The Secrets of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  I muttered something about giving the proposal some thought. For, when all was said and done, he was right. After this evening’s introduction, I wanted to come back for more, and if the only way that could be done was by taking the minutes, then so be it.

  ‘We can’t expect more than that,’ said Brunel triumphantly, as though it were a done deal, and patting the satchel under his arm. ‘We must have minutes for future reference. The key to an important scientific or engineering advance may lie in a particular comment, the answer to a question, perhaps even in the question itself.’

  I caught sight of the man called Ockham making for the door as I fell back into conversation with Darwin, who once again took very little time to steer the subject around to his medical complaints.

  It wasn’t long before topcoats and hats were being returned to their owners and farewells being said. Darwin left in the company of Sir Benjamin and Russell, who were taking him to dinner in appreciation of his efforts. Last to arrive and last to leave, Brunel and I followed Hawes and Perry down the stairs, where we found the carriage freshly returned to the same spot we had left it almost two hours previously.

  ‘I’ll give you a lift home,’ said Brunel, holding open the door of the carriage. He sank into the seat opposite me and we immediately fell into discussing the evening’s events, starting with Darwin’s talk. But he seemed eager to move on to other matters, namely Darwin himself.

  ‘What was he so eager to discuss with you?’

  As the man was not my patient there was no confidentiality to respect and so I replied that Darwin had sought my advice on a wide range of ailments. ‘… And apparently the first thing he does every morning is vomit.’

  Brunel gleefully slapped his knee. ‘I knew it! Never changes, that man. A wonder to me that he’s lived so long.’

  ‘You know about his condition?’

  ‘Of course. Nothing Darwin enjoys more than talking to doctors. Did exactly the same thing with Brodie, the first time they met.’

  ‘Talking of Sir Benjamin, just what was he complaining about while I was talking to Darwin?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me he’d be there tonight?’

  ‘He’s always there.’

  ‘And how would I know that? Now, come on, what was it about? Was he angry that you invited me along?’

  Brunel was in the midst of preparing another cigar for ignition. ‘Perhaps, but it’s difficult to tell with him. He’s usually angry about something.’

  I had to agree with him on that point.

  ‘He seemed a little miffed that you had stolen his patient away from him. And it wouldn’t surprise me if he felt the same way about me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How long have you worked in that hospital with Brodie?’

  ‘About five years, but up until my promotion to senior surgeon I had very little to do with him.’

  ‘Well then, let me tell you something. When Brodie meets someone for the first time, especially someone with money and position, he first and foremost sees a prospective patient.’

  ‘I was aware that he had a number of private patients, yourself among them.’

  ‘Exactly, and we’re a nice little source of additional income to him, as well as a passport to other things.’ He took a generous puff on his cigar, smoke billowing from his mouth as he sucked the thing into life. ‘How do you think he got to be president of the Royal Society?’

  ‘Through his contributions to medical science?’

  ‘Not quite. He lanced a boil on the backside of the previous incumbent and treated an influential member of the council for the pox. That’s how.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Imagine how he felt when Darwin told him about his veritable epidemic of complaints. The man’s a medicinal goldmine!’

  ‘Ridiculous,’ I countered. ‘Darwin clearly has a malady of the brain; the man’s a raving hypochondriac.’

  ‘I don’t think old Brodie sees it like that.’

  ‘Well, he need not feel threatened by me. Being a personal physician, no matter how rich or famous the patient, has never been among my ambitions.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt, but nonetheless be warned, he is a jealous fellow.’ Brunel stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray fitted into his seat and bent towards me with an air of conspiracy. ‘But listen, my friend, I have greatly enjoyed my conversations with you. We engineers and you medical men have much in common; you just happen to work with flesh and bone, while my raw materials are iron and rivets. We have much to learn from one another and that’s why I would like to see you as a member of the club.’

  ‘But if what you say is true, then isn’t Sir Benjamin going to be less than happy about that?’

  Brunel was not to be discouraged. ‘If you were also to fill the vital post of secretary, then there is really very little he could say about the matter.’

  ‘Ah, the secretary thing again…’

  The carriage came to a halt. We had arrived at my lodgings. I opened the door and stepped down on to the pavement.

  ‘Sleep on it,’ he said. ‘And one more thing: you had better start work on your presentation on the workings of the heart.’ The door slammed shut.

  ‘Presentation!’ I roared at the carriage as it drew away. ‘What presentation?’

  Brunel leant out of the window and bellowed back at me, ‘The presentation at which we test your mettle. We don’t let just anyone join the Lazarus Club, you know!’

  6

  In contrast to the events of the previous evening, the day proved to be a model of normality, so much so that, for the first time I could recall, the hospital seemed a rather humdrum place to be. Even the expected showdown with Sir Benjamin, who I was certain would construe my appearance at the club as a blatant disregard of his warning against becoming distracted by Brunel, failed to materialize. Unfortunately, however, Mumrill was very much in evidence, lurking in the corridors and drifting in and out of the wards; no doubt acting as Sir Benjamin’s eyes and ears while the master exiled himself in his office or outside the gates, away from the activities of Miss Nightingale.

  With little else to occupy my mind, I made a full inspection of the wards and, when that was done, I took the liberty of entering William’s underworld once more, this time without him as guide. Immediately thereafter I sought him out and finally encountered him in the refectory, where he was busy gossiping with another porter.

  A tap on his shoulder brought the conversation to a premature end, and a flex of my finger drew him away from the table and into the corridor.

  ‘William, how long is it now since the typhus outbreak passed?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ he replied with a scratch of his head. ‘I’d say about two weeks, maybe three.’

  ‘I would say nearer a month.’ He nodded but it was clear from his expression that my question had puzzled him. ‘The thing of it is, William, I have just been down into the basement.’ He frowned at this. ‘And before you start bleating about me going down there alone, let me tell you it wasn’t by choice. You, were nowhere to be found and I didn’t have all day to look for a damn chaperone. But never mind that – what I want to know is why, given the lifting of restrictions related to the recent unpleasantness, are there only two cadavers in the vat? I left strict instructions that as soon as feasible it should be fully stocked.’

  William gave a nervous smile. ‘Well, sir. Knowing that you prefer your specimens fresh, I’ve been pushin’ through them that’s just dead and, what with the speed you’ve been workin’ at, I ain’t had much time to build up a stock. You been goin’ through hearts in particular at quite a rate of late.’

  It was true: since Brunel’s arrival on the scene I had indulged in a little personal research, but I couldn’t see how this could impact on the ready supply of cadavers. ‘But if we have another outbreak and our supplies are stopped I would rather revert to our stock of preserved cadavers than have to use the wax impressions and jarr
ed specimens again. Why haven’t my instructions been carried out?’

  ‘You see, sir, there’s also been a bit of a missunderstandin’ between myself and the porters in the mortuary about our regular allotment. Been tryin’ to sort it an’ didn’t want to worry you ’bout it. On top o’ that, it’s takin’ a while to get things back to normal with our outside suppliers. There’s a new superintendent at the work’ouse and we don’t really get on. Nothin’ to worry about though, sir, I’m on top of things, and that vat’ll be overflowin’ before long.’

  ‘Perhaps I should go and have a word with the workhouse authorities?’

  ‘No, sir, don’t do that. I’ll sort it. Leave it with me.’

  ‘Very well, William, the matter rests in your hands. Don’t let me down.’

  With no particularly difficult case to task me I began to ruminate over the events of the night before. Brunel had said many things over the course of the evening – some of them, like his insight into Sir Benjamin’s nature, had been most illuminating, while others, such as his parting cry of ‘the Lazarus Club’, had proved entirely the opposite.

  What’s in a name? There were after all dozens of clubs in London, most of them with obscure names which conjured nothing more than an image of comfort, good company and fine dining; there was White’s, Arthur’s, Brooks’, Travellers, the Crockford, the Oriental and the Starling, to name but a few. Some of these were named after their founder, while others, such as the Reform or the Savage, reflected the interests of the members – the Reform was a den of disgruntled liberals, while members of the Savage enjoyed being rude to one another. Lazarus is not a common name these days, I grant, but I have encountered one or two of them in my time. The most famous beraer of the name was obviously the man whom Christ is said to have brought back from the dead, but I saw little reason to associate him with the meeting I had attended.

  But all this speculation over such a trivial matter was getting me nowhere, and it was almost a relief when, as the day drew to a close, an emergency admission in dire need of surgery on a crushed thorax required my total concentration. Unfortunately, my best efforts were in vain and the road-worker died on the table under my knife – sadly proving beyond doubt that he was no Lazarus and I no miracle-worker.

  It was not how I would have chosen to end my day, but such is the surgeon’s lot. After all that the thought of a cold supper in my rooms seemed an unappealing prospect and so I took a dinner of mutton chops accompanied by a nice bottle of Burgundy followed by a brandy or two at my own club, the Carlton, before finding further distraction in the arms of a young lady called Clare at Kate Hamilton’s Night House, a well-respected house of ill-repute.

  Next morning, feeling slightly worse for wear, I left the usual fee on the bedside table and got no further than the landing before dashing back into the room, shutting tight the door and bracing my back against it.

  Clare grinned at me from across the bed, having just retrieved her stockings from beneath it. ‘Can’t stay away, eh?’

  I could feel the colour draining from my face. ‘I can’t be seen here, not now.’

  ‘What’s your worry?’ she asked. ‘You’re one of the few blokes in ’ere that ain’t married. Well, you ain’t, are you?’

  I shook my head. ‘It’s not that, there are men out there who… who may jump to certain conclusions if I were found on the premises.’

  ‘What kind of men?’

  ‘Policemen.’

  ‘What the ’ell do they want? We pay enough to be left well alone. Wouldn’t mind if ’alf the force weren’t bleedin’ customers – the rest bein’ impotent o’ course.’

  Clare always seemed to see the funny side of things, though I suspected this was a habit born of having to make do with less than ideal circumstances. Alas, I had a pretty good idea what the police wanted and didn’t think it a laughing matter. One of the men was Tarlow, who with a pair of uniformed constables was going from door to door on the landing below and questioning the occupants. With rising panic I looked around the room and for a moment thought of exiting by the window. It wasn’t so much that I feared for my reputation, as there would undoubtedly be more worthy men than myself in the building, it was the fact that Tarlow was assuming a connection between surgery and prostitutes in the murders he was investigating and here was I, the missing link between the two.

  Clare saw my fear. ‘Quick, under the bed!’ she ordered in a stage whisper.

  No sooner were the words out of her mouth than there was a rap on the door. I lay down and rolled under the bed, where my head came to rest uncomfortably close to the chamber pot. As my initial panic subsided, I began to wonder what on earth had got into me. What was I doing lying here like an adulterer hiding from a cuckolded husband? A moment more and I would have crawled out and answered the door myself. But it was too late: the door was open and, thanks to a stupid knee-jerk reaction, I was stuck there.

  All I could see, alongside Clare’s well-turned ankles, were a man’s left foot and lower leg as he stood half in half out of the room. ‘I’m Inspector Tarlow of the Metropolitan Police and I hope that you might be able to help us in our enquiries.’

  ‘Certainly, inspector. I’ll be delighted to help in any way I can,’ said Clare, in her best ‘sit down to tea with the duchess’ voice. Her new persona was so convincing that I wasn’t at all sure that the ‘Bow Bells’ accent she used in my earshot might not be the imitation; some of her customers probably liked the common touch. Whatever the case, the girl had clearly missed her vocation; any one of the West End’s theatres would be glad of her talents, and she’d probably make a decent actress to boot.

  Tarlow took another step into the room, no doubt to check whether there was anyone else in it. ‘Do you recognize this woman?’

  Not being able to see for more than a foot above the floor, I could only assume that Clare was being shown a photograph.

  ‘Sorry, no. I don’t recognize her,’ then after a pause: ‘She looks… is she dead?’

  ‘We think she may have been murdered last night, perhaps the night before.’

  So the inspector had a third victim on his hands. Lying there, with my eyes turned up to the bed springs, it was impossible not to conjur the image of another eviscerated torso.

  Clare took a step back, distancing herself from the picture. ‘Why are you asking me about her?’

  ‘We think she was a prostitute.’

  ‘Oh I see. God rest her soul, but from the look of her she wouldn’t have fitted in here.’

  ‘I see what you mean. She doesn’t look – how would you put it? – she doesn’t look the right class, more likely a streetwalker. Even so, you may still be able to help. Have you had any gentlemen acting out of the ordinary, perhaps being aggressive or making strange requests?’

  ‘Inspector, what we call ordinary would make a sailor swoon. We get all sorts of strange requests, but bad behaviour isn’t tolerated, not by the girls or the management. We generally get a decent class of customer, perverted perhaps but decent, and that’s why I work here. In short, inspector, I don’t come cheap.’

  ‘No… no, I’m sure you don’t,’ said Tarlow, for once sounding a little uncomfortable.

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’ added Clare, as though she couldn’t resist playing on his embarrassment.

  ‘No, thank you. That will be all. You’ve been most helpful. I would just ask that you report anything… well, anything out of the ordinary, and be careful, there is a murderer at large.’

  ‘I will, inspector, goodbye.’

  With the door closed, I pulled myself from under the bed and brushed myself down.

  ‘He must be one of the impotent ones,’ I suggested, relieved that my galloping heart rate was beginning to slow.

  ‘Don’t be cruel, doctor. The copper were a gent, that’s all,’ said Clare, once more the Belle of Bow.

  ‘Me, cruel? I am just glad I couldn’t see his blushes from where I was lying.’

  ‘W
ell, at least there ain’t no blemish on your reputation.’

  ‘Thank you, Clare, that was good of you. I’m sorry you had to see that photograph.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘That poor slapper weren’t the first dead body I’ve seen.’ Pulling aside the curtain, she looked down into the street. ‘There they go. I think you can leave now. I ’ope they find the maniac they’re lookin’ for.’

  I picked up my hat from the washstand, looked into the mirror and grimaced at the pale face staring back at me. ‘So do I.’

  Tarlow’s foot was unfortunately not the last of the man I was to see that day. By mid-afternoon he had tracked me down to my office.

  ‘Not another murder, I hope.’

  ‘I am afraid so, doctor. We pulled a body from the river early this morning.’

  ‘And the chest?’

  ‘The same, heart and lungs removed.’

  ‘And you are still assuming they are prostitutes?’

  Tarlow nodded. ‘If they weren’t, then I am sure we would have had enquiries from concerned family or friends by now. That’s the third body, and not a squeak about missing people from anyone. In any case, only a prostitute would allow herself to get into a situation where a stranger could kill her unobserved.’

  ‘And you think this killer is still out there, prowling around and looking for his next victim?’

  ‘Something like that. We have been questioning prostitutes, hoping they may have noticed something out of the ordinary about their customers. We are working on the possibility that the murderer may be a regular customer, perhaps one who has become a little tired of the usual services on offer. Unfortunately, the prostitutes have not been hugely cooperative. But then, you would know that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I am not quite sure what you mean.’

  Tarlow looked to the hat rack beside the door. ‘I see you managed to retrieve your hat from Kate Hamilton’s Night House after leaving it there this morning.’