing my meal I returned to my cabin, where I spent some time catching up with my journal, or at least jotting down notes which would be expanded into a full entry upon my return home. After an hour or so I returned to the deck to check on our progress. The ship was still hugging the shore but our speed had suddenly increased. The cause of this acceleration became clear when I heard the mast behind me straining under the load it now carried. White sails billowed from every mast, the entire length of the vessel now overshadowed by what almost looked to be an unbroken wall of canvas.

  A small town, which I learned from another passenger was Hastings, was coming into view. It looked a pleasant enough place, with a castle on the clifftop and a long breakwater stretching out towards us. Fishermen’s huts were clustered on the beach and yet again people were crowded along the shore. Fishing boats, showing sails that looked like mere handkerchiefs in comparison with our own, carried people out to take a closer look and the ship’s whistle began to sound in greeting. In the hope of gaining a better view of our own sails, I set out for the bow, from where I could look back down the length of the ship.

  But no sooner had I arrived at the forward capstan than the ship gave a terrible shudder and a tremor rippled like a wave through the deck beneath my feet. An instant later there was a deafening roar and the sky was rent by a blinding flash of white light. The blast erupted through the deck, carrying with it one of the funnels and whatever else stood between this uncontainable force and the heavens. The funnel clanged like a broken bell as it tumbled back down on to the deck, its iron jacket torn and tattered. Pieces of timber and shards of metal and glass, even chairs from the saloon below, fell like rain, sending people previously frozen in shock running in all directions.

  Steam hissed through the jagged hole now gaping in the deck and shrouded the bow in a cloud of white vapour. The cries of men and women joined with the deafening whine emitted by the wounded ship and the sound of the deck splintering under the shower of debris. I approached the scene of devastation, which was slowly revealed as the cloud began to dissipate. The sail on the forward mast was reduced to a tattered rag, its edges smouldering, while still-burning fragments fluttered through the air like leaves. People wandered aimlessly among the scrap iron and lumber littering the deck; some of them were bleeding but, miraculously, no one appeared to be seriously injured.

  Glass crunched under my feet, most of it from the skylights set into the deck, but those slivers framing my reflection were from the mirrors in the saloon on the deck below. Any doubt that the level of destruction below decks was greater than that above was dispelled when a screaming man bolted on to the deck through a hatchway adjacent to the crater. His clothes had been ripped away by the force of the blast, his skin bleached white by the scalding effect of the steam, and his broiled scalp hung down from the back of his head as though it were a toupee blown loose in a high wind. So acute was his agony that he could perceive only one source of release. Before anyone could stop him, he vaulted over the side of the ship. By the time I reached the railing the man was clinging on to a spar attached to the forward part of the paddle box, his legs and torso submerged beneath the cooling water. But any sense of relief can only have been fleeting as, with his strength drained, he let go of the spar and was devoured by the wheel as it relentlessly drove the ship forward. The poor soul was beyond help, his mangled body never to be seen again – and there was more horror to follow.

  ‘No! Don’t touch him,’ I yelled at a passenger as he reached into the hatchway to assist another badly scalded victim in his escape from the bowels of the ship. But it was too late, and the good Samaritan reeled backwards as the hand he held shed its skin like a lady’s glove, all the way up to the elbow, the flesh having cooked to the bone.

  Taking charge of the situation, I directed an officer to keep people away as more victims staggered on to the deck. ‘Bring water-soaked blankets, plenty of them,’ I called as he ushered people away and shouted orders to the crew.

  The most severely injured collapsed on to the deck, unable to walk another step, while those more fortunate stood with their faces to the wind, taking what solace they could from its cooling quality. One man had lost his ears while the skin of his face had taken on a peculiar sheen which would later transmute into the most dreadful blistered mass. Sitting him down and instructing him to keep his hands away from his face, I turned to a man in even worse condition. The big fellow lay on his back, teeth and parched gums exposed through the burning away of his lips. He was fighting for breath and I feared that even his insides had been cooked in the heat. The smell of burnt flesh was awful, like something from hell’s kitchen. The man was barely recognizable as Simms, the giant who had pinned me to the floor with his boot, and there appeared to be regret in his eyes just before they closed for the last time.

  The blankets arrived, along with a gentleman who hurriedly introduced himself as the ship’s medical officer. He set to work alongside me, covering the men with the sodden blankets in the hope that they would reduce their temperatures and soothe the blisters. Other than that there was little more we could do.

  Russell was the next to appear, accompanied by Captain Harrison. No less than fifteen injured men were now in the care of myself and the medical officer, and with two already gone there could be little doubt that the death toll would increase. When I assured a quite distraught Russell that there was nothing he could do, both he and the captain disappeared below decks to inspect the damage and perhaps establish its cause, though in the light of previous events there could be little doubt that this was the work of the spectral saboteur.

  We needed to get the men off the deck and so, leaving my colleague in charge, I went off and sought out a space which would lend itself to use as a temporary hospital. The main saloon was out of the question, as both the floor and ceiling were perforated by gaping holes. The once-luxurious hall was almost unrecognizable and it was a miracle that nearly all the passengers had been on deck because anyone in this room at the time of the explosion would surely have been killed. Pieces of furniture were reduced to matchwood and wall hangings to tatters. Several of the delicately wrought cast-iron pillars lay shattered as if made from glass and those mirrors that had not been smashed to smithereens had suffered the loss of the silvering that gave them the magical ability to capture reflection. Standing as close to the edge of the stateroom-sized hole in the floor as my frayed nerves would permit, I looked up to see the sky and then down to peer through a receding series of jagged rips in the floors of the decks below. If I were to lose my footing I would tumble clear through to the shattered boiler room in the bottom of the ship.

  Although some parts of the vessel had obviously suffered terribly, destruction was limited to the immediate surroundings of the blast crater, and very soon a smaller saloon was accommodating the wounded, where we tended them as best we could. It was a great stroke of fortune and perhaps even more so vindication of Brunel as designer that the operation of the engines was unaffected by the blast, despite, as I was later to learn from Russell, the destruction of several boilers. And so, at a much reduced speed, the ship made for Weymouth, where she would put in and offload the wounded before having her own terrible injuries tended.

  *

  When I finally tracked Russell down to his office he looked to be swimming in a sea of scattered plans and drawings, each of which illustrated some or other aspect of the ship’s workings. He turned and looked
blankly at me. A half-empty bottle of whisky sat beside him.

  ‘Any more news about the men?’ he asked with a hollow voice as he pulled himself upright.

  ‘I am afraid we lost two more this afternoon – that brings the toll up to four – and I have doubts about at least one more.’

  He winced and gestured to the papers on the floor. ‘I have been studying the cause of the accident… I mean, the incident.’

  ‘Then it was sabotage?’ I asked, working my way around the scatter of papers to sit on a leather couch.

  ‘Undeniably.’

  ‘A bomb?’

  ‘No, we would have found a bomb in our search. He didn’t need a bomb.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘He closed a valve on one of the water-cooling jackets, as simple as that. Pressure built up until eventually the entire system exploded. He turned the ship into a bomb.’ He picked up a drawing lying at his feet and glared at it.

  ‘So we’re talking about someone who knows their way around a boiler room, perhaps even knows this ship intimately?’

  ‘Possible. He knew their business, that much is certain. It was so subtle that if he hadn’t been spotted where he shouldn’t have been, then the entire thing could have been written off as an unfortunate accident.’

  ‘And that would have suited you better?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Stop the charade,’ I snapped, my patience by now wearing very thin. ‘You know more about this than you’re letting on. I think you know full well who’s responsible, and you’re going to tell me.’

  He made no response.

  ‘I know about the torpedo, and the part that you intended Brunel’s device to play in it. He thinks you were behind Wilkie’s death, but I’ve always given you the benefit of the doubt. After today I’m beginning to change my mind.’

  The drawing slipped to the floor and Russell refilled another glass. ‘The whole thing got out of hand. You have to believe that. I didn’t intend for any of this to happen.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Damn it! If only Brunel had been willing to part with his precious device. It seemed strange at first. I had never known him to be so protective about anything. You know he’s never taken out a patent in his life?’ I nodded. ‘But then I discovered that at the same time he was doing everything in his power to get me sacked.’ He paused to take a swig from the glass. ‘Saying no was just another way of getting to me, that’s all.’

  ‘But why did he want you sacked? Surely the project could not proceed without you. The ship was being built in your yard.’

  ‘There were shortfalls in the accounts, errors were made, estimates for the costs were too low.’

  ‘Estimates made by you?’

  ‘Yes, by me! We… I… I went bankrupt because of Brunel’s ridiculous specifications. He wouldn’t listen to sense. Everything had to be just the way he wanted it, no expense spared.’

  ‘But you tendered deliberately low to secure the job. You knew there was no way you could build the ship for the amount you quoted.’

  ‘I see Brunel’s been tutoring you in the finer points of the shipbuilding business. Yes, I may have been overly competitive at the tendering stage. But I was certain we could make up the shortfall, especially when he came up with the gaz engine and then the heart. It would have solved all our financial problems at the drop of a hat. Useless, of course, for the purpose he intended, but I recognized its worth immediately. It was the missing piece of a machine I had been working on for a number of years.’

  ‘The torpedo.’

  He nodded. ‘It was revolutionary – a self-propelled projectile capable of moving unseen beneath the surface of the water and guaranteed to sink any ship it hit. The only problem was the propulsion system needed to be small and operate without an exhaust. Brunel’s device fitted the bill perfectly.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell Brunel what you intended to use it for? He might have been more open to cooperation if you had been honest with him.’

  ‘The clients wouldn’t let me. They said if I told anyone else about the torpedo then… then the deal was off.’

  ‘The clients? You sold the idea?’

  Russell took another tug of whisky. ‘That’s where the trouble lies. I offered the torpedo to a certain party and they were prepared to pay a lot of money, enough to get us out of the financial difficulties we were in, but without Brunel’s device the thing was just another white elephant, a worthless pile of junk.’

  ‘So you went back on the deal.’

  ‘I did nothing wrong. When it became clear that Brunel wanted no part in the project I went to the client and returned the down payment.’

  Now we were getting to the nub of the matter. ‘Let me guess. They didn’t want to know? They took it into their own hands to get the device?’

  ‘Yes, that was when they killed Wilkie.’

  ‘And what about today?’

  ‘They told me that unless I put things right and got hold of the device they would do something to the ship and ruin me again. The explosion was the result.’

  ‘But even then you made no further attempt to persuade Brunel or get hold of the device?’

  ‘Where would be the point in that? Brunel can barely bring himself to speak to me and he’s given up on the device anyway. I was even pleased to hear that he had. It seemed like an end to the matter.’

  ‘But they didn’t see it that way.’

  ‘My client has made promises to their client and they won’t take no for an answer.’

  ‘This is getting a little complicated. Just who are we dealing with here? Who’s behind this if not you?’

  Russell pondered the matter for a while. ‘Is it Hawes?’ I asked. Russell shook his head and then, resigned to his fate, he spat out the name.

  ‘Perry, it was Perry.’

  ‘The shipbuilder.’

  ‘Shipbuilder? Pah! The man couldn’t build a snowman.’

  Perry had been on my list, but then so had every other member of the Lazarus Club. ‘Why him?’ I asked, keeping up the pressure.

  ‘He’s an agent for a firm in Limehouse called Blyth’s. Among other things, they build warships for foreign clients and procure weapons for overseas service.’

  ‘You mean they’re arms dealers. So who wanted the torpedo?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He told you nothing?’

  Russell shook his head. ‘It’s how Blyth’s operate – you know only what and who you need to know. Perry has a client but I don’t know who it is. I swear.’

  I believed him. ‘But whoever they are they are putting pressure on Blyth’s to make sure you deliver. What a bloody mess. You’ve got yourself caught up in all this just because you under-budgeted the cost of building this ship. What do you think their next move will be?’

  ‘Probably to kill me.’

  ‘Why don’t you go to the police or even the government? Surely they would be interested in stopping a foreign power from getting hold of a British weapon.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that. In any case, the government would probably be happy to let them test the weapon in battle conditions and then decide whether or not it was worth buying themselves. You see, Phillips, it’s all about money. All of it.’

  30

  Badly wounded, the ship arrived off Weymouth, a full day after the explosion, the hole in her deck bandaged with canvas and the broken funnel strapped down under a web of ropes. Our arrival had been unscheduled, but nonetheless a huge crowd awaited the ship as she berthed in the unfinished harbour at Portland. The passengers were the first to disembark, though not before some of them had scoured the decks for small pieces of glass, wood or other debris to take as souvenirs of their lucky escape. They would now have to get home under their own steam, as Russell was determined that the ship would not put to sea again until fully repaired. With the ship returned to shore her builder appeared to have regained his composure and was even boasting that the repairs, which he intende
d to supervise personally, would take no more than three weeks to complete.

  Only once all of the passengers had disembarked did I set about supervising the careful removal of the injured, all of them firemen who hadbeen stoking the boilers when the blast occurred. Three men were carried off the ship on litters and loaded into waiting wagons, while the remaining four were able to walk with some assistance.

  Returning to the ship to collect my luggage, I encountered Russell, who was overseeing the removal of the canvas cover.

  ‘You have done a wonderful job with the men – my thanks for that,’ he said, by way of farewell.

  ‘Your medical officer did just as much,’ I returned a little coldly.

  ‘I know how you feel about me, Phillips, but rest assured I will see that these men are looked after, financially that is. They will want for nothing.’

  I thought of adding, ‘Apart from skin,’ but held my tongue.

  ‘I am the only one they will want to hurt now,’ said Russell. ‘But they may feel they have already done enough.’

  ‘I hope so, Russell,’ I said, feeling some small amount of sympathy for a man who had been swallowed up by events he had inadvertently set in motion.

  ‘Please pass on my best wishes to Brunel, when you see him.’

  Agreeing to do so and accepting his offer of a handshake, I took leave of him and the ship and joined the small convoy of carriages on its way to the hospital.

  My intention had been to set out for London but after seeing how much trouble the influx of patients was causing at the local hospital I decided to stay on for a day or two and take charge of their treatment.

  Travelling once again on Brunel’s railway, I returned to London on 13 September. No more of the men in my care had died, and I was hopeful that they would all pull through. Unfortunately, Brunel did not seem to be faring so well, and when I arrived at Duke Street on the morning after my return, Brodie feared the end was very near.

  ‘I tried to keep the bad news away from him, but he got hold of a copy of The Times,’ he whispered anxiously, just before I entered the bedroom. ‘I think one of his servants smuggled it in for him. He was naturally eager for news of the ship’s voyage.’