by Tony Pollard
My father’s pistol may have had sentimental value, but it was far too cumbersome to carry all the time, and if more than one shot was expected of the old thing then powder flask and more bullets were also required. So, to save walking around with more metal on my person than a medieval knight, I invested in a revolver. Half the size of the dueller and carrying five shots to its one, it was not cheap, but priceless as far as peace of mind was concerned.
These peculiar circumstances notwithstanding, the spring of 1859 saw me fully occupied at the hospital, as with Brunel still overseas there was little in the way of outside influence to cause distraction. In contrast, the now almost constant presence of Miss Nightingale served to guarantee my enthusiasm for the work. Her famous endeavours in the Crimea had earned her the nom de guerre ‘the lady with the lamp’, and she certainly cast a fresh light across the previously drab edifice of our establishment. Even Brodie had been touched by her zeal for reform, though as she and I both knew, this change of heart was as motivated by the opportunity for self-aggrandizement as it was by a desire for improvement. Although I still served as his liaison with Miss Nightingale he had, as predicted, taken a more active role at the committee level, expressing his full support of the initiative to the board of commissioners and anyone else who would listen.
It was after one such discussion that he informed me that the Lazarus Club was to convene again in late April.
Brunel, I was sure, would be eager for me to take the minutes as usual and so it was that I determined to attend. But there was of course another, more important reason for me to be there, along with Brodie, Russell, Ockham and the others – one of them, I was sure, was involved in Wilkie’s murder. I just didn’t yet know which one or why.
The minutes were taken down in one of my own notebooks, as Brunel only ever provided me with loose sheets of paper. Like an attentive schoolmaster I took the register of those in attendance, studying each of them for an incriminating glance and listening for an involuntary expression of guilt.
Brodie, as usual, introduced the talk, while around the table sat Russell, Whitworth, Ockham, Perry, Catchpole, Gurney, Babbage, Stephenson and Hawes.
Following a brief interruption by Babbage, who took the opportunity to advertise the publication of his latest pamphlet, ‘A Chapter on Street Nuisances’, our speaker got down to business. John Stringfellow had founded the Aerial Steam Carriage Company in 1842 and since then had carried out numerous tests on flying machines, though most of these had been undertaken in secret in his silk mill in Somerset. Originally from Sheffield, the man was an expert in precision engineering and one day hoped to create a steam-powered aircraft which would carry passengers to far-distant lands in a fraction of the time taken by current modes of transport. It all seemed a little far-fetched, but then he was in good company. Despite this the talk was most interesting and his illustrations of flying devices almost convincing. One of them portrayed a carriage with windows suspended beneath a pair of wings which themselves were supported by a series of spars and wires. At the rear there was a kite-shaped tail which along with the wings gave the fabulous device the look of a fat-bellied bird.
Another of these artist’s renditions showed off the pair of spinning screws attached to the rear of the wings, their function being to push the vessel through the air just as those on a ship would propel it through the water. According to Stringfellow, the location pictured in the drawing was India, but it could have been Egypt, or was at least how I imagined Egypt to look. If it were, then perhaps Brunel was somewhere in the picture, looking up at the machine and pondering how he could make it bigger. Brunel would have particularly enjoyed the aeronaut’s discussion of his steam engines, which were designed to be incredibly small and lightweight, just the sort of things the unfortunate Wilkie would have taken pleasure in creating.
By the end of the evening my writing wrist was aching with the exertion of keeping pace with it all. Committed as I was to my secretarial duties, which took a great deal of concentration, it was now obvious that it would not be possible to identify the killer simply by sharing his company in this manner. Guilt, I had decided, could not always be diagnosed through mere observation; it had no obvious symptom, no shingle-like lumpy rash or measly scatter of spots – not even, as I had hoped, a tell-tale tic or a give-away twitch.
And so, as the formal part of the evening came to a close and we broke up for drinks, I made a last attempt by listening intently for a slip of the tongue – anything to give me a clue to the identity of the guilty party. Before I had a chance to circulate, however, Goldsworthy Gurney sought me out, as it happened for no other reason but to express his relief that Brodie and myself believed that cholera was carried by polluted water rather than spread by gases, because he had just designed the new ventilation system for the Houses of Parliament and had shuddered to think that he might be responsible for introducing potentially fatal vapours to the good Members.
Without a sniff of anything out of the ordinary I joined Messrs Russell, Perry, Stephenson and Lord Catchpole who, with Stringfellow in their company, were discussing the big ship. ‘They’re calling her the Great Eastern now,’ said Russell. ‘Much more appropriate than the Leviathan given that her predecessors were called the Great Britain and the Great Western.’
‘Always seemed a little odd,’ remarked Stephenson, ‘that the company chose to name her after a creature of the deep, a sea monster no less. A name like that is bad for business if you ask me. It gave the impression that the ship was a beast, dangerous and untamable by man.’
Lord Catchpole chuckled. ‘A fair point, sir, and I for one wouldn’t fancy playing Jonah and travelling in the belly of a great beast!’
There was some laughter but Russell didn’t even raise a smile. The ship had been afloat for well over a year but had yet to move a foot under her own steam. ‘The passenger accommodations are coming along nicely,’ he said, aiming his remark at Catchpole. ‘And quite luxurious they will be too. I can’t say I hold with such extravagance but if it attracts well-paying customers then it will serve its purpose.’
‘And how many passengers will she accommodate when fully furnished?’ asked Whitworth.
‘She has capacity to carry no less than 4,000 passengers using the cabins, but in times of war with the salons given over to accommodation she could carry 10,000 troops.’
‘Perhaps then,’ chimed Whitworth, ‘there is more profit to be made from using her to invade another country than to use her as a commercial liner.’
Catchpole nudged the armourer playfully. ‘And what if those troops were armed with your new rifles – not a bad business proposition by any manner of means, eh, Whitworth? But who wouldn’t rather see her as a pleasure cruiser; at least then you could enjoy a whisky in the salon and admire the young ladies as they promenade on deck.’
The others laughed, but joking aside the original point was perhaps a valid one, as rumours of pending bankruptcy and shortage of funds to fit the ship out were now regularly circulated in the press.
‘And what about her engines, Mr Russell, how are they coming along?’
‘The port paddle engine is very well advanced and the starboard not very far behind. There is, however, much work required on the screw engine. But we are progressing at a steady rate. I would hope to see them all operable within three to four months.’
In one of his letters, Brunel had expressed the hope that sea trials were no more than six weeks away – things certainly seemed to have gone awry in his absence.
Ockham, as usual, had departed as soon as the proceedings had come to an end. On previous occasions his premature departures had seemed nothing more than a reflection of his shyness, but cast in the light of recent events such behaviour was enough to arouse my suspicions. It crossed my mind to pursue him but after my last experience on such an escapade decided against it.
To my surprise, I ended up sharing a cab with Brodie, but any thought that there may have been a humanitarian motive behind his inv
itation was dispelled when he asked me to report on a meeting I had had with Miss Nightingale earlier in the day. There was very little to say really, and so continuing to fish for information I turned to questioning him.
‘Who exactly is Ockham?’ I asked.
‘I wondered how long it would take you to ask, everyone does eventually.’
‘He does seem a little… a little unusual.’
‘Eccentric, I think is the word you are looking for, Dr Phillips. Definitely eccentric.’
‘His manner and attire seem greatly at odds with his situation.’
‘You could say that,’ said Brodie, and then added as a simple matter of fact: ‘He is a viscount.’
‘A viscount?’
Brodie nodded. ‘You should really be calling him Lord Ockham. He holds the title in courtesy from his father, the Earl of Lovelace. His grandfather was Lord Byron.’
‘The Lord Byron?’
‘The very same. The family seat is Ockham Park in Surrey.’
‘Then what on earth is he doing slumming it as a labourer in a shipyard?’
‘I think that is something only he, or perhaps Brunel, could tell you. As far as I understand it, Ockham turned up at his office one day and offered his services.’
‘Is it true that he was instrumental in setting up the Laza – the club?’
Brodie frowned. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Whitworth.’
‘There is some truth to that, I suppose.’
‘A very unusual young man,’ I observed.
‘Eccentric,’ he reminded me.
‘Yes, eccentric,’ I agreed.
‘He and Brunel share a number of… shall we say, unusual ideas.’
‘Eccentric?’
‘No. Most definitely unusual.’ The cab came to a halt. ‘Your lodgings, I believe, doctor. There is one other thing that might be said of him. They said it of his grandfather before him, but I fear it may equally well apply.’
‘What’s that, Sir Benjamin?’
‘That he is mad, bad and dangerous to know. Now, goodnight, doctor.’
20
Henry Wakefield had a face made up of sharp lines, which belied his pleasant demeanour. He was one of Brunel’s most trusted assistants and I was glad to find him in residence at the engineer’s Duke Street office. It was my first visit and it came as no surprise to find it to be rather a grand place, much in keeping with the engineer’s elevated status. The desks, drawing boards and plan chests were all in polished hardwood and along one wall was a series of box-like pigeonholes where correspondence and notes were carefully filed. There were shelves of books and journals and large paintings of Brunel’s ships the Great Western and Great Britain, though not yet one of the new ship. I am sure the engineer would have enjoyed showing off some aspect of his work, perhaps after pulling down one of the large drawings cleverly suspended from the ceiling in a series of rollers. However, in his absence I would have to make do with young Wakefield, who I hoped would be able to assist in some way in my quest to unmask Wilkie’s killers.
We had met only once before, at the aborted launch of the great ship, where he had proved very helpful in the aftermath of the accident on the checking drum. The young man rose from his paperwork and greeted me warmly.
‘Dr Phillips, isn’t it? Very happy to meet you again, sir.’
‘And you, Mr Wakefield,’ I replied, accepting his offer of a chair. ‘I am glad to see that Mr Brunel is keeping you busy in his absence.’
He glanced down at a long list of numbers. ‘Indeed he is. I have been left in charge of the office and, as always, things are a bit hectic. The bridge at Saltash is due to open in two months and then of course there is the ship.’
‘I bumped into Mr Russell last week. He seemed content with progress on the ship.’
Henry’s thin lips curled into a smile. ‘I am sure that Mr Russell is relieved to have Mr Brunel out of the way for a while.’
‘I had guessed they don’t see eye to eye on everything.’
Wakefield strode to a corner of the room, where a kettle was beginning to boil on a pot-bellied stove. ‘That’s one way of putting it. I guess they just have very different ways of working. The ship has been a case of too many cooks spoiling the broth from start till… well, up till now,’ he said, pouring the water for the tea.
Carrying the teapot back to the desk, he nodded towards the column of figures. ‘Mr Brunel left me with a list of economies to be made to the specification of the fitting-out. No sooner had he left than Mr Russell provided his own list with even more reductions on it. Mr Brunel will not be pleased.’ He was obviously a little aggrieved at having to play pig in the middle; I knew exactly how he felt.
This was all very interesting but did not really tell me anything new. I had witnessed first-hand how one man could irritate the other, but there was nothing unusual in that; one only had to look at Brodie and myself to see that.
‘I am sorry, doctor,’ said Wakefield with a start. ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
‘I hope so. Can I assume that you are aware of the supper club that Mr Brunel sometimes attends?’
Wakefield smiled again. ‘Oh yes, the Lazarus Club. He enjoys sharing new ideas, that’s for sure. Did you know that he’s never taken out a single patent on any of his inventions? Anyway, I hope that one day he may invite me along. From what he tells me it sounds very interesting.’
‘It would be a pleasure to see you there sometime. I am a relatively new member myself. I act as a sort of secretary.’
‘You mean that he talked you into taking the minutes.’
I nodded and put on my best impression of a jaundiced smile. But in truth his response pleased me: Wakefield knew more than I had thought and was making this very easy for me.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ he asked.
‘Splendid, thank you.’
‘He hates having to do that himself. Taking the minutes, that is. He moans the next day whenever he does. But he complains more when Russell or somebody else does it. If he asked you, doctor, take it as a compliment. He doesn’t pay many, believe me.’
‘I will, thank you. It was actually the minutes that brought me here. Before he left for foreign parts Mr Brunel asked if I would transcribe them into a more legible hand. He said I was to come round to the office and collect them when it was convenient.’
‘Ah,’ sighed Wakefield. ‘I am afraid that will be a bit difficult.’
And it had all been going so well. ‘Difficult?’
‘They are not here,’ he said.
‘Oh dear.’
‘Someone has beaten you to it. He came round for them a couple of days ago.’
This was not shaping up at all well, and my earlier optimism began to drain away like blood from an untended wound. ‘Who?’
‘I believe he is a colleague of yours? Sir Benjamin Brodie.’
Disappointment now gave way to something more serious. ‘Did he say why he wanted them?’ I snapped.
Wakefield was taken aback. ‘Just that he wanted to take them away to read them. He is a member of the club, isn’t he?’
‘Quite right, Wakefield, quite right,’ I said, checking my over-reaction. ‘Forgive me, it is just that I saw Sir Benjamin only this morning and he could have told me and saved me some trouble.’ Wakefield was right after all: why shouldn’t Brodie want to see the minutes? – he had as much right to them as any of us. Perhaps he wanted to do nothing more than to check a detail for a paper he was writing for the Lancet, though it had been some years since he had published anything.
Whatever Brodie’s motives, I could not bring myself to put him on my list of suspects, at least for now. But I did feel more strongly than ever that the minutes would provide some answers. I needed allies, that much was clear, but before I could find them I needed to know who my enemies were.
‘Does Sir Benjamin call on Mr Brunel often?’ I asked, keen to learn more about their doctor–patient relationship. ‘Mr Brune
l does not seem to be in the best of health.’
‘He has his ups and downs – recently, though, more downs than ups. Sir Benjamin does his best for him, I’m sure, but he won’t rest, can’t leave anything alone. He hates delegating, has to oversee everything himself. It took Sir Benjamin all his powers of persuasion to get him to go overseas, which was the only way to stop him working. Eventually Mrs Brunel had to intercede and insist he follow doctor’s orders.’
‘I suppose you have seen him go through a lot in your time with him?’
‘A fair bit, yes,’ said the young man, moving his list of numbers before setting down his cup. ‘Did Sir Benjamin tell you the story of the coin?’
‘The coin? No, I don’t believe he did.’
‘That one was before my time – must have been well over ten years ago. Apparently, Mr Brunel was entertaining his children with a favourite party trick, making them believe he could swallow a half-sovereign and then pluck it from his ear. Sleight of hand I believe they call it. He’d performed the trick many times at Christmas parties and birthdays but this time it went horribly wrong. He put the coin in his mouth and then began to address his audience. My mother told me never to speak with my mouth full, and Mr Brunel could have done with heeding the same advice, because he swallowed the coin.’
‘Good grief.’
‘Down it went, and that was that. Hopeful that nature would simply follow its course, he thought no more about it. But then after a week or so he began to suffer terrible coughing fits. It was then that he sought out Sir Benjamin, who has been his personal physician ever since. Well, the good doctor examined Mr Brunel and discovered that the coin was lodged in the opening to his right lung. What is the name of that bit, doctor?’
‘The bronchus,’ I replied.
