by Tony Pollard
‘Yes, the bronchus, that’s it. He ordered Mr Brunel to rest while he considered a suitable treatment. Mr Brunel discovered that if he bent forward the coin shifted, and then slipped back when he straightened up, bringing on a coughing fit. Thus it went on, the coin moving like a valve opening and closing the entrance to his lungs.’
I stroked my throat, imagining the discomfort that Brunel must have suffered.
‘Most unpleasant indeed,’ he continued, noting my reaction. ‘After a few days the doctor cut a hole in Mr Brunel’s windpipe and reached in with a long pair of forceps designed by his patient.’
‘Did he pull out the coin?’ I asked, fascinated by this incredible tale.
‘No. The intervention brought on the worst bout of coughing so far and the doctor had to stop for fear of doing more harm than good. The coin had now been trapped inside him for more than a month. Enough was enough, thought Mr Brunel, and so he put his engineering skills to work again. This time he had his craftsmen build a revolving table. He was then strapped to it and the table turned so that his head was close to the floor and his feet pointing towards the ceiling. His doctor then pounded his back.’
The image made me laugh. ‘You mean they beat him like an old carpet? Now that must have been a sight to see.’
‘I would imagine,’ laughed Wakefield. ‘But it worked. The beating dislodged the coin and gravity forced it out of his mouth. Pop! On to the floor it dropped, that shiny gold coin. The good news spread across London like wildfire, “It is out! It is out!” went the cry. Mr Brunel even insisted a full account be published in the newspaper so that if anyone were to suffer the same misfortune they would know what to do!’
‘The man has definitely had more than his share of close shaves,’ I said, once again recalling the stories in Brunel’s scrapbook.
Bidding farewell to the affable Mr Wakefield, I took a cab back to the hospital. Hearing the story of the coin and of the long-standing relationship between the engineer and the doctor had further convinced me that if I could trust Brunel then I could trust Brodie, but I wasn’t yet ready to put that assumption to the test. This left me with a new problem: to get sight of the minutes without alerting their new guardian to the fact.
It was late afternoon; one more demonstration and my work for the day would be done. My thoughts were elsewhere, though, plotting how to get hold of the minutes, which according to Wakefield should now be in Brodie’s office – not a place I regularly entered through choice, but by the time my students were filing out of the theatre the germ of an idea had formed, to be further refined over supper at my club. It felt good to be taking control of my own destiny.
On my return home the key at first refused to turn in the lock but with a little careful jiggling it finally clicked into place. Hanging my coat and hat in the hall, I entered the parlour, not yet decided whether to retire immediately or to have a nightcap.
I decided on the latter, but had no sooner walked into the parlour than I was lying on the floor, pushed down by someone who had been waiting for me behind the door. A foot pressed into the small of the back kept me fixed in place while the unseen assailant rifled my pockets for anything of interest. A second person was sitting in my favourite chair; that much was clear, as his well-shod feet were planted just inches from my nose. ‘Good evening, Dr Phillips,’ said the man in the chair, his delivery as deadpan as though I had arrived at a prearranged meeting. ‘Why don’t you get up and take a seat?’
The foot was removed from my back and I was pulled to my knees by a hand applied to the back of my collar. A chair was pulled from beneath the table and, seeing a pistol lying on the arm of my chair, I decided against standing and took a seat as he had suggested.
Having taken in the narrow face and well-trimmed beard of the man in my chair, I risked a glance back at the man by the open door, which he promptly closed with his foot. The door man was still wearing his hat – the height of bad manners, I thought – but its distinctive wide brim, along with his dark, shoulder-length hair, helped to mark him out. There could be no doubt: they were old friends come to visit. The door man’s arms were folded in such a way that I couldn’t tell whether he was holding the pistol I knew him to carry. My own firearm was in my coat pocket in the hall, where alas it would have to remain. Glancing around the room, there was perhaps some small consolation to be had from the fact that this time around they had refrained from ransacking the place.
‘I trust you both had a good journey from Bristol?’ I asked, trying my best to sound at ease with the situation.
The seated man, who exuded natural authority, smiled. ‘More straightforward than yours. We preferred to let the train take the strain, much more agreeable than a boat.’
‘What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ I asked, continuing to play the part of affable host. ‘Did you leave something behind on your last visit?’
The seated man looked rather bemused. ‘Last visit?’
‘Yes, the time you kicked in my front door.’
He puzzled some more and looked over at his colleague. Then, resting his hand on the revolver as if to remind me who was in charge, said, ‘Where is it?’
‘You know full well where it is. You broke in here and took it, well over two weeks ago now.’
The levelling of the pistol at my chest signalled the cessation of polite conversation. Only then did I remember the drawing hidden in the book on the shelf behind him. Of course – that was it, I thought, the drawing contains some hidden detail not provided by the contraption they had already gone to such lengths to obtain.
‘I’m growing a little tired of your obstructive attitude, doctor. Unless you hand it over in the next minute I will shoot you, of that you may be certain.’
Having seen the treatment my guests had meted out to Wilkie, I had no reason to doubt him. ‘Very well,’ I said, holding up my hands in supplication. ‘I trust that you will not shoot me if I stand to get it for you.’
‘Where is it?’ he asked with increasing determination.
‘Behind you, on the bookshelf.’
Without taking his eyes off me he tipped the muzzle of the gun upwards, in a gesture to his companion. ‘Get it for him.’
Without answering, the sentinel behind me strode up to the shelves, where he paused and passed his gaze along the spines of the numerous books arrayed on them. With his arms at last unfolded I could see there was no pistol in his hands. When he spoke it was just one word. ‘Where?’ he asked.
‘Tell him,’ I was ordered.
‘Third shelf from the top, the thick red book four from the left.’
He stretched out his arm and after counting along with his index finger brought his hand to rest on the book I had indicated. Pulling it from the shelf he looked at it briefly before passing it over his colleague’s shoulder and returning to his original position behind me.
The seated man looked down at the book resting in his lap, which without any bidding had opened on to the pages between which the folded document was sandwiched. All of a sudden he seemed very angry. ‘Where the hell is it?’
‘Why, in your lap,’ I said, stating what I thought was the obvious.
He cautiously pulled out the drawing, as though afraid the book would snap closed and take off his fingers. Putting down the pistol, he unfolded the sheet of paper, letting the book tumble to the floor as he did so. It was only then that he appeared to recognize what he had been given. ‘Ah,’ he said.
He studied the drawings for a moment or two and then looked up at me, his face pinched. ‘Where are the other drawings, and more importantly where is the mechanism you carried with you from Bristol?’ Once again the pistol was in his hand, a finger wrapped around the trigger.
‘You know full well where the mechanism is,’ I insisted. Again, the chair man seemed puzzled by the obvious. Surely there had to be someone more intelligent behind all this? – and that someone had yet to show himself. ‘You and your friend here’ – I stabbed a thumb over my shoulder to incl
ude the man at the door in my barely suppressed tirade – ‘broke into my house, though why you had to kick the door in I don’t know, given that you are obviously capable of picking locks.’ He now looked more confused than ever. I deliberately slowed my speech in the hope it might make things easier for him. ‘You took the mechanism. What you didn’t find then was the drawing in your lap. That’s why you’re here again surely, to get the drawing?’
The hammer on the revolver clicked as he pulled it back, the gun now aimed at my head. ‘Listen to me, doctor. I have no idea who may or may not have broken in here and taken the mechanism, but let me assure you that it was neither of us. Tell me, why should I believe this little story of yours? Think carefully, sir, you are now as close to death as you ever will be. Where is the mechanism?’
I felt the small amount of colour still left in my face drain completely away. With my guest’s confusion explained it was my turn to seek clarity. ‘Then who was it?’ I asked, the question only just beating a pathetic plea for mercy in the race to my lips. The chair man’s finger tightened around the trigger. ‘It was in the hall, hidden in the bottom of the umbrella stand. I returned from the hospital to find the front door smashed in and the mechanism gone.’ Seeing no relaxation in his trigger finger, I blundered on, ‘Of course, given our past… our past association I assumed that it was you. Do you mean to tell me that it wasn’t you following me around London for these past weeks?’
The chair man shook his head slowly. This is it, I thought. But instead of pulling the trigger he closed the hammer and stood up, placing the drawing on the table in front of me. Reaching beneath his coat and pushing the pistol into a leather holster suspended beneath his armpit, he ordered the door man to watch me. Perhaps he was going to let me live after all.
‘Describe the mechanism to me,’ he said. ‘And think carefully, doctor, your fate still hangs in the balance.’
Grateful to have spent some time studying the contents of the package, I answered confidently. ‘You see it in front of you, on the drawing. Those pieces, they were in the package that Wilkie gave me.’
‘Pieces?’
‘Yes, loose pieces, just like those in the drawing.’
He passed his open hand, palm down, over the paper. ‘You are telling me that these were the only pieces Wilkie gave you? Just loose, unassembled parts?’
‘Just as they are drawn. Some were of steel but there was copper as well.’
‘And there were no more drawings?’
‘No, that was all. The pieces were wrapped in the drawing, that is why it’s so badly crumpled.’
‘Shit,’ said the chair man, casting a worried glance at his henchman.
Now it was clear. They had all along assumed that I was in possession of the entire mechanism, the complete device. Almost without thinking I offered an explanation. ‘Wilkie told me that it was not unusual for Brunel to commission only certain parts from him. He provided the drawings and the specification, but no information of their use or a description of parts to be made by others.’
‘Check the umbrella stand in the hall,’ said the chair man urgently, before continuing my interrogation. ‘Do you know the intended purpose of the mechanism?’
‘I am a surgeon, sir, not an engineer. Other than yourself, the one man who could tell me is currently overseas. Given my present position I suspect that ignorance is a rather healthier condition than too much knowledge.’
‘Very wisely spoken, Dr Phillips. You may live out the night yet.’
The door man returned. ‘Nothing,’ he reported.
‘Very well,’ said the chair man as he folded up the drawing. ‘I think we have finished our business here. You have been most helpful, doctor. I trust I do not have to tell you to forget this little meeting ever took place.’
I nodded and then shook my head, unsure which was the correct response. With the drawing in his pocket the chair man followed the door man out into the hall. ‘Do not leave here until the morning,’ he called out, just before the front door snapped shut.
It was some time before I could bring myself to leave my chair, let alone the building.
Following my encounter with Wilkie’s killers, I had been forced to face up to a number of unsavoury truths. The first of these was that it was now plain that my identity was known to them. The second was that another party was also keen to take possession of the mechanism, and indeed had succeeded in taking at least parts of it. Last, but not least, I was being threatened by murderers and at the same time and in the same place suspected to be a murderer myself; it was a combination of unpleasantries not to be wished on any man. That said, I had not clapped eyes on Tarlow since the encounter soon after my return from Bristol some weeks previously, which could only be put down to no further bodies having come to light, though I could also hope that his blasted investigations had taken him elsewhere – but with my current run of bad luck that seemed too much to hope. It was time however for me to set out on my own investigation and, although not one that would clear my name, it did have the prospect of shedding much-needed light on the identity of Wilkie’s killers and the motive for their heinous crime.
‘Dr Phillips is here to see you, sir,’ said Mumrill, his head crooked around the door to Sir Benjamin’s office.
‘Very well, send him in,’ replied Brodie gruffly.
As ever, he was engrossed in his paperwork. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked, as usual without removing his eyes from the notes on his desk – which I could see were not the minutes.
I took the opportunity to take a good look around the room, stepping to the side of his desk to get an all-round view. The leather satchel was on the floor, propped against the bookshelf behind the desk. Brodie became aware of me standing over him.
‘What are you doing, man? Take a seat. Not like you to go through the correct channels before coming in here. What is it?’
‘A small but urgent matter, sir.’ Only now did he look up. ‘Miss Nightingale has asked that you write a letter to the Prime Minister requesting a special meeting relating to her proposed restructuring of the nursing service.’
Brodie rolled his eyes. ‘Thank you, Dr Phillips. I will attend to the matter.’ If only all our exchanges were as straightforward, I thought. ‘Send Mumrill in on your way out, will you? Tell him I want him to take a letter.’
Mumrill scurried into his master’s office while I was still in his adjoining office. With the door between the two standing ajar I stepped behind the desk. One of the drawers sat partially open, a set of keys hanging from the lock in its front. Clutching the loose keys in one hand to prevent them rattling, I jiggled the key from the lock and paused to cock an ear in the direction of Brodie’s office. ‘I hope that you will agree the scheme worthy of your support…’
Satisfied that his dictation was in full flow I turned my attention to the heavy mahogany cupboard attached to the wall behind the desk. Riffling through the keys, I selected the one which from its shape looked to be right and pushed it gently into the lock. The door opened to reveal row after row of keys suspended from hooks, some of them singly, some in twos and threes. Reading the labels beneath I moved along the hooks before coming to the key I was after. Pulling another from a hook which carried a pair, I dropped it on to the newly vacant hook, hoping that this would be enough to prevent Mumrill noticing a key was missing. Locking the door, I stopped to listen again. ‘… Looking forward to your reply. Your obedient servant, etc. etc.’
Returning the original key to the lock in the drawer, I bounded across the room and slipped through the door just in time to be missed by Mumrill as he returned from Brodie’s office.
In the evening, I watched Brodie leave for home, and was pleased to see he was not carrying the satchel. Mumrill, as was his usual practice, was keen to be seen working longer hours, and so left some ten minutes later. Ten minutes more and I was in Brodie’s office, having entered through the door in the corridor. Recent events had taught me that a lock need be no barrier to entr
y but having also swept up a locksmith’s wood shavings I knew there was a subtler way of doing so than employing force. There was just enough light in the room to see that the satchel was no longer where I’d seen it, propped against the wall behind the desk. To my relief, however, I spotted it on a shelf. Slipping it under my jacket, I listened at the door, and satisfied that the corridor was clear stepped out, locked the door and casually returned to my office.
The satchel, with the letters IKB embossed on the flap, contained a thick sheaf of loose papers, some of them creased from being stuffed inside with no great care and others already yellowing with age. I pulled them out on to my desk and began sorting through them. Each sheet was dated at the top, beneath which was a list of those present at the meeting. Next came a heading in the form of the speaker’s name and the subject of his talk. Beneath that were the notes on the talk, which could vary in length from a couple of sides of paper to four or five sheets, depending on how conscientious the minute-taker was feeling – that, and how interested he was in the subject matter. A number were written in Brunel’s hand, some in Russell’s and others’, and just a few in my own. The report on the talk was usually followed by notes on the questions asked and answers given during the discussion. Some of the minutes, usually those by Brunel, included sketches to illustrate technical points, perhaps copied from diagrams used by the speaker to illuminate the talk.
The minutes went back over five years, almost the entire lifespan of the club, although I had learned from Brunel that they had not begun taking minutes until after a couple of meetings had been held. As Whitworth had said, the founder members appeared to be Brunel, Babbage and Ockham, with Brodie joining soon after.
There they were: talks by some of the greatest minds of our time. On 18 September 1857, some months before Brunel dragged me along to my first meeting, Henry Gray, acclaimed lecturer in anatomy at St George’s, gave a presentation on the workings of the human organs. Not long after the talk, his masterpiece, Gray’s Anatomy, was published. There was a copy on my office bookshelf, with a dedication from the author, thanking me for advice I had given him on a few points of detail. I read through the notes to find that Brunel had asked several questions on the operation of the heart, and wondered if this had in some way laid the foundation for my own invitation. My attention was caught by the title of a talk by the famous inventor Michael Faraday, ‘The Romance of Modern Electricity’, but as it did not have a bearing on my search I flicked beyond it without reading any further.
