The Minutes of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  ‘I’m not,’ he replied, with an unmistakable tinge of regret. ‘But it would seem a little odd for me to come in ’ere and not order a glass of the usual.’

  ‘True,’ I said, impressed. ‘Any ideas yet?’

  ‘Spoke to a couple of likely lads a moment ago. Sometime muckers of our friend. Told me where we might find ’im. Rooms with a lady friend down near the river.’

  ‘Good, very good. Shall we go?’ Without waiting for his reply I stood up, only to have him grab my arm.

  ‘It ain’t all good news.’

  I sank down again.

  ‘Appears Bittern’s been throwin’ money about. Buyin’ drinks and showin’ off. Even got a new pair of shoes they tell me.’

  ‘Then he’s already sold it.’

  ‘Looks that way.’

  ‘Then we need to know who bought it.’

  ‘And I need to repay my little debt,’ said William, grimacing as he tried to adjust his bandaged arm against his chest.

  ‘Is it causing you pain?’

  ‘Only when I laugh.’

  ‘I had better take a look at it.’

  ‘It can wait, sir. Let’s find Bittern first.’

  ‘Look after it, William,’ I ordered, handing over the pistol. ‘It’s a family heirloom.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, it bloody looks it. When did it last see service, the battle of Waterloo?’

  ‘Not a bad guess.’ I smiled. ‘I trust you know how to work it?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me, and as for this,’ he said, weighing the pistol in his hand, ‘we’re two old-timers together. I’m sure it’ll kill just as well as your new revolver when the time comes.’

  William stuffed the gun into his belt and led the way out of the alley into which we had slipped after leaving the pub. We turned a corner and entered a narrow street where the lights were dimmer, a claustrophobic rat run of a lane where people lived out their lives and played out their deaths literally within spitting distance of their neighbours. The open drains were a breeding ground for cholera and all other manner of disease. But like anywhere else people made the best of it they could.

  The sound of a fiddle and drunken laughter drifted out from a window above our heads. On the other side of the street a giggling woman walked arm in arm with her beau, though more than likely he was just another customer. Further along we encountered a group of men huddled around a lamp post sharing a bottle and complaining about their wives. ‘Evenin’ Will,’ called out one of them. ‘Join us for a tipple.’

  William raised his good hand in salute. ‘Another time, Tam, got business tonight.’

  ‘And I’m sure we all know what that might be!’ laughed Tam.

  ‘I wish!’ called back William.

  The laughter followed us to the next corner. Lights flickered through blackened windows. Two men stood outside an open doorway, talking in hushed tones and showing no interest in us as we walked by. Further down the street a knife grinder’s wheel sent a shower of sparks into the dark, while an old woman waited for the return of her carving knife.

  We walked for half an hour or more, the residents of the labyrinth appearing less and less reputable with each turn of a corner. If this were Ancient Greece then a golden thread might have guided our return, but here such a lifeline would be cut into farthing-sized lengths faster than you could say ‘Ariadne’.

  ‘Here we are,’ announced William, just as I was beginning to fear he had as little idea of our whereabouts as myself. ‘The third door on the left there, that’s the place we’re after.’

  ‘How are we going to do this?’

  ‘Don’t know about you, but when I want to get into someone’s house I usually knock at the door.’

  Unable to think of a less direct approach, I placed myself in his service. ‘Very well, William, I’ll follow your lead.’

  ‘You do that, sir. I’ll go first and knock. Stay out of sight ’til I give the signal, then get inside fast as you can. Better have that revolver ready. I doubt Bittern’s expectin’ us but he’s got a woman in there and they’re always trouble.’

  We walked across the street where William signalled me to stand to one side of the door. I took out the handgun and with a shaking hand held it by my side. William looked to see if I was ready and after an exchange of nods rapped on the door before pulling the pistol from his belt and holding it behind his back. Presently, there was the sound of movement, the drawing back of a latch and the creak of hinges as the door was pulled open.

  ‘Evenin’,’ said William. ‘I’m lookin’ for Bittern, an old friend of mine.’

  Although my position denied me a view of anything but Bittern’s profile it was apparent from the crack of light cutting across his face that the door had not been fully opened.

  ‘Ain’t ’ere,’ replied a woman’s voice. ‘An’ if it’s money you want you can forget it, the sod’s spent the lot.’

  ‘Would you know where I could find him then?’

  ‘Bastard’s down the pub.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘How should I bleedin’ know?’

  ‘Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I waited inside for his return?’

  ‘Do I look as though I was born yesterday?’

  From my vantage point this was not a question I was able to answer, though from her voice alone I strongly suspected that the answer was no.

  ‘I’ll pay to wait,’ offered William, a hint of frustration entering his voice.

  ‘Piss off, I ain’t no slag.’

  ‘I will pay you two shillings to sit in your parlour and wait for him.’

  William’s face was flooded with light as the door was opened before him. Signalling for me to follow, he slipped the still-concealed pistol into the back of his waistband and stepped across the threshold.

  My uninvited appearance was greeted with predictable objection. ‘You never said there was two of you!’ she hissed, but her surprise soon gave way to opportunism. ‘It’ll be four shillings for the two of you.’

  William, his patience now clearly at an end, produced the gun and brandished it in front of the woman’s face. She was a severe-looking sort – grey hair pulled tight behind her head to reveal a sharp nose underlined by a narrow mouth and flanked by yellow eyes. She took a step back. ‘Bastards! Ain’t nuffin’ worth nickin’, you know.’

  ‘Sit down,’ ordered William, gesturing towards a primitive-looking chair next to the fireplace.

  ‘I think you should do as he says,’ I added. ‘We’re not here to steal anything. As my friend said, our business is with Mr Bittern, not with you. Sit quietly and you’ll get your money.’

  She appeared to relax a little and backed into the chair. ‘What’s that old fool done now?’

  ‘This for one thing!’ snapped William, pointing the pistol towards his wounded arm.

  The woman looked him up and down, her hands pressed to her lap. ‘Well, I’m sure you was askin’ for it.’

  The pistol clicked as William pulled back the hammer. This was not going well. I stepped forward, but not so far as to stand in front of the gun. ‘Steady, man, that thing might go off. Let’s sit down, shall we?’

  William looked around the small parlour. ‘And where do you suggest?’ he asked, observing only one unoccupied chair.

  ‘You’re the wounded man – you take the chair, I’ll sit on my coat.’

  ‘I’m going to take a look round first, just to make sure Bittern’s not hiding in a closet. Watch her.’

  I listened as William climbed the stairs, his feet then stamping against the boards above my head. The woman shifted position as though she were about to stand, but then she saw the pistol in my hand and settled back down into the chair.

  ‘You’re a gentleman, ain’t you?’ she asked, her voice quieter than before. And then when I offered no reply: ‘What you doin’ breakin’ into people’s ’omes and pointin’ guns at ’em?’

  To my relief William returned before her interrogation could pro
ceed any further. ‘Nothing,’ he said, sitting down on the other chair.

  I took off my coat and, rolling it into a cushion, sat down with my back propped against a wall. It was warm in the room, the fire in the grate giving the place a soporific air. It did not take long for my lack of sleep to catch up with me.

  I don’t know how long I had been in the engine room, struggling from one chamber to the next, when a scream woke me.

  ‘Get away. Run!’ cried the woman. William was standing over her, the pistol raised as though to strike. ‘No!’ I shouted, struggling to my feet. The front door was standing ajar. ‘Get after him!’ yelled William, resisting the temptation to dash the woman’s brains out. ‘We should have gagged the bitch.’

  Snatching up my coat and pressing it against my chest, I bolted into the street, the metallic echoes of my dream now replaced by the crash of feet pounding along the stone pavement. Bittern was well ahead of me, disappearing into the dark as fast as his legs could carry him. William was close behind me, cursing our clumsiness at letting the prey slip through our fingers. Up ahead, the fugitive ran beneath a gas lamp and dodged around a corner only to reappear almost immediately with his arm raised. There was a flash of light followed by a punch-like thud against my solar plexus, which almost knocked me off my feet. I had been shot.

  I stopped in my tracks and looked down for the blood. William wheezed past me but realizing my peril stopped to offer assistance. ‘Where did he get you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I cried, dropping the still-wrapped coat to the ground and patting my chest in search of a wound.

  William holstered his pistol and picked up the coat, gripping it by the collar and shaking out the folds. The lead ball fell free and rolled across the pavement. I put my finger through a hole in the lapel and wiggled it.

  ‘Looks like this coat just saved your life,’ said William.

  Anxious to retain its life-preserving properties I put on the coat and dropped the revolver into a pocket. ‘We should get after him,’ I said, with as much conviction as I could muster.

  William looked forlornly down the street at the smoke-filled space recently occupied by my assailant. ‘We’ll not catch him tonight,’ he said, shaking his head.

  With further pursuit pointless we walked back towards the door.

  ‘Sorry, William,’ I said, aware that I hadn’t covered myself with glory. ‘I shouldn’t have dozed off like that.’

  ‘Don’t fret, sir,’ said William, with the cheeriness of a hunter enjoying the chase. ‘We’ll get another chance.’

  Just as we were about to re-enter the house our ears were assailed by a sharp crack, which echoed off the walls lining the street. ‘Bittern’s pistol!’ I yelled, spinning around and running back towards the corner. ‘Come on, William, he’s still close.’

  The shot had not been fired at us and so, throwing caution to the wind, I charged around the corner. Once again, William brought up the rear and we sprinted along for fifty yards or so. Not a soul was to be seen as we hammered along the cobbles, the distance between us all the while increasing. But then, out of the darkness to our right and just up ahead of me, someone erupted from the mouth of an alley. There was something vaguely familiar about the shadowy figure as he accelerated away from us.

  ‘It’s not Bittern!’ I cried, slowing my pace and coming to a stop as I lost sight of the spectre. ‘The alley, he’s in the alley.’

  William crossed the road and we approached the mouth of the alley from either side. We drew our pistols and looked at one another across the dark opening. Eager to make up for my earlier mistake I signalled for him to stay where he was while I stepped into the alley, keeping as close to the wall as I could so as not to provide another easy target for Bittern’s wretched pistol. It looked as though he had given us the slip once again, but then, just as I was about to rejoin William in the street, I spotted something, a bundle or coat lying on the floor of the alley.

  I approached at a crouch, the pistol held out before me. Reaching forward with my free hand, I patted the bundle, to find that the coat contained a man.

  Calling William forward, I waited while he lit a match, its sulphurous flame momentarily illuminating the alley’s mouldy walls. Taking it from him I bent down again and held the fragile light over the recumbent man’s head. Bittern’s dead eyes stared up at me, his face a picture of surprise and his throat cut from ear to ear. Realizing that I was now standing in a sticky and still-growing pool of blood, I stepped back, shaking out the match before William had time to take a look.

  But there was no hiding the obvious from him. ‘It’s Bittern, ain’t it?’ he said, his disappointment palpable.

  ‘Yes, William, I’m afraid it is.’

  ‘What the ’ell?’

  ‘Ockham’s razor,’ I said.

  William said something in reply but I wasn’t listening. I thought back to the figure running down the street before me.

  ‘Got to this sack of shit before I could!’ said William angrily, kicking the corpse in his frustration. ‘I’ll kill the bastard!’ he snarled, presumably meaning the assailant rather than the man who barely shifted after contact with his boot. Striking another match he leant over the body, grumbling to himself as he went through the pockets and pulled out one or two coins. Then he commenced to untie the laces of the dead man’s shoes. ‘Not even broken in,’ he said, and then, satisfied that he had taken everything of worth, he snatched up the pistol that lay by Bittern’s side and strode back towards the street.

  Presently I joined him, but only after wiping the soles of my own shoes clean on the frock of Bittern’s coat. William was pacing up and down, and for once I wished he had his bottle with him. ‘We’ve still got to get the heart back.’

  ‘The what?’ asked my companion, instantly picking up on this slip of the tongue.

  There seemed little point in keeping him in the dark any longer. ‘The object in the bag, the thing that Bittern took – it’s a mechanical heart.’

  If my reply surprised him he chose not to show it. ‘But how are we going to get it back? We needed the bastard to tell us who the buyer was.’

  ‘It’s all right, William, I know who it is.’

  ‘Not this Ockham bloke?’

  ‘No, forget Ockham, he’s done us both a favour,’ I said confidently of the empty handed man who had run from the alley, though in truth his appearance had greatly shaken me.

  ‘Who is this mystery buyer then?’

  ‘A man called Perry. He works out of Blyth’s shipyard in Limehouse.’

  ‘If you knew that, then why waste your time looking for Bittern?’

  ‘Because I wanted to make sure; there was always a chance Bittern still had it. And anyway, you wanted him.’

  ‘You did that for me?’ said William, sounding somewhat abashed. ‘Well, er… thank you, sir, Dr Phillips.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, but will you return the favour now that Bittern’s gone?’

  ‘The least I can do.’

  34

  Bittern may have died without surrendering the heart or any information as to its whereabouts but, as I had told William, that was of little concern for I was certain that Perry had the device. His intention was no doubt to sell it and Russell’s torpedo to whichever foreign power it was that had employed him and his mercenary company. If I was to have any chance of recovering it I needed to act quickly. But first, there was Ockham to deal with. If he knew that Bittern had been in possession of the heart, for which he must surely have killed him, then he must have realized that Brunel had been let down, which was unfortunate, as I needed as many friends as I could muster. Finding him, however, was going to be no easy matter, as he had long since stopped living on the ship and I did not relish the prospect of trawling the city’s opium dens, which since his mother’s ‘death’ were probably providing more succor than ever.

  But, as fortune would have it, I didn’t need to look for him. It was the day after Bittern’s murder and William and I had return
ed to our duties in the hospital, where we put on our best pretence of business as usual. I carried out a dissection and attended a brief meeting with Brodie and Florence, after which she caught up with me in the corridor.

  ‘What is going on, George? You were very distracted in there and you look worse than ever. Have you considered medication to help you sleep?’

  ‘No I have not,’ I snapped but, immediately regretting my tone, added: ‘I know you have my welfare at heart, but I can’t talk about this now. There are a few problems which only I can resolve.’

  But she was not going to let the matter rest. ‘This has something to do with William being shot, doesn’t it? Oh, George, what have you got yourself involved in?’

  It would have been a great relief to unburden myself, to tell her everything, but the last thing I wanted to do was to get her involved. ‘I’m sorry, Florence, I need to go.’

  William was in the operating theatre, finishing off his duties, while I gathered together anything that might be of use in our forthcoming quest. From my surgical kit I pulled some basic medical equipment, a scalpel and some bandages, while into a bottle I decanted a good quantity of spirit. Crawling under the bench in the preparation room, I opened the toolbox and took from it a heavy carpenter’s chisel, a hammer and a small crowbar, putting them all in the carpet bag to which I had already transferred the medical equipment.

  Someone shifted behind me. Assuming it to be William, I remained on my knees and continued sorting through the box.

  ‘Good evening, Dr Phillips,’ said Ockham, his free hand resting firmly on my shoulder. ‘Please don’t bother to get up on my account.’

  The razor now pressing against my Adam’s apple was pulled away just enough to allow me to speak. ‘I was about to come and look for you.’

  ‘Hence the heavy weaponry,’ he said, looking down into the open bag at my side.

  ‘I can explain. I know where the heart is. I need you to help me get it back.’

  His voice hardened. ‘Bittern stole it from you but for him to have done that you must have betrayed Brunel. You told me that you had carried out his wishes when we were at the funeral but you had kept the heart for yourself.’