The Secrets of the Lazarus Club

by Tony Pollard

  ‘That would explain a lot. His face appeared swollen the last time I saw him. I assume his urine is coloured?’

  Brodie nodded. ‘I fear there is little more I can do for him,’ he said, and then after a brief pause, ‘I am sure the condition has been exacerbated by the extremes to which he has exposed his body over the years. Too much standing about in the cold and damp has done him no good at all.’

  ‘There can be no denying he is a stubborn sort.’

  ‘I just wish he would accept my diagnosis, but with that man nothing is straightforward – it has to be something more dramatic, something more in keeping with his epic vision of the world. He seems to be of the opinion that there is a physical connection between his creations and his health. It’s almost as though he thinks they are in some way debilitating him.’

  ‘But they are,’ I said, recalling the newspaper cuttings. ‘He’s had so many close shaves in the past; it’s a wonder they haven’t killed him already. He was almost drowned in the Thames Tunnel and then narrowly escaped being burnt to death on one of his ships. I even read that he almost fell from the big bridge at Clifton. It’s a wonder the man has lived so long.’

  My observations seemed to be of some small comfort to Brodie. ‘I can see your point,’ he said. ‘The man is more than a little reckless when it comes to his own safety.’

  ‘How long do you think he has left?’ I asked, bringing us back to a firmer medical footing.

  ‘Perhaps a year or two, but only if he slows himself down. He seems set on driving himself into the grave with all possible speed.’

  ‘With his smokestack fuming.’

  Brodie smiled sadly. ‘Yes, he would do well to stop with the cigars, but I have given up trying to tell him.’ Perhaps this was why the old doctor had chosen to confide in me. Perhaps he felt I had some influence over Brunel, that I was in a position to offer advice that would be heeded. It was not the first time the great Sir Benjamin Brodie had been wrong.

  26

  A hospital never really sleeps – there is always some poor soul crying out in the dark or an emergency intake requiring attendance – but at night the place does take on a more rested countenance. It was some time since I had been required to serve on a nightshift – one of the privileges afforded a teaching surgeon – and apart from the duty doctor the darkened wards were left to the nurses, who under Florence’s watchful eye had of late had to learn to do without the benefit of their own, illicit slumbers. But I was no stranger to the place after dark, as it was the only time I could concentrate on my paperwork without fear of interruption. The twilight hours also provided the opportunity to catch up on my journal, which had come as something of a comfort of late as it allowed me to give a semblance of order to thoughts so badly confused by the incredible events that at times seemed to punctuate my days with a regularity matched only by breakfast and dinner in those of others. Nor was tonight to prove any exception, for as I was leaving my office, having spent at least two hours hunched over my desk, the sound of activity coming from the preparation room caught my attention. Aside from myself, only William and some of the other surgeons had any business being in there and given the hour there seemed little reason to think that any of them were still around.

  Opening the door from the theatre just a crack, I could see nothing in the darkened preparation room, other that is than the back door which let out on to the yard, which from the diffuse glow of gaslight from the street beyond I could see was wide open. Rather than encounter a possible intruder in the confined space of the room or the yard I retraced my steps out of the theatre and headed for the front door, though not before stopping off at my office to retrieve my revolver from the desk drawer. It did not occur to me to alert the porter in the gatehouse to my concerns; in any case he was as usual asleep in his chair with his feet propped on the stove. Outside, I turned to my left and hurried down a narrow lane which ran alongside the hospital and then, pausing at the corner, I looked cautiously down the street which led behind the building and on to which the gates of the yard opened. A horse and trap stood just outside them – the driver for the time being out of sight. But then a figure appeared, his hunched form obscured by what seemed to be a duffel bag slung over the leading shoulder. The bag was dropped unceremoniously into the trap and the man stood upright. Even from this distance and in the weak light cast by the street lamps there could be no mistaking William, who after making some adjustment at the back of the trap disappeared again through the yard gates. Relieved that this was not another visitation by my unwanted house guests of some weeks past but nonetheless puzzled by William’s actions, I left the cover of the lane and strode towards the vehicle. Just as I drew alongside, William reappeared but as he was pulling the gate closed with his back to me he didn’t see me until he turned around, by which time I was positioned at the rear of the trap.

  His jaw almost hit the pavement. ‘Dr Phillips! Good God, sir, you fair put the fear of God into me there!’

  ‘Doing a little overtime, William?’

  He risked a guilty look towards the trap as though seeking a credible answer. ‘Well, sir, you see, I was just collecting some bits and pieces from the store. Been meaning to have a clear-out for a while but couldn’t lay my hands on any transport.’ He gestured at the trap. ‘Got this for the night so thought I’d take advantage.’

  ‘Ah yes, taking advantage. A bit of a speciality of yours, eh, William?’ He blanched and, without waiting for him to reply, I turned my attention to what would undoubtedly turn out to be contraband. Only then did I realize that what I had seen him with was not a bag but something wrapped in a canvas sheet. I unfurled a corner to encounter a pair of feet. ‘What the hell –?’

  ‘It’s just… just part of our surplus stock, sir,’ William spluttered.

  By now I was disentangling the sheet from the rest of the corpse. It was the body of a middle-aged woman who had not been long dead. ‘Since when,’ I snapped, ‘have we had more cadavers than we can use? Especially ones as fresh as this. There I am in theatre cutting them down to the very bones, only to find you shipping bodies out of the hospital at night!’

  William looked nervously up and down the street, no doubt concerned that my angry words would be overheard, but I was beyond caring. ‘How long have you been doing this?’

  He hunched his shoulders like a small boy caught scrumping apples. ‘Not sure, a while I suppose. But, doctor, there ’aven’t been many, only a dozen or so.’

  ‘A dozen! My God, man. Your pilfering is the reason we’ve been suffering shortages! Where are you taking her?’

  ‘To… to a customer.’

  ‘So you’re in retail now, are you?’

  ‘It’s not a regular thing, sir. Just every now and again.’

  I came close to hitting the old thief but settled for throwing the sheet back over the body. ‘Who is this… this customer?’

  ‘Don’t know – just a bloke I met in a pub. We got talkin’ and when he finds out what I do for a livin’ he offers to take the odd stiff off my ’ands. Never seen ’im since. He lets the barkeep know when a delivery’s required and I take it from there. Deliver ’em to an old fisherman’s shack down at Millwall, take the money that’s waiting and off I trot. No questions asked.’

  ‘So I don’t suppose you asked him why he wants them?’

  William shook his head.

  His response was unsatisfactory but nonetheless my rage had subsided somewhat. ‘Get her back inside, for God’s sake. You’re shutting up shop.’

  He made to lift the bundle from the trap but stopped when I gripped his arm.

  ‘Wait. Leave her be. You’re taking her along as planned and me with you.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘But nothing. Get going or I’ll have you down at the police office on a charge of bodysnatching.’

  Without another word he checked that his payload was secure and then climbed up on to the seat, where I joined him. A flick of the switch and we were off, trotting along
through the London night like a pair of covert undertakers at the reins of our makeshift hearse.

  Half an hour later and we were on the Isle of Dogs, where for a heart-stopping few minutes it looked as though we were heading for Russell’s yard, but still some distance away from it, we turned off the Ferry Road and on to a rough track leading to the riverside.

  ‘That’s the hut up ahead,’ said William, breaking a silence which had lasted our entire journey.

  ‘Right then. Let me off here. Deliver the body as planned and then leave as you normally would.’

  ‘But, sir. This is no place for you to be wandering around at night.’

  I jumped down. ‘Thank you for your concern, William, but it’s a little late in the day for that. Now be on your way.’

  William nodded and the trap continued on. I concealed myself in a nearby ditch, from where I intended to observe the proceedings. With his gruesome cargo delivered, William turned the cart around and slowly negotiated the way back along the pock-marked track.

  Now alone, I remained in the ditch, where black water was already seeping into my shoes. Up on the river wall, a mill stood in cruciform silhouette, still and silent, the tattered sails straining against the breeze but frozen in place like the hands of a broken clock. Other than the wind scything through the marsh grass there was not a sound to be heard, nor any light to be seen. At night the island, which away from the yards and the road was still dominated by desolate marshland, seemed a more godforsaken place than ever. Every now and again the wind picked up and as if it were a wounded dog let out a dreadful howl – a sound which could easily be mistaken for the ghostly bark of Edward III’s abandoned greyhounds, which some said gave the place its name.

  The prospect of a long vigil did little to lift my rapidly plummeting spirits, but then, just as I began to warm to the idea of abandoning my watch, a muted chink of light appeared at the base of the mill tower. It was impossible to make out details but someone had definitely slipped out through the partially opened door. Clambering out of the ditch, I adopted an uncomfortable crouch in the hope of seeing better through the billowing grass.

  Only when the solitary figure moved out beyond the dark mass of the mill and the wall did it become at all visible. Whoever it was they were certain of their footing for no lamp had been brought along to illuminate the short walk to the shack. A few minutes later the return trip was underway, the corpse just distinguishable as a bulk thrown, again like a duffel bag, across one shoulder. The figure disappeared at the foot of the wall and then a few moments later there was another brief emission of light as the door was opened and the figure disappeared back inside.

  Keeping low, I made my way forward, pushing the grass aside with my hands. Stopping briefly at the shack, where the absence of the cadaver confirmed my observations, I groped my way to the foot of the wall, where rather than risk the stairs I scrambled up the sloping side of the clay bank. Reaching the summit, I felt the full force of the wind and fought against it to reach the side of the mill, its wooden wall clinkered like the hull of a boat. The sails rose above me, their torn fabric flapping against the ladder-like frames. Being in no mood for another climb I weighed up the options. To my left was the small wooden landing where the steps up the landward side of the river wall met with the front door, while to the right there seemed to be little other than the far side of the wall and the river beyond. The great clay bank was wide, though, and there was a footpath allowing access to the back of the tower.

  The high sides of the mill seemed to be entirely unbroken by windows and so I walked around the building looking for an alternative means of access – though if all else failed I had determined to enter through the front door, no matter what awaited me on the other side. To my relief I found an opening at waist-height at the back of the building, from where it would be possible to look out over the river from inside. There was no glass in the window, just a patch of canvas, and it took little effort to pull back a corner and peek inside. It was dark as pitch, which was good, as it suggested a different room to the one which had spilled light through the opening door. I ripped the canvas entirely away and pushed my way through the hole, confident that the wind would mask any noise.

  I stood stock still for a minute or two in what at first appeared to be absolute darkness, hoping that my eyes would accustom themselves even more so than they had outside. Cocking my head, I listened for any sound from within. Nothing. There was now some trace of light, though, coming from the opposite wall of the small room. Keeping my back against the wall, I inched my way towards it, at one point having to negotiate my way around a narrow, iron-framed bed. The light was coming through cracks in a door, which offered a very limited view into the illuminated space beyond. Whoever I had seen outside was moving around, but the cracks were not well placed and for all I knew there could be three or four people there.

  The only way to get a better view was to open the door. I did not relish the prospect but surprise would be on my side and the weight of the pistol in my pocket provided an extra measure of resolve. Finding nothing by way of a handle, I applied some pressure to the door, which even with the slightest of touches began to give way. Given the mill’s dilapidated condition, I doubted that the hinges had seen much oil of late. Keen to remain hidden for as long as possible, I listened out for any sound that might serve to mask the inevitable squeak when the door was pushed open. For a long time I could hear nothing, just a shuffling sound and the periodic creak of a floorboard. But then metal hit metal. It was a familiar sound and one that I knew would not last long.

  With a shove the door gave, creaking open three or four inches. The hammering stopped but there was nothing to suggest that the movement had been noticed. With pistol in hand I peered into the room. A man stood with his back to me, a long coat covering his shoulders and reaching almost to the floor. He stood next to a table, intent on the body of the woman that lay upon it. Her head lay closest to me, slightly canted back, with the chin pointing upward and mouth slightly agape. The man loomed over her, working intently on some part of the torso. The noise had come from a small hammer and chisel, tools which I had used many a time to crack open the ribcage of a cadaver. He worked quickly, trading his hammer for a blade, and very soon was lifting the inert heart from the gaping hole in the woman’s chest. My gun hand began to shake as the horrific reality of the situation dawned on me. There had been no murders, no mass slaughter of prostitutes. No, the truth lay before me in the form of the miserable carcass stretched out on the table. The bodies pulled from the river had been dead long before their hearts and lungs had been cut out. Inspector Tarlow had been on a wild-goose chase all along, and yapping at my heels for most of the way. I had been suspected of committing murders of the cruellest sort simply because the lunatic now standing before me had chosen to spend his evenings carving up stolen cadavers in a draughty old windmill.

  I stepped from my hiding-place and, with the removed organ delivered into a metal bowl, the miller-surgeon turned back to the table.

  Ockham didn’t flinch for an instant. ‘Now, doctor, what brings you out on such an inclement night?’

  Words did not come easily, for my mouth had dried in response to the macabre scene being played out before me. ‘You can thank William for that. He gave me a lift along with…’ I gestured with the pistol ‘… along with your patient. Are you insane? What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘I thought that would be obvious, especially to you, doctor.’

  ‘Don’t even try to compare this… this butchery to my work.’

  ‘I lack your skill, I know, doctor, but please try to be civil. We all have to start somewhere.’

  ‘That’s surely the point. We are not all surgeons, Ockham. You have no right… this is criminal!’

  ‘I don’t see how. This body was destined to go under the knife. Whether yours or mine, I don’t see the difference.’

  ‘You can explain that to the police. Do you know they are looking for a mass murderer w
ho cuts the heart and lungs out of his victims?’

  ‘I have seen them sniffing around the river. Most of the time the current takes the corpses under and they are never seen again but sometimes they resurface and get washed up. Of late I have discovered that packing the chest cavity with lead works very effectively.’

  ‘My God, man, how many have there been?’

  ‘Fifteen, twenty. I lost count long ago. Your man William has provided an invaluable service, to me and to mankind.’

  So much for William’s claim of around a dozen. ‘The police have been hounding me over this. They think I’m a killer!’

  Ockham looked up, his face a picture of surprise. ‘I had no idea. That is regrettable, most regrettable, and for that I apologize. Can I assume that as you are still at liberty their suspicions have not been substantiated?’

  This was not the time to regale him with Tarlow’s accursed list. ‘For now, but this… whatever it is has got to stop.’

  Ockham seemed to notice the gun for the first time and it caused him to raise a critical eyebrow.

  ‘Am I going to need this?’

  He shook his head.

  Placing the weapon at the foot of the table, I walked round the other side. ‘I trust we are alone?’

  He nodded and I watched with dumbstruck fascination as he returned to the rib-lined cavity and began to work on the removal of the lungs. He was clumsy and it was all I could to stop myself from showing him how to do it properly.

  ‘What is all this about, Ockham? What do you mean “the good of mankind”?’

  ‘Why go to the trouble of building a heart and then not put the thing to use? A bit like building a boat and then never putting it in the water, don’t you think? But you thought it was just a bauble, didn’t you?’

  ‘So you do think you can raise the dead!’

  ‘No, not yet,’ he said, his voice tinged with regret. ‘We still have challenges to overcome. At present I’m working on a system for connecting the device. And you know what they say, practice makes perfect.’