The Secrets of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  ‘That’s not what my sources tell me, but never mind.’ Mumrill had been at work again. ‘Listen to me, Phillips. You are a first-rate surgeon and I would regret having to let you go.’ He picked up his pen and wagged it aggressively. ‘But I swear, if anything like this happens again, you’ll be out on your ear. Do we understand one another?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Benjamin, we understand one another.’

  ‘Very well then, we will let the matter of yesterday’s lapse in your judgement drop, but consider this a stern warning.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  I stood to take my leave, but Sir Benjamin wasn’t yet finished with me. ‘One other thing,’ he said, already having begun to write again.

  ‘What is that, Sir Benjamin?’

  ‘That infernal woman, Miss Nightingale,’ he rasped without looking up.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘We could well do without that… that nurse snooping about, but I have no choice in the matter, the board has given her free rein.’ He coughed as though the words were sticking in his throat. ‘Anyway, she seemed to take a shine to you this morning, Lord only knows why. I want you to keep an eye on her, help her out, that sort of thing. Just make sure she stays out of my way and goes away with a good impression of the hospital. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Benjamin. You can rely on me.’

  ‘And just remember what I said about distraction from your duties. Now good day.’

  Like a schoolboy having taken his punishment, I left the room feeling as though a heavy weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I noticed that Mumrill’s door was open and took a glimpse inside to see him still hovering beside the dividing door between his and Sir Benjamin’s office. The man had clearly spent the last ten minutes earwigging. I hadn’t got far before I heard Sir Benjamin call after me. I turned to see him standing outside his office.

  ‘Before I forget, Phillips, be good enough to warn that scoundrel William that a new table for the theatre will be delivered next week.’

  ‘I will, sir,’ I replied with a smile, before striding off down the corridor, determined at some time to thank Miss Nightingale for what had clearly been her intervention.

  4

  ‘Dr Phillips,’ said William, ‘there’s a gentleman here to see you.’

  ‘It’s late, I was just about to leave. Is it Mr Brunel?’

  ‘No, sir,’ he replied, looking a little uncomfortable. ‘It’s the police. Says his name is Tarlow, Inspector Tarlow.’

  ‘The police, eh? Well then, you’d better show him into the parlour.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir?’

  ‘A joke, William, it’s just that we’ve had a lot of visitors of late – we’ll soon be in need of somewhere to entertain our guests.’

  William gave a half-hearted smile. ‘Yes, sir, I see what you mean.’

  ‘Show him to my office, will you, please?’

  ‘He’s in the yard, sir. Got a wagon with ’im. Seems pretty keen to meet you out there.’

  ‘Really? Very well. Go and tell him I will be with him presently.’

  William disappeared, and I handed over what little was left of my round to the junior doctor accompanying me. While collecting my hat and coat from the office, I wondered whether this was some sort of investigation into the accident at the launch.

  There was indeed a wagon in the yard, and its driver, a uniformed policeman, was standing between the open gate and the rear of the vehicle, positioned as though to prevent anyone entering. A man in well-kempt civilian clothes and a bowler strode towards me as I stepped out of the back door and placed my hat and coat on a hook usually reserved for a horse harness. He held out a hand.

  ‘Dr Phillips? Inspector Tarlow, Metropolitan Police.’

  ‘What can I do for you, inspector? None of my nurses in trouble, I trust?’

  ‘I hope not, sir,’ replied the policeman gravely. He gestured towards the wagon and I followed him to the rear of the soft-covered vehicle. ‘There is something I would like you to take a look at.’

  ‘I will be happy to oblige,’ I replied.

  ‘It’s a body. A woman we pulled from the Thames this morning.’

  ‘Did she drown?’

  ‘I don’t think so. But you would know better than I.’ He pointed to the flap at the back of the wagon. ‘Simpkins, open her up.’

  The constable hurried to do the inspector’s bidding, unfastening the ties securing the flap. Tugging the canvas aside, he exposed a litter upon which lay the sheet-covered corpse. Still-damp strands of dark hair protruded from beneath the fabric at the end closest to us.

  ‘Take a hold, Simpkins,’ ordered Tarlow. ‘I’ll bring up the rear.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said. ‘I’ll get my porter to lend a hand.’

  The inspector watched as the constable pulled the litter along the floor of the wagon. ‘No, thank you, sir. I would like to keep this just between us, if you don’t mind. I am sure you’ll understand once you’ve taken a look.’

  Tarlow took up the carrying handles, and the pair followed me through the back door into the preparation room, where the litter was set down on the table. The inspector closed and bolted the door behind us before posting the constable on the door into the theatre. Only when all was secure did he pull back just enough of the sheet to expose the face, its cheeks inflated by decay. The tightening of the skin had pulled the colourless lips back away from an incomplete set of brown teeth. But it was not just teeth that were missing. The face was scratched and scarred, as if torn by the teeth of a rodent or the talons of a bird. The eyelids were drawn back, revealing a milky globe to the left and a dark void to the right.

  ‘She’s young,’ I observed, looking up to see that Tarlow now had a notebook in his hand. ‘Perhaps anywhere between eighteen and twenty-two and, judging by her teeth, not from the moneyed classes. Looks as though she had a hard life.’

  ‘And an even harder death,’ said Tarlow, flipping away the remaining portion of the sheet. I was entirely unprepared for the sight he unveiled. The woman’s chest was cratered, the ribcage shattered and the interior cavity exposed.

  ‘I see what you mean about her not drowning, inspector. My God, what a mess.’

  ‘What can you tell me about whoever did this, doctor?’

  Taking a deep breath, I bent over the torso and pushed aside the cleaved end of a rib, the better to see inside. ‘The heart and lungs have been removed but I’m going to need more light. Excuse me for a moment.’

  With the light from a lamp reflecting a beam from the concave mirror attached to my forehead I peered once more into the cavity in the woman’s chest, the opening to which had been widened by the application of a spreader clamp. ‘Well, inspector, I can tell you that this wasn’t the work of a surgeon. It’s clumsy and amateurish – though, that said, there are a few of my students who would be put to shame by it.’

  ‘I will remove them from my enquiries then.’

  I looked up at the inspector and was relieved to see the trace of a smile. ‘She’s been dead for a while though.’

  ‘How long do you think she was in the water?’

  I took a doubtful look at the water-marked skin. ‘It’s difficult to say really. Maybe as many as three or four days, but I’m guessing that from the condition of the interior. I’m no expert on the effects of long-term water immersion.’

  The inspector scribbled a note. ‘That’s assuming he dumped the body not long after she died.’

  ‘A good point. The work is clumsy but not necessarily hurried, so he may have had her hidden somewhere. She hasn’t been dead much longer than four or five days, that’s all I can say. Was she clothed when you found her?’

  ‘Naked, just as you see her now. How about the cause of death, doctor? Can you tell how he killed her?’

  ‘Again, difficult to say. There don’t appear to be any ligature marks around the neck so I’m guessing she wasn’t strangled. Nor are there any such marks around her wrists, so she wasn’t tied up. Lookin
g at her emaciated condition, I would be tempted to suggest starvation. But I could say that of half the population of London, and that’s just the ones walking around. Obviously this hole in her chest may be covering all manner of ills. He could have stabbed her in the breast six times and we wouldn’t be any the wiser.’

  The policeman was not to be put off so easily. ‘Are you sure there’s nothing more you can say?’

  Just as I was about to take another look inside a small commotion broke out at the door.

  ‘This room is out of bounds!’ yelled the constable, trying to push the door closed, a task which the presence of a wedging foot protruding from the other side wasn’t making any easier.

  ‘Excuse me, inspector,’ I said, with some slight embarrassment. ‘It’s just William, my porter. He’ll be wondering what’s going on. I’ll tell him to go away.’

  Tarlow frowned. ‘If you could, doctor. I don’t want word of this getting out. It will only cause a panic if the press gets wind of another murder.’

  The constable stepped aside to let me through the doors. By the time I entered the theatre William was sitting on the floor rubbing his foot. ‘What the ’ell’s goin’ on in there? I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Sorry, William, but I’m engaged in a little confidential business for the police. I am sure they will be gone soon.’

  ‘Bloody peeler crushed my foot.’

  ‘I’m sure your foot will be fine. Now please go and find something else to do for half an hour. Just be content with the fact that they’re not here for you.’ William took on a not-unfamiliar hurt expression and I watched as he made a meal of limping away before returning to the preparation room. ‘You said “another murder”. You mean there have been others mutilated like her?’

  The inspector looked up from a jar containing a foetus which I had been using in my last demonstration. ‘She’s the second,’ he said. ‘Both of them with their hearts and lungs removed. One butchered prostitute I can put down to the rough and tumble of life in the gutter but two, two is edging uncomfortably towards a pattern.’

  ‘A pattern? What do you mean?’

  Tarlow took off his hat, set it down next to the corpse and pushed a hand through his hair. ‘Well, sir, there’s plain old murder. A husband bludgeons his wife because she won’t let him drink his wages on a Friday night, or a man kills another in a knife fight over a woman, but then there are those who kill for the sheer pleasure of it. One type of homicide may even lead to another: a man may kill his first victim accidentally or in a fit of temper, but in doing so may find that he enjoys it and so go on to do it again and again, not being able to stop himself. It becomes a compulsion with him. In such cases it is not unknown for the killer to have particular inclinations. Invariably the victims are female, but I know of one case where the killer took to collecting ears, and another where the eyes were cut out, because the killer feared they had captured his image while in the act. But in this instance our man seems to like cutting open their chests and removing their innards.’

  ‘And how do you know she was a prostitute?’

  ‘You’ve seen her, doctor. She’s not exactly Lady Muck, is she?’

  ‘You have no idea of her identity? Someone must have reported her missing.’

  Tarlow let out a cynical laugh. ‘My dear doctor, do you know how many prostitutes there are in London? Thousands, many of them outsiders, peasant wretches from the country hoping to scrape a living in the big city. Some are virtually sold into slavery by their own parents. They take new names and become lost in the crowd. If they go missing, who cares? – their whoremongers and colleagues are not exactly the type of people who like talking to the police.’

  I took that as a no. ‘And the other one, where did you find her?’

  ‘In the river again, floating just in Limehouse Reach about four weeks ago. Now, doctor, you were going to take another look inside.’

  ‘Yes, forgive me. All this is rather different to my normal work.’

  The inspector took another glance at the jar. ‘I don’t see how.’

  Returning to my task, I probed the walls of the cavity with a pair of forceps. Severed blood vessels and wider tubes displayed ragged ends where a blade had been applied by an uncertain hand.

  ‘The knife was sharp but the hand holding it not so.’

  ‘As sharp as a surgeon’s knife?’

  ‘A scalpel? Perhaps.’

  ‘Could we be looking for a medical man then?’

  ‘A set of surgical instruments do not a medical man make, inspector. As I said before, this was not the work of any surgeon I would credit with the title.’

  Tarlow replaced his hat. ‘Thank you, doctor, you’ve been most helpful.’ He covered the corpse with the sheet and ordered the constable to help him carry it. ‘And, doctor, I hope I can rely on your discretion in this matter.’

  ‘You can, inspector. Let me know if there is any other way I can assist.’

  ‘Thank you again. You may be hearing from me.’

  ‘Just one more thing, inspector.’

  ‘Wait a moment, Simpkins. Yes, doctor, what is it?’

  ‘The ear-collector and the eye-taker, did you catch them?’

  Tarlow raised a corner of his mouth in a half-smile. ‘Oh yes, I caught them all right. I dropped the trapdoor on one of them myself.’

  5

  Brunel stepped from the carriage into the cold evening and waited for me to follow. Once again, he had not seen fit to provide advance notice of our trip nor, on this occasion, to inform me of its purpose.

  During our brief journey any attempt on my part to glean information was greeted with a dismissive wave of his hand or an irrelevant query relating to some or other anatomical matter.

  Pushing his hat on to his head, he gave a brief instruction to the driver before the carriage pulled away. Then off he went, striding towards the public house, which from the hubbub issuing from within was replete with a full complement of revellers. To my relief, we did not add ourselves to the heaving mass of humanity in the public bar but continued along the hallway to the stairs, at the top of which we entered a spacious loft.

  The place was typical of the private rooms located above public houses which for a small fee are available for hire to dining clubs or any other group of gentlemen requiring a discreet meeting place. Men were standing around a long dining table, huddled together in small groups talking quietly. The table accommodated two decanters of claret and a scattering of glasses but offered no suggestion that eating would play any part in the proceedings. Brunel snapped the door shut, and in doing so brought a halt to the conversation as heads turned to observe the new arrivals. For a moment the only sound in the room was that of the laughter which drifted up through the floorboards from the bar beneath our feet and with so many eyes upon us I immediately regretted not having stopped for a stiffener.

  But the silence was broken by a friendly-sounding voice. ‘Ah, Brunel. Here at last. Late, as usual – the big ship keeping you busy, I’ll wager.’

  The man moved away from his companions, who immediately returned to their conversation.

  ‘Good to see you again, Hawes,’ said Brunel. ‘I would like to introduce my friend, Dr George Phillips.’ And then, to me, ‘Phillips, this unsavoury individual is Ben Hawes, Undersecretary of State for War.’

  ‘Delighted to meet you,’ said Hawes. ‘Any friend of Brunel’s is a friend of mine. Good to see a new face,’ he remarked cheerily, before adding in a quieter voice, ‘It can get a little stale in here at times, you know.’

  ‘Nonsense, Ben,’ replied Brunel, ‘you wouldn’t miss these meetings for the world. You yearn for knowledge like a butcher’s dog hungers for a bone, tell me you don’t!’

  I had been kept in the dark long enough. ‘Just what sort of meetings are these?’ I asked.

  ‘Isambard!’ boomed Hawes. ‘Am I to believe that you haven’t told him anything about our little club?’ He placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Please forgive him, Dr Phi
llips, he is so single-minded that he tends to overlook little things like manners. But he means nothing by it.’

  Brunel was still not to be drawn on the matter. ‘I want my friend here to meet our speaker. Can you bring him over?’

  ‘I think we are about to begin,’ said Hawes doubtfully, ‘but give me a moment and I will see if I can extricate him.’

  With Hawes departed, Brunel at last deigned to provide me with some sort of explanation. ‘We engineers like to think of ourselves as individual thinkers, inventors and creators, but we cannot operate in isolation, you know, we need the encouragement, and yes, even the criticism of others; we thrive in an environment in which men of vision and imagination can benefit from one another’s knowledge and experience.’

  ‘Have you not just described the Royal Society?’ I remarked, this particular institution coming to mind, as Sir Benjamin had recently been elected its president.

  Brunel lowered his voice. ‘Nothing more than an arena for grandstanding and backslapping. What we seek to provide here is a more casual forum, where those really concerned with the future of mankind can get away from that sort of posturing.’ My raised eyebrow prompted Brunel to smile. ‘Let us just say that some of our ideas are not of the most orthodox nature. They would be frowned upon in a more traditional scientific environment, perhaps even laughed at. Freedom of expression without fear of rebuke is essential to our aims.’

  Before I could question him further, Hawes returned with the man I presumed to be the speaker. He was a striking-looking fellow, his well-formed head entirely bald across the top, his thick eyebrows sweeping across a wide, overhanging forehead.

  Brunel extended his hand. ‘Charles, delighted you could make it.’

  The man let out a gruff ‘Brunel.’

  ‘Dr George Phillips, meet Charles Darwin. He is going to talk about his theory of revolution.’

  ‘Evolution,’ corrected Darwin.

  ‘Yes, of course, forgive me – evolution. How is that book of yours coming along?’