The Minutes of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  The bell shifted location and, by now feeling utterly exhausted, I stirred the mud half-heartedly. The tip of the rod clinked against something hard and unmoving. I shifted its position by at least a foot, handling it more carefully this time. Again it came into contact with the buried object, which I was now sure was metal. I withdrew the rod and glanced across to my companion, who had his eyes fixed on the hole at his feet. Rolling up his sleeves, he stooped down and thrust an arm into the mud, all the way up to the elbow.

  ‘This is it!’ he cried, stroking the unseen object. ‘It carries on in both directions and is aligned just as it should be.’ He looked up, his eyes pricked with tears of relief. ‘By God, Phillips, we’ve found it.’

  With some difficulty he looped the end of a rope beneath the body of the torpedo and pulled up the other side before tying it tightly. I picked up the speaking tube and he nodded at me. I yelled into the cone, ‘Bring us up; we’ve found it!’

  For the last time the bell reluctantly rose clear of the mud. Ockham stood astride the hole, feeding out the rope as we climbed back to the surface. The dripping bell broke free from the water. Ockham dropped down through the hole before we came to rest on the platform.

  I joined Ockham at the rail. ‘Will it hold?’ I asked, following his gaze to the rope where it joined with the water.

  ‘We are about to find out,’ he replied, turning to the gantry from which the rope dangled. He waved his arm as a signal to the crane operator. Lever thrown, the idling engine belched into life. The rope snapped tight and, like a dog fresh from swimming, shook out a mist of water. Taking up the strain, the jib shuddered while the torpedo was tugged free of the mud, then after what seemed no time at all it was swinging and spinning in the air, screw-tipped tail pointing skyward.

  The cigar fish had at last been caught and now all we had to do was land it. Unarmed it may have been, but not taking any chances, we cradled the nose in our arms, cushioning its gentle descent on to the deck. At Ockham’s instruction one of the crew threw a pail of water over the muddy flanks of the thing, flushing the filth on to the deck, exposing afresh the fastening rivets and bolts. He crouched beside it and released the access plate with a dozen or so quick turns of the spanner. With the innards exposed he picked his way through the tool box and, selecting a pair of smaller tools, went to work on the inside, loosening nuts and bolts and disconnecting pipes. Then, as was sometimes the case with a difficult patient, it was down to brute force, and with both hands he pulled at the reluctant organ, rocking it against the mounting until at last it gave.

  ‘Here, take the damn thing,’ he said, passing me the heart and wiping a wet sleeve across his forehead. ‘And whatever you do, don’t let go of it again.’

  Scarcely able to believe that the heart was once again in my possession, I wrapped it in a rag before dropping it into a smelly old sack; demeaning apparel for such a finely wrought object perhaps but less likely to draw attention than the polished mahogany boxes that had at one time or other been its home. Meanwhile, Ockham continued to direct his attentions towards the torpedo, replacing the plate he had removed to extract the device.

  Then, task complete, he stood up and said to no one in particular, ‘Let’s do mankind a favour, shall we?’ and without further ado issued rapid instructions as crewmen gathered around the stranded beast.

  At the count of three a gang of crewmen pushed the device forward, giving out a communal groan as the torpedo made a half-roll. The men steadied themselves, another count was delivered and another push exerted. The process was repeated several times until the torpedo teetered on the very edge of the deck. Then, with a last shove, it dropped over the side, tumbling into the water close to where it lapped against the barge’s hull. The impact sent up a wall of water, causing us all to take a step back. Amidst this momentary tempest the great metal cylinder disappeared beneath the surface, returning forever to its watery grave. Ockham brushed his hands together to signify a job well done.

  37

  I shouldn’t have come back to the hospital but nonetheless had made it my first port of call after the successful conclusion of our unusual fishing trip, the cab dropping Ockham off along the way. From his willingness for me to retain custody of the heart I could only assume that any lingering doubts about my trustworthiness had finally dissipated.

  Closing the office door behind me, I took the device out of the sack and began to polish it as though it were a silver teapot freshly lifted from the dresser. But within minutes there I was, back in that cursed engine room, playing cat and mouse with Ockham, who was obviously lying somewhere asleep himself. That was when Florence found me, collapsed across the desk and entirely unaware of her entrance.

  ‘What did you mean when you said you are going to put it where it belongs?’ she asked at last, her narrowed eyes fixed on the metalwork. She was referring back to our conversation in the linen cupboard some days before.

  ‘Fulfilling his last wish,’ I replied, closing the heart as though it were a book I had finished reading.

  ‘George! They buried the man two months ago!’

  ‘Nearer three,’ I corrected.

  ‘Please tell me that you are not planning to…’

  I nodded. ‘To dig him up again.’

  ‘And when do you propose to carry out this… this macabre operation?’

  ‘Tonight, after dark.’

  ‘But you are in no condition.’

  ‘I’ll be in worse condition tomorrow and even more so the day after that. I need to do this now, Florence.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘With Ockham.’

  She raised her hands, exasperated. ‘From what you tell me he is in no more a fit state than you. This is madness. You do realize what will happen if you are caught? It will mean the end of your career, if not imprisonment.’

  I stood up and put the heart in a drawer before locking it. ‘All I know is that if I don’t do it, I will never escape from my nightmares.’

  Now she too was on her feet, making for the door. Not knowing whether to feel pity or anger, she settled for an uneasy marriage of the two. ‘Then I wish you all good fortune, George, but if you will excuse me I have a ward to check on.’

  Listening to her stamp down the corridor, I decided that anger had definitely outweighed sympathy, which was good because it meant that I had only one thing to worry about: getting that damn heart to the place where it belonged.

  I spent the little that was left of the day giving what impression of normality I could, making sure that my face was seen about the place by all but Brodie, who would of course by now be after my blood. That way, if he asked about my whereabouts, my colleagues would be able to report that I had been busy about the hospital. But covering my tracks was by now a fairly low priority, as things had come to such a pass that my present position and future prospects in the hospital were of little concern to me.

  In truth, though, I also hoped that my perambulations around the building, all the while with one ear constantly cocked for the sound of Brodie’s voice, would bring me into contact with Florence again, for it concerned me still that my actions had caused her unnecessary upset. But alas, she was nowhere to be found, and so with the time for my second rendezvous of the day with Ockham approaching, I left the wards and made for the hospital yard. Outside, in the cold air of evening, dusk was already giving way to darkness, and out in the street, beyond the hospital railings, the lamp lighter had begun his rounds.

  As previously arranged, a horse, albeit an old nag, had been harnessed to the gig usually used to transport staff or provisions about the town. The stablehand greeted me and without any question as to my destination or intent was pleased to hand over the reins.

  ‘I’ll be a few minutes yet,’ I told him. ‘I have to get some things together, just wanted to check that everything was all right.’

  ‘Don’t you worry, sir,’ said the lad, fondly patting the horse’s neck. ‘Old Sally here’s as happy standing still as she is movi
ng.’

  Now we were on first-name terms I felt a little guilty for harbouring disparaging thoughts about the horse’s appearance, and patted her myself by way of apology. Sally snorted in gruff response, breath billowing like steam from her flared nostrils.

  Satisfied that our transport was ready, I returned to the office, though only after avoiding bumping into a vexed Brodie, who came marching down the stairs with one of my colleagues in tow. ‘If he’s not in his office then where is he?’ he growled at the doctor. ‘I am sure I don’t know, Sir Benjamin, but he was on the ward this afternoon.’

  ‘He drifts in and out as he pleases and never keeps appointments – a disgrace to the profession. I’ll have him before the commissioners, I swear it.’

  I waited beneath the stairs as they passed by, pressing myself into the shadows and praying they wouldn’t see me. Once they were safely around the corner I dashed to my office, which logic would dictate to be the best place to hide as they’d already looked for me there. I locked the door and removed the heart from the drawer. Setting it on the desk, I opened it up and took another look inside.

  There was a rap on the door, and then a whispered plea. ‘Phillips, it’s me, Ockham. Let me in, man.’

  I opened the door just a crack and peered out.

  ‘Come on, let’s get going.’

  Thrusting my head into the corridor and seeing the coast was clear, I grabbed Ockham by the lapel and pulled him in.

  ‘Your boss is still after you then?’ he asked.

  ‘Never mind him,’ I insisted. ‘Take a look at this.’

  ‘Glad to see you’ve managed to keep hold of it.’

  I ignored the remark. ‘Look at this chamber wall.’

  Ockham bent forward, straining in the dim light to see the distorted copper shell. ‘It’s bent.’

  ‘It’s been pushed in by pressure exerted through the valve. It worked for a while and then folded under the strain. The torpedo died of a heart attack.’

  Ockham straightened. ‘Just like Brunel.’

  ‘You could say that.’ I reached forward and snapped the two halves together. ‘But as I’ve said before, I’m a doctor not an engineer. If I’d taken more care to keep the two things separate then we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in now.’

  I wrapped the heart in the cloth, returned it to the sack and, taking up my hat, made for the door.

  Back in the yard, Sally was still waiting, her knock-knees all but touching and her greying snout buried deep in a feedbag. ‘Take these,’ I said to Ockham, passing him a pair of shovels.

  With the gig loaded and the feedbag removed we climbed aboard. I took up the reins and lifted the switch from its rest. ‘You are sure you can drive this thing?’ asked Ockham nervously.

  His question made me smile. ‘I’m a country boy. I was driving horses while most boys were putting a stick between their legs and saying giddy up.’

  I flicked the switch and Sally moved off, pulling us at a leisurely pace towards the open gates. But then, just as we were about to pass into the street a figure dashed out in front of us, blocking our exit. He was a slight fellow, dressed like a son in his father’s clothes, head covered with a cloth cap at least one size too big.

  ‘Out of the way, boy,’ demanded Ockham, waving his arm from side to side in reinforcement of the command.

  The boy paid no heed and so I had little choice but to pull Sally to a halt, dropping the switch back into its holder. I called down to the stubborn young man: ‘You are likely to get yourself run over if you go on like that.’

  ‘And you are likely to end up in prison if you go on as you are.’

  ‘Florence! What in God’s name…’

  With hands on trousered hips she threw back her head and announced, ‘I’m coming with you.’

  Ockham rose to his feet and bellowed: ‘Florence? That’s your beloved Florence Nightingale?’ Already he’d said too much and I shifted with embarrassment, regretting I had ever mentioned her name. ‘What the hell is the woman thinking? Coming with us? Not a chance!’

  I pulled Ockham back down into his seat and jumped to the ground. ‘Florence, what are you doing? This is our problem, not yours.’ I took her cap by the peak to reveal her hair mounded up on the top of her head. ‘And these clothes – what are you playing at?’

  ‘Well, I’m guessing that my usual attire isn’t really going to be very appropriate for what we’re going to be doing. And in any case, you may not mind being exposed as a surgeon turned grave-robber but I have a reputation to consider.’

  ‘No, Florence, I will not permit it. You must leave us to do what we have to do.’

  She snatched the cap back from me and pulled it down over her head. ‘You are two fools together and I am sure you deserve one another. But I happen to care about you, George – you are a fine surgeon and I would hate to stand by and see that talent wasted. I may be just a woman, but neither of you are in any condition to do this, and I can help.’ She took a step closer to me. ‘Now, either I come along or I raise the hue and cry right here and now and nobody goes anywhere.’

  ‘She can’t possibly be serious,’ chipped in Ockham.

  ‘She is the cat’s mother,’ snarled Florence. ‘And she is deadly serious. Now are you going to take me aboard or do I call for a policeman?’

  I looked back up to Ockham, who capitulated with a shrug of his silhouetted shoulders. ‘What choice do we have?’

  I stepped aside to let Florence by and then followed her back through the gate. Just as she was about to climb aboard she turned to me: ‘What’s this about your beloved Florence?’

  I hoped she couldn’t see my reddening cheeks in the dark.

  Sally may not have been the fastest horse in the world but long experience had given her a steady confidence. It took only the slightest tug on the reins to make her turn or a snap of them to encourage her forward. The redundant switch soon found its way back into the holder, where it spent the rest of the journey. Not surprisingly, the traffic at this time of night was much lighter than during the day, just the odd trolley bus on its way back to the depot and the ubiquitous hackneys, carrying their passengers to whatever night-time pursuits had drawn them out of doors. From Southwark we crossed London Bridge and then struck out west, eventually reaching Paddington, where we turned on to the Harrow Road, which took us to the cemetery.

  Seeing the cemetery up ahead, I turned Sally on to a part of the green not yet given over to it, at a place conveniently close to the canal and the towpath which would once again provide our point of access. After coming to a halt beneath a stand of trees Ockham offloaded the tools and I hobbled the horse before placing the feed-bag around her neck. Despite Ockham’s objections Florence pitched in and from her seat in the back dropped the shovels down on to the grass.

  ‘Let’s hope no one steals her while we are away,’ I said to Ockham as we shared out the equipment for carrying.

  Florence picked up my bag and stepped down from the gig. ‘I trust you are not referring to me.’

  ‘No, Florence, I mean the horse, the carriage.’

  ‘Why would they?’ asked Ockham, looking disdainfully back at Sally. ‘I doubt prices at the glue factory would make it worthwhile.’

  Walking in the lee of a thorny hedgerow on the edge of the green I took the lead with Florence just a few steps behind, and Ockham, the shovels in a sack slung over his shoulder, bringing up the rear. Reaching the end of the hedge, I briefly halted our column before stepping out on to the towpath. All was still, aside, that is, from the distant chuffing and clanking of a coal train as it shunted into the siding of the gasworks on the opposite side of the canal. In order to limit our time in the open we covered the fifty yards or so between the hedge and the cover of the cemetery wall at a more accelerated rate.

  ‘This is the place,’ I said, taking my bearing from the position of the gasometer across the water.

  ‘You mean we go over the wall,’ said Ockham, casting a doubtful glance at Florence. />
  ‘Well, I would suggest going in through the gate but given the circumstances…’

  ‘You need not worry about me, Lord Ockham,’ said Florence. ‘I am sure the wall will not prove an insurmountable obstacle, even for a woman, especially with two strong gents to help me over.’

  ‘I’ll go first,’ said Ockham, who was learning at last that Florence was not a woman easily daunted.

  With my back to the wall and hands cupped to provide a stirrup, I gave out a grunt as he pushed off and narrowly avoided being kicked in the eye as he pulled himself up. Removing the shovels from the sack, I passed them up so he could drop them down on to the grass on the other side. He then placed the other bags on the wall behind him. Next up was Florence, who was pushed upwards by me while Ockham took hold of her wrists and pulled from above. Thankfully, though, what she lacked in height she also lacked in weight and so with the minimum of fuss, and no small amount of dexterity on her own part, she too was soon sitting on the wall, though rather than straddle it like Ockham, she opted for a more ladylike side-saddle approach. Bringing up the rear, I offered a hand up to Ockham, who almost jerked my wrist out of my arm.

  He was the first into the cemetery, standing by to offer help should it be needed as I let Florence down. His interjection was not required, and he took the bags from me before I too dropped down once again into the city of the dead.

  ‘Which way now?’ asked Ockham as I pulled out a couple of lamps.

  I pointed between the two trees ahead of us. ‘Through there and to the left if I remember rightly.’

  ‘I hope you do,’ said Ockham, as he surveyed the various tombstones and grave slabs, only just visible in the murk. ‘Christ, you could really get lost in this place – it’s bad enough in the bloody daylight.’ He checked himself and apologized to Florence for his profanity.

  ‘Lord Ockham, I served in a military hospital for two years. I am no stranger to a little colourful language. Now, shall we move on?’