by Tony Pollard
Ockham remained as aloof as ever, slinking away after every meeting without so much as a by your leave. He always kept his own counsel after presentations, never asking questions or joining in the discussion. But if a man wants to keep himself to himself, then that’s his business; I had more important things on my mind.
It was the summer of the Great Stink, so-called because high temperatures turned the effluent-rich waters of the Thames into its closest impersonation yet of a vast open sewer. The stench was dreadful, assailing even my well-tempered nostrils, and on some days was only bearable from behind a scented handkerchief tied over mouth and nose. But this primitive measure was as ineffectual against disease now as it had been during the plagues of years gone past, when a pocketful of posies was carried as a preventative measure.
In a similar vein, the curtains in both Houses of Parliament were soaked in chloride of lime to reduce the foul odour, but to no avail, and in June the building was evacuated. It was a national disgrace, and The Times regularly carried some story or other about the dangers to public health posed by these dreadfully unsanitary conditions.
The typhus epidemic, which fortunately did not spread too far away from the neighbourhood of Newgate prison, had died down months ago but now it had been replaced by the spectre of an equally deadly disease. It was now widely held that the high temperatures and disgraceful condition of the river provided ideal conditions for a major outbreak of cholera, and I prepared my staff for the worst. London’s last outbreak had been just four years before, when hundreds had fallen victim. The celebrated Dr John Snow may have recognized the connection between contact with polluted river water and the spread of the disease, but the authorities had taken an age to authorize the grand new sewer scheme.
*
‘Keep together, gentlemen,’ insisted Bazalgette, sounding more like the master of an unruly school class than the leader of an outing of the Lazarus Club. The comparison, it must be said, held equally for his charges, who after disembarking from a small convoy of specially commissioned carriages commenced to wander willy-nilly, get in the way of workmen and generally make a nuisance of themselves. ‘Gentlemen, please,’ Bazalgette pleaded. ‘The workings are dangerous. I would hate to lose any of you to an unfortunate accident.’
It was October 1858, and we had come down to Deptford to inspect a trial length of the new sewer. The long hot summer had finally drawn to a close and thankfully the expected outbreak of cholera had not occurred. The trip had been Brunel’s idea, ‘We need to get out and see more,’ he had suggested after a particularly dull presentation in the stuffy environs of our hired room. A debate over which locations might be worthy of our interest ensued, with places as diverse as the Woolwich arsenal, Millwall docks, the Greenwich observatory, Pentonville prison and the British Museum nominated. Catchpole suggested that we should all get on the train to Bradford and visit one of his mills but it was unanimously agreed that the distance was too great. Diligent as ever in my duties, I noted down these potential destinations and, feeling slightly mischievous, had to pull myself up short from adding Kate Hamilton’s Night House to the list.
Unlike Brunel’s famous tunnel under the Thames, the southern entrance of which came to the surface not far from us, the drains were, wherever possible, not to be dug underground but from the surface, the brick vault being constructed in trenches before the reinstatement of the excavated earth. Bazalgette called the technique ‘cut and cover’, and it was one such section which we had come to see at Deptford. The site of the works was marked by wooden scaffolding which kept the mouth of the brick tunnel upright as work proceeded on extending it. Workmen shouldering hods full of bricks clambered down ladders while others placed them in position with a speed made possible only through long practice. Men pushed wheelbarrows along planks of wood laid across the trench and from there dumped earth on to the curved roof of the brick tunnel beneath them. Recent progress was marked by a long fresh scar of broken ground the width of a road.
‘We’ve built the best part of half a mile in just over a month,’ announced Bazalgette with fatherly pride before going on to give a brief overview of the project. The brick tunnels would transport fouled water away from the Thames and carry it to outfall points at Beckton to the north and Crossness to the south. Infiltration plants there would then facilitate the removal of solid waste from the water before it was released into the river outside the city and carried out to the sea.
‘How long do you think for the entire scheme?’ asked Russell.
‘We will finish the main works within five years,’ said Bazalgette, who seemed entirely undaunted by the immensity of the project. ‘The main interceptor system will require over eighty miles of tunnels, and that doesn’t include connectors, outfalls and storm drains like this one. Now, gentlemen, if you would like to take note of the mortar being used to bind the bricks.’
All eyes became focused on the men slapping the mud-like substance on to bricks before fixing them into position in the tunnel mouth. ‘That’s Portland cement, and this is the first time it has been used in a public-works project of any scale. You take limestone and clay, mix the two together and then calcine them in a furnace to remove the carbonic acid. The result is a very strong bonding agent much stronger than the old Roman cement and, very importantly, it is waterproof.’
Fascinating as all this was, I was keen to see inside the tunnel and so was pleased when Bazalgette directed us to a shed some distance behind its mouth. Inside was a circular hole in the ground, from which the top of a ladder protruded. ‘One at a time, please, gentlemen, some of you may find it a bit of a squeeze.’
Those of us who had turned out for the excursion had some idea of what awaited us and so we took a lamp each and waited for the man before us to step on to the ladder and disappear from view. The few absentees included Stephenson, who once again seemed to be suffering from ill health, while Babbage had insisted that it wouldn’t be too long before he went underground for good and saw no need for a dress rehearsal.
Brunel, as befitting someone who had done much to secure Bazalgette’s appointment as director of the project, went first, leaving his hat behind before taking to the ladder. I followed him, with Catchpole stepping on to a rung above my head just as I let go at the bottom. Brunel was looking out towards the open mouth of the tunnel, watching the workmen labouring on the scaffolding, from where they extended the arch, using the steady supply of bricks provided by the men we had seen clambering down from the surface. The engineer seemed lost in thought as he watched the work.
‘Does it bring back memories?’ I asked, my voice echoing more loudly than I would have liked off the brick walls.
‘There were times down there when I never thought to see daylight again,’ he said. ‘Tunnelling in the dark is bad enough but knowing there is a river just feet above your head is something else entirely.’
I would have liked to hear more of his exploits in the Thames Tunnel. ‘Those men out there have it easy then?’
‘My friend, those men are the backbone of England. Their daily labours in light or dark would break any one of us.’
It was the first time I had heard him express any sympathy for the lowly workman, and his answer made my off-the-cuff remark seem a little foolish, but before I could respond Catchpole, freshly arrived behind me, added his own opinion: ‘But backbones too can be broken. Isn’t that right, doctor?’ Although asking a question, he didn’t seem interested in the answer. ‘There will,’ he continued, ‘come a time when we will have machines do all of this. They will be more efficient and less expensive. Machines do not require payment, nor do they fall ill.’
Brunel had turned round, and the glare of his lamp revealed what looked to be an expression of distaste. ‘There can be little doubt that you are right, Lord Catchpole, but what about them – what about the men who made our scientific and technological advances possible through the sweat of their brows? What part do they play in this mechanical future?’
Catchpole looked set to continue the exchange but the rest of the party had begun to arrive at the foot of the ladder.
‘I will lead the way, gentlemen,’ said Bazalgette, who with a wave of his lamp directed our attentions away from the open mouth to the dark part of the tunnel.
‘I assume it will carry water?’ said Sir Benjamin, who seemed a little surprised to find the channel beside the walkway to be dry.
‘Indeed it will,’ replied Bazalgette, who took the question as a cue to step off the walkway and position himself in the centre of the channel. ‘The function of this section will be to carry excess run-off into the river at times of heavy rain.’
‘Rainwater and not sewage?’ said a voice from the back of the assembled mass, which I knew to be Perry’s.
‘That’s right. Storm drains like this will provide a way of diverting excess water away from the main system. The system will cope with up to a quarter of an inch of rain during the six hours of heaviest sewer use. If that limit is exceeded then the storm drains will come into operation. Any sewage coming off with the rainwater will be heavily diluted and therefore provide no risk.’
‘How certain are we that polluted water is the cause of cholera?’ asked Russell, looking to Sir Benjamin for his answer.
‘There seems little reason to doubt the studies made by Dr Snow. I am sure you have all seen the drawing in the newspapers depicting the skeletal figure of death dispensing water into the cups of young children from a street pump. It is a crude image but puts across the message. Cholera is not spread by foul air or, as some call it, a miasma but by people drinking dirty water; of that I am in no doubt and I am sure Dr Phillips agrees with me there.’
I nodded, slightly surprised that he had sought my affirmation, but there were those who did not agree. Miss Nightingale for one had her feet firmly in the miasmic camp.
‘Thank you for that, Sir Benjamin,’ said Bazalgette. ‘Your support is much appreciated. I should add at this point, gentlemen, that the full scheme has not yet been officially sanctioned. The small stretch you are visiting today is only a trial, designed to demonstrate that the project is feasible.’
‘I think you can rest assured there,’ chimed Brunel. ‘The scheme is essential to the well-being of the populace. It is just a matter of time.’
Bazalgette nodded appreciatively and with no more questions forthcoming he ushered us onwards. ‘Now, if we take a walk down the tunnel I am sure you will appreciate the view.’
We moved in two lamp-lit columns, the first along the walkway and the second in the channel. Our journey through the dark was not a long one. The tunnel took a gentle curve to the left, and even before it began to straighten, daylight was illuminating the immaculate brickwork on the tunnel wall to our right.
The lamps soon became redundant, for beyond the tunnel mouth the day seemed to burn as bright as one of Gurney’s famous theatrical limelights. We gathered on the lip of the tunnel, where it gave way to the river beyond. The water lapped against a stone ramp, down which the storm water would one day find its way into the river. Those of us at the front stepped a little way further on to the ramp to allow those behind us a view over our shoulders. I couldn’t recall ever being so close to the river before, not even when Brunel was trying to get the great hulk of his boat into the water. And there she was, floating some way off downstream, like a whale at last released from a beaching. Upstream was Limehouse, its dingy tenements backing cliff-like on to the river. Directly across from us was Millwall on the Isle of Dogs, where one or two families still earned a crust by processing river-delivered corn in their ancient wind-powered mills.
Spectacular as the view was, the aroma from the river was almost unbearable and even those of us accustomed to the bouquet of the mortuary found the clawing stench uncomfortable. But there was the rub: it was the smell of the mortuary, but a mortuary in which the bodies had been lying far too long. It was Russell who from his position on our upstream flank spotted the cause of the olfactory assault. ‘What the hell is that?’ he asked after taking an involuntary step away from the water’s edge.
Floating in the water but resting against the side of the ramp was a body, the naked back bobbing just beneath the surface. The only clue to the corpse’s sex was the straggling dark hair, for the torso had lost integrity and looked more like a burst sack of chalk. There was a risk of someone ending up in the water as those of us at the front tried to get away while those with no clear view shifted forward to take a look.
‘Calm, gentlemen, please!’ cried a stern voice that for once wasn’t Bazalgette’s. It came almost as a surprise to discover it was mine. ‘Everyone step away from the water. Bazalgette, could you please take everyone back up the tunnel and have a message sent to the police.’
While the others were herded back into the tunnel, their excited voices echoing off the brickwork, I returned my attention to the corpse.
‘What are you going to do, Phillips?’ asked Sir Benjamin, who had remained behind. For once he seemed entirely disarmed by the situation.
‘Get the body out,’ I said, uncertain how I was going to manage it without touching the thing.
I thought he was going to stay but instead, after telling me he would fetch help, he followed the others up the tunnel.
I had hoped that our last encounter, over the affair of the abandoned heart, would be our last and yet here we were again. Tarlow was using a handkerchief against the stench, and the sight of it caused me to shiver at the recollection of that previous conversation. ‘The same then?’
‘It appears so, inspector,’ I replied, dropping the tarpaulin back into place. ‘The contents of the chest have certainly been removed.’
‘How long has… has she been dead?’
‘Yes, it is a she and it’s very difficult to say. Maybe three weeks, perhaps less. The river corrupts.’
‘Is there anything else you can say about her?’
‘I’m sorry, inspector, the corpse is just too far gone.’
Tarlow made to leave the hut where the body was being kept prior to the arrival of a wagon. ‘We are very fortunate to have you on hand once again to assist in this unpleasant business. Quite a change for you to be finding the corpse rather than me having to bring it to you, don’t you think?’
‘It was actually Mr Russell who saw the body first,’ I replied, trying not to sound overly defensive.
The discovery of the corpse had cast a shadow over our excursion and, following the initial excitement, the group had fallen into a thoughtful silence, watching without comment as the policeman walked by on his way back to his carriage. ‘He didn’t even stop to question us,’ said Whitworth later, as though he were complaining about a host’s failure to offer refreshments.
Despite our grizzly find, Bazalgette’s sewer scheme had looked highly promising. The only thing was, it would take years to build. Never had a population been so relieved to see the cold of winter replace the heat of summer and it was generally felt to be nothing short of a miracle that the threatened outbreak of cholera had not occurred.
Not all the news was good, though, and one day in November I received a letter which was to take me away from London to attend to a more personal medical crisis.
My dearest George,
It grieves me to have to write to you under such tried circumstances but I am afraid to report that our father is gravely ill. Knowing how busy you are at the hospital, I have until now resisted the temptation to worry you. But today Dr Billings made one of his regular visits and after a thorough examination told me that his condition is not recoverable. He may have weeks or even months left but, the doctor says, the outcome is inevitable. I therefore beg of you to come home and see him while you still can, even better if you could find the time to tend him. You are a wonderful doctor, George, and I might even dream that your attentions may bring about even a temporary return of his health. I look forward to hearing from you. It has been far too long since last we saw one another and I hope that this letter
may help to bring our separation to an end.
Your loving sister,
Lily
Sir Benjamin was uncharacteristically sympathetic about my plight, but more particularly my father’s. Their paths had crossed many years previously, when on first setting up practice in London my father had briefly taken Sir Benjamin under his wing. I had long before given up wondering whether their acquaintance had played any part in my appointment to my present post: I hoped it had not, and indeed had taken some comfort from Sir Benjamin’s prickly attitude towards me, which pointed against it. It took him no time at all to deliberate on the matter and to grant me as much compassionate leave as I would require to tend to my ailing father. He asked me to pass on his best wishes and closed by saying, ‘Off you go, and don’t worry about the hospital. I am sure we will manage to rub along without you.’
11
The great vaulted cavern of stone and iron that was Paddington station echoed to the sound of people and machines. A pair of locomotives idled, their stacks pushing dirty plumes of smoke up towards the roof, where they dispersed among the girders. I bought a copy of The Times from the W. H. Smith’s kiosk and asked an attendant which of the trains would take me to Bath. Following his directions, I walked along the concourse and down the far platform before stepping aboard the first compartment to appear less than crowded.
