by Tony Pollard
‘I lost my mother too, Ockham, and recently my father. I know how hard it can be,’ I said, desperate to calm him and get us both away from this dreadful place. Ockham’s opium habit had done nothing but feed his insane delusions, but had it been available I would gladly have administered it there and then as a sedative. I had learned from Babbage that Ada had been prescribed a similar treatment and as a result became a slave to the fuddling powers of laudanum. The diagnosis was clear: the man was as dependent on the physical presence of his mother as he was on any drug and severing the connection between them would require as much skill as any surgical operation. Just minutes ago I had been determined to hand him over to the police, explain all and clear my name, but now, in the cold light of death and destruction, things seemed more complicated. Surrendering the pitiful creature he had become to Tarlow would do nothing to help his dangerous condition and the ensuing investigation would inevitably drag Brunel and the others into the affair. Just as importantly, the scandal might create a smokescreen behind which Wilkie’s killers could escape justice. There had to be another way.
Ockham wiped a sleeve over his eyes and, lifting a storm lamp from a hook on the wall, made to light it. ‘Leave her to me.’
My mind made up, I took the door man’s body by the shoulders and began to drag him towards the door.
‘What are you doing?’ enquired Ockham, who to my relief seemed more composed and indeed was looking at me as though I were the madman.
‘We need him. Help me, I will explain later.’
Ockham put down the lamp and helped me drag the body outside, where we dropped it on to the ground from the top of the wall. He went to re-enter the mill and I shouted after him, ‘Get me some of your clothes, a full set. Old clothes, nothing fancy.’
After no more than a minute Ockham was back outside, a bundle under his arm. With him steering our course we hurried through the long grass towards the yard, half carrying and half dragging the corpse. Behind us the windmill began to glow as the lamp ignited the spilt alcohol. Within moments the old building was engulfed in fire. Smoke billowed skyward and beneath it the orange flames consumed the wooden tower which had become Ada Lovelace’s funeral pyre; a beacon warning of dangers to come.
The Times, 18 June 1859
On the night of 16 June, a woman, believed to be a prostitute, was attacked by a man wielding a razor in the Limehouse area of the city. The victim put up a spirited resistance in the face of a frenzied assault, and in the struggle her assailant lost his footing and fell to his death down a steep flight of steps. Inspector Tarlow of the Metropolitan Police has told this newspaper that he believes the dead maniac to have been responsible for the brutal murders of no fewer than eight women in the city over the past twelve months or more. The razor recovered from the scene appears to have been the same weapon used to commit an undisclosed series of disfigurements prior to the disposal of the bodies in the Thames. It would appear that despite several slashes being inflicted against the woman’s torso the stays of her corset prevented the blade from penetrating her flesh. The Inspector expressed his satisfaction that the case was now closed. He refused to release the identity of the woman or attacker, and it would appear that the latter remains unknown even to the police.
Clare had been a real sport, especially when it came to attracting the attention of the police; not something she would normally choose to do. After leaving the windmill I had waited in the long grass with the corpse while Ockham laid his hands on a covered wagon and a bucket of water at the yard, where the burning mill was beginning to attract attention. While driving us into town he managed to raise a smile when he told me that the watchmen thought he intended to fight the inferno with the bucket of water, but otherwise there was no disguising his anguish over the incident with his mother. I remained in the back, stripping off alcohol-soaked clothes and washing dead flesh. Only when I was satisfied that any trace of the pungent fluid had been removed was the door man’s corpse attired in the funeral suit provided by Ockham.
We arrived at Kate Hamilton’s place just in time to prevent Clare from entering into an assignation with a nervous-looking gentleman who, I suggested, would be much happier at home with his wife and children. Hurrying her from the premises, I told her only that the dead man in the back of the wagon had been no good in life and that she could help me get out of some serious trouble. The information was enough to enlist the dear girl’s assistance, though on the condition that I pay over the odds for her lost earnings. At my instruction Ockham tipped the still-limp body over a set of steps near the embankment. After a quick inspection, during which I rearranged an awkwardly twisted leg, I was pleased to report that the fatal injuries inflicted at the mill would appear to the police to have resulted from this fall. It was Clare’s idea to slash the bodice of her dress for added realism, after which we left the razor on the ground for the police to find. It was a masterstroke, and the cost of a new dress would be a cheap price to pay for explaining away the door man’s death while at the same time putting an end to Tarlow’s search for a murderer who didn’t exist, a search which had come dangerously close to my own front door. With the scene set I kissed my sometime concubine goodnight and promised to see her soon. Ockham and I had no sooner rounded the corner when she let out a bloodcurdling scream. The girl was a born actress, of that there could be no doubt.
Tarlow appeared at the hospital the next day, his face displaying all the signs of having been up for most of the night. After I had provided him with a seat in my office he proceeded to tell me about the attack on the prostitute, during which the maniac had told her he was going to cut out her heart. The inspector guessed that the woman was healthier and stronger than his previous victims and so had put up a vigorous fight which ended with him crashing down the stone steps to his death.
‘Congratulations, inspector, it would appear that you have your man. I trust that this brings an end to your investigation?’
‘Not quite, doctor, there is something which doesn’t quite fit.’
‘What is that?’
‘The prostitute involved in the attack – she was one of the women I questioned at Kate Hamilton’s establishment.’
The terrier had smelled a rat. ‘Is there a problem with that, inspector?’
‘You were hiding under her bed when I questioned her.’
Dashing to the door, I picked up my hat and coat as if to leave. ‘Clare! My God! You’re sure she’s all right? I must see her.’
Tarlow leant back in his chair and stopped me with an outstretched arm. ‘She’s fine, doctor, and as I said, a very strong young woman. Now, sit down, please, we are not yet finished.’
Somewhat begrudgingly I returned to my seat, draping the coat across my knees.
‘Now, doctor,’ continued Tarlow, once again pulling out his dreaded notebook. ‘Does it not strike you as a little strange that the woman who manages to despatch the man apparently responsible for a series of murders for which you were – and let us not mix words here – for which you were a suspect, just happens to share an intimate relationship with you, however professional that might be?’
I took a few moments to ponder the implications of this, my face a picture of puzzlement and confusion. ‘I suppose it does seem a little bit of a coincidence.’ And one that occurred to me only after the performance with Clare had been played out. ‘Are you suggesting that I had a hand to play in this? That I somehow staged the attack? That’s preposterous!’
‘I am sure my superiors will think so too – unless of course I can gather enough evidence to convince them otherwise.’
‘Who is the dead man? Surely if you know that you must be able to draw some sort of firm conclusion. Am I to be hounded for ever over this matter?’
‘Unfortunately, we have not been able to identify the gentleman. I was wondering whether you may be able to assist us there.’
‘You want me to examine his body? Am I to be trusted with such a task?’
‘I have always fo
und your assistance most helpful, doctor.’
‘I am sure you have,’ I replied bitterly. ‘Now, where is this body?’
Tarlow stood up. ‘It’s in the backyard. Shall we?’
The inspector instructed the constable waiting by the wagon to open up the rear flap.
‘If you wouldn’t mind, doctor,’ he said, gesturing for me to step forward and take a look.
Lifting the sheet, I peered for some moments into the face of the man who not long before had been bludgeoned to death just feet away from me. Grasping the chin, I turned the face towards me. ‘This man is familiar. I know this man, inspector!’ I turned and looked aghast at the policeman. ‘His name is Edward Fisher. His wife was a patient of mine. She had cancer and died on the operating table, under my knife. It wasn’t my fault, she was beyond help.’
‘How long ago was this?’
‘About two years. I may still have the records in my office. He went berserk, blamed me for her death and attacked me in my own office. I only managed to fight him off with help from my assistant, William. Then he swore he would make me suffer, to wish I had never been born. That was the last I saw of him. Grief affects people in all sorts of ways, I suppose.’
‘That would certainly explain his attack on your lady friend. He may have regarded her, if you don’t mind me saying, as the equivalent of your wife. An eye for an eye and all that.’
‘But what about the other murders? Were they part of his… his revenge?’
‘Looks like he was trying to put you in the frame, doesn’t it? The man was obviously insane. Perhaps he was just living out some sort of dreadful fantasy. We’ll never know.’
‘So you think it was him?’
Tarlow pulled the sheet back across the man’s face. ‘Time will tell, won’t it, doctor? If there are no more murders, then yes, it looks like we have our man.’
‘What about William, do you want to question him? And the records? I could see if I could find them.’ And indeed I could have done, for it was all true. Ockham was not the only man to have blamed a loved one’s death on her doctor. I had put the incident behind me, but not surprisingly the memory had resurfaced with the viscount’s confession. Unpleasant as it had been, however, there were certain factors about the case which I now hoped would operate in my favour. After his wife’s death and his attack on me Edward Fisher had moved out of town to make a new life. So desperate had he been to make a fresh start that he even took another name, but his demons still found him and – as I later learned from a colleague – he ended up hanging himself.
The inspector smiled, his expression lightened by a shared relief as the dangerous game we had played for so long drew to an end. ‘No, doctor, that won’t be necessary. I crossed you off my list the day I visited you in the hospital.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I visited when you were ill. We had pulled another body from the river. Very fresh this time, couldn’t have been dead for more than a couple of days at most. I arrived to discover from Miss Nightingale you had been in bed with a high fever for more than a week.’
The dreadful penny dropped. ‘And you realized it couldn’t have been me.’
Tarlow nodded.
‘So I’ve been in the clear for weeks?’ I said, trying hard not to sound crestfallen on learning that my risky charade had been entirely unnecessary.
Tarlow nodded and gave what I suspected to be a knowing smile. ‘My apologies for all the discomfort my investigation has caused you. Just be careful who you kill on the operating table next time.’
‘I’m afraid it’s one of the perils of the job, inspector.’
27
Whether he had been convinced by my story about the door man’s body or not, the knowledge that Tarlow was no longer on my back did much to renew flagging spirits, but the same could not be said of Brunel. When I next caught up with him, sometime towards the end of July, he looked to have aged radically. His shoulders were hunched and the hair had all but disappeared from his head, while yellowing jowls hung heavily at the sides of his face.
‘That ship is sucking the life from you, Isambard.’
He peered at me with his heavy-lidded eyes and growled, ‘If Russell did things as I asked then I would not need to spend nearly so long with the task.’
I was sitting in his office, having been summoned there by the customary note. Ockham was late but arrived with fresh news. ‘The chief engineer has just tested the paddle engines. All seems to be well.’
Expecting this information to please our host, it was a shock to see him explode with rage. ‘What? Russell has run those engines without me on board! I left specific instructions that I was to be there to witness their first run. My God, I’ll have that Glaswegian bastard’s hide for this!’
Ockham tried to calm the situation. ‘I believe it was Dickson who gave the order.’
For a moment I thought Brunel was going to turn his anger on Ockham, the man who for several years had been a strange combination of apprentice and patron. But there was to be no distracting him from pouring scorn on the man he now clearly regarded as his nemesis. ‘And who is Dickson’s employer?’ he raged. ‘Answer me that? Who pulls his strings?’ There was silence. ‘Russell, that’s who. He’s behind this… this mutiny!’
‘So has the ship sailed?’ I asked, looking to Ockham for an answer.
He shook his head. ‘Dickson just turned the engines over to check everything was operating smoothly. She didn’t move an inch; the drive to the paddle wheels was disconnected.’
This all seemed like a bit of a storm in a teacup. Like Ockham, my main concern was to calm the situation, as Brunel could ill afford this kind of strain. But the engineer was not to be reasoned with. ‘I’m going to call my carriage and get down there. I’ll show Russell who’s boss. I’ve had him dismissed before now and I will do it again.’
Ockham was by now clearly wishing he had kept his mouth shut. ‘Isambard, you know you need him to finish the job; we agreed that. And anyway, he’s not there.’
‘Not there?’ said Brunel, dropping back into his seat.
‘He isn’t there now and, before you blow a gasket, he wasn’t there when it happened. It was just Dickson. He had been working on the valves all day. On the improvements you suggested. He wanted to check them out, that’s all. He was pleased with the result and said I was to pass on his thanks to you.’
‘Really?’ said Brunel, biting off the end of a fresh cigar and spitting the tip on to the floor beside him. As I had expected, an earlier attempt to persuade him to cut down on his intake had fallen on deaf ears. But he was calmer now. ‘I should have designed those damned engines from the very start.’
The fire of Brunel’s rage had been extinguished but Ockham continued to pour water on the smoking embers. ‘Which brings me to this,’ he said, placing a polished box on the desk. ‘I put the finishing touches to it last night, just as you asked.’
Brunel brightened. He dragged the box towards him and patted the lid before pushing it open and lifting out its contents. The weighty mass of the heart sat in his cupped hands, the combination of polished metals giving it more than ever the appearance of a splendid jewel. He looked up at me. ‘And what do you think of this, doctor?’
Beautiful as it was, my layman’s interest in the mechanics of the thing outweighed my appreciation of its aesthetic appeal. ‘Can I take a closer look?’
Brunel rose to his feet and walked around to join us at the front of the desk, carrying the heart before him. He nodded towards the stove in the corner. ‘Fetch that cloth over.’
Ockham spread the rag out on the desk and stepped back as Brunel set the object gently down on the makeshift cushion. The outer casing was adorned with a series of copper outlets and valves, which stood in for the main arterial connections of the vena cava, aorta and pulmonary artery. Brunel flicked a small catch and the casing opened to reveal the chambers inside, formed from the stainless-steel plates which had been created by Wilkie’s skilful
hands. I could not resist brushing my fingertips along the polished surface. To my surprise the cold metal gave ever so slightly under my touch. Afraid that I might have broken something, I snatched my hand away.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Brunel. ‘It won’t bite you. Watch this.’ He snapped the two halves together again, locking them into place with the latch. Turning the device on the rag, he used a forefinger to brush the edge of a wheel where it protruded through a slot in the outer casing. As the fly-wheel turned so the outer surfaces of the steel plates, where they were exposed by the oval-shaped voids cut into the casing, began to move up and down and in and out. The movement created a sucking sound and Brunel placed the palm of his hand over one of the copper outlets. ‘What you would call the chambers of the heart are operating like pistons in an engine, creating a vacuum powerful enough to transfer pressure along these pipes.’ There was a popping sound as his hand pulled free from the mouth of the pipe and he watched as the small red ring on his skin slowly disappeared.
I confessed to not understanding how the thing would operate as an engine, given that the function of the heart in the body was not to animate the body but to feed blood to and from the lungs.
‘This is really only a part of the engine, just like the heart is only a part of the body. That is where Russell has been so clever with the design of his torpedo. His drawings show that the device would serve to distribute pressurized gases and liquids around the machine, just as the heart pushes blood around the body. Other components will serve to convert that pressure into movement, ultimately causing the screw to turn. But don’t get me wrong: this little trinket is the key to Russell’s machine; it is the component which will allow the torpedo to operate underwater as a self-contained unit.’
‘You are sure it will work?’ I asked, bending down to study it at eye level. ‘Can Russell be certain that this will work in his infernal machine?’
‘Of course not,’ pronounced Brunel, shaking out the flame on his match after at last lighting the cigar. ‘He would have to test it. The thing may require modification before he gets it to work in his own device. But I think it will run like a charm.’
