Secrets of the Lazarus Club
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London, 1857. A series of mutilated corpses are pulled from the Thames. Young surgeon Dr George Phillips is first consulted, and then suspected, by baffled police. The Lazarus Club Meanwhile, a secret society meets. This gathering of the finest minds of the age - Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Charles Babbage, Charles Darwin and others - wish to use their discoveries to change the world...Murder and conspiracy. But there are those who use the club for their own mysterious and black ends. With his reputation and his life on the line, Dr Phillips must unmask the plotters before they unleash on an unsuspecting world an awesome scientific power.
had found it, he reluctantly agreed to pitch in. With great difficulty we pushed, shoved and coaxed the soil back into the hole as best we could manage. I had to stop at regular intervals to allow spells of dizziness to pass, while William skilfully worked his shovel with one hand and a foot. By the time we had stamped the earth down and replaced the wreaths, which went some way to disguise our less than perfect restoration, the dawn was well advanced. William took a last hearty swig from his
so I got straight to the point. ‘Perry’s taking the torpedo out of the river up to Liverpool on a boat. Have you heard of the Shearwater?’ Ockham was now fully awake. ‘The Shearwater? She’s a small screw-driven steamer, usually moored in the Pool. She was built by our old friends Blyth’s a year or so back. Don’t know who owns her now, but given she’s of the latest design it wouldn’t surprise me if his name was Catchpole.’ We arrived at the exit just in time to see Perry leaving through the
unapologetic Babbage before closing the window and returning to his seat. ‘A man cannot go anywhere in this town without having his ears assailed by some instrument of torture!’ While I was mildly horrified and not a little amused by what I’d just seen, most of my companions seemed entirely uninterested in Babbage’s behaviour, acting as though it were nothing out of the ordinary – only Brunel responded, rolling his eyes and muttering, ‘Here we go again.’ Babbage remained in his seat but was not
flurry of handshakes from the men gathered there and with curtsies from the excitable females. Duty done, he introduced me to a tall, heavy-set gentleman with a red chinstrap beard. ‘Dr Phillips, this is Mr John Scott Russell, my partner in this enterprise.’ ‘He means that I built the ship he designed – this is my yard,’ said the big Scotsman, somewhat proprietorially. ‘Quite an operation you have here, Mr Russell.’ ‘Let us hope so, doctor,’ he said, before turning his attention to Brunel. ‘I
painted iron. I turned to Brunel and said quietly, ‘They decided against Tom Thumb then.’ He laughed and, clearly excited by the prospect, told me he was going up to the launch podium, suggesting I find myself a good vantage point somewhere at a safe distance. Accompanied by his assistants, Brunel climbed the steps inside the siege tower while I made my way back up the slope towards the gates, where an expectant hush had fallen over the assembled mass. It was only when I got closer that I