The Mechanical Messiah (24 page)

iwis are cantankerous birds,’ said Alice as she chased the fleet-footed vandals around the house. ‘Wilful creatures, too,’ she continued, as one dashed between her legs and upset a jardinière stand, causing an aspidistra pot to shatter on the marble floor of the hall.

‘Oh please,’ cried Alice. ‘Return to the outhouse or we shall be forced to sleep upon the street.’

Amidst much cajoling and the employment of the stout stick that Cameron Bell kept in his umbrella stand for the purpose of belabouring Jehovah’s Witnesses, the boisterous birds were returned at length to the outhouse, and the door bolted firmly upon them.

‘And no breakfast for you today, bad birds,’ said Alice.

The damage was considerable. Alice did her best to tidy up, but tidying up was not really something that she excelled at. It was not something that she had practised with rigour. She found a broom and pushed it around a bit and then discovered a news journal on the hall table and felt the need to improve herself by sitting down to study it.

She read a bit about cake-making and this recalled to her that she had taken no meals as yet this day and was in fact most hungry.

Alice took herself to the kitchen. And here she achieved both coffee and toast and, pleased with these achievements, sat herself at the kitchen table to eat and read the rest of the journal.

The cries of horror that came from the hall were an irksome interruption.

‘My home.’ The raised voice was that of Cameron Bell. ‘Those damnable birds have wrecked my home. Destroyed my priceless heirlooms.’

Alice rose from the table and put her head around the kitchen door. ‘Welcome home; Cameron,’ she called.

Cameron’s mouth made goldfish impersonations. ‘It is four in the afternoon. My house is destroyed. You are not dressed. And you are—’ Cameron sniffed at the air. ‘Dining on coffee and toast.’

‘I think you must have forgotten to bolt the outhouse door,’ said Alice. ‘But they are in now and all bolted safely. A few things did get a little knocked about, I am sorry.

‘Sorry?’
Cameron’s face had now become purple. He flung down his hat and, quite beyond reason, jumped up and down upon it. ‘You … you … you …’ he went, utterly lost for words.

Now Alice’s mother had taught her as a child, as all mothers teach their daughters, that when they are grown up and faced with a situation that might reflect poorly upon them, two options existed.

The first was to ‘blame others ‘.

Alice had, in her fashion, just taken up that option, without success, it would appear.

The second of the two and by far the more effective was to ‘look helpless and whimper’.

Alice made a helpless face and burst into a mighty flood of tears.

‘Oh dear lady, please.’ Mr Bell ceased stamping on his hat. He pulled out a fresh pocket handkerchief and stepped towards the poor distressed young thing. ‘I did not mean to make you cry,’ he continued, offering her the hankie to sniff upon. ‘A few trifling antiques. A few irreplaceable family heirlooms. But at least no harm came to you.’

Alice sobbed and sniffed into the hankie.

‘Come,’ said Cameron. ‘Back into the kitchen. Sit yourself down, I will pour you another cup of coffee.’

‘Could you boil me an egg, please, to go with my toast?’ asked Alice.

‘I’ve something to ask you, dear fellow,’ said Colonel Katterfelto.

He and Darwin were back in the bar of The Spaceman’s Club.

Darwin had enjoyed a most successful afternoon’s Snapping, but had been forced to retire from the table due to the over consumption of brandy, which had somewhat slowed his technique. He was sobering up now upon champagne and a bowl of exotic fruit.

‘Opportunity’s come up,’ said the colonel, lighting another cigar. ‘Financial opportunity. Not to be sniffed at. Question is whether you’re up for it.’

Darwin hiccupped and almost got a grape into his mouth.

‘Big-game hunt,’ whispered the colonel. ‘Some Jovian cove willing to fork out twenty thousand guineas if I lead a hunting party. All live happily on that kind of wonga, what d’you think?’

‘Wonga?’ queried Darwin. Then,
‘Twenty thousand guineas?’
went the ape. The sum having something of a sobering effect.

‘Take years here to earn that sort of loot,’ the colonel continued. ‘But the choice is yours. We can dissolve our partnership now. You take today’s winnings and carry on as you will. Or accompany me on the hunt and take ten thousand guineas. Deal’s a deal. Hands shaken and all that kind of business. Officer and gentleman, me, you know the drill. Regrettably be forced to break my contract with the Electric Alhambra. Not too regrettably, though, eh? What with the thrown fruit and all. So what d’you say then, Darwin?’

Ten thousand guineas?
Many thoughts went through the monkey’s head. A sum like that would set him up for life. But a big-game hunt? The lunchtime menu had been a fearful enough thing in itself But to witness fellow wildlife being blasted down by hunters? That was above and beyond just viewing some meat on a plate. But, ten thousand guineas …

‘Take your time,’ said the colonel. ‘Big decision. Best to think it through.’

‘Will we be travelling by airship?’ asked Darwin, who did not relish the thought of another overseas flight. His experiences aboard the ill-fated
Empress of Mars
still reasonably fresh in his mind.

‘Spaceship,’ whispered the colonel. ‘Big-game hunt upon Venus.’

Darwin made a smiling face. ‘A trip on a spaceship,’ said he.

‘Once—in—a—lifetime experience,’ said the colonel. ‘Or not, as in my case. But not something most folk get a crack at. Province of the wealthy and things of that nature generally.’

‘I accept,’ said Darwin and he put out his hand for a shake.

The colonel shook it warmly. ‘Glad you’re coming,’ he said. ‘Grown rather fond of you, must confess. Never had children of my own. Lonely life, really.’

The monkey looked up at the man. ‘I would ask a favour,’ he said.

‘Anything, my dear fellow. Name it and it is yours.’

‘I want to pilot the spaceship, please,’ said Darwin.

‘I wish to hire the Crystal Palace, please.’ Lord Andrew Ditchfield spoke into a complicated contraption composed of valves and items that resembled brass ear-trumpets. It was a device designed to communicate words across a distance of miles without the need for cables. The wireless transmission of words, as it were. A marvel of the modern age designed by Lord Nikola Tesla.

Words accompanied by a fair degree of electrical hissings and poppings were returned to Lord Andrew through the medium of an identical device housed at the Crystal Palace. Words to the effect that this mighty edifice would be at his disposal as of the following evening. Monies were spoken of, a verbal agreement was made. Lord Andrew bade his farewells, flicked switches and smiled as the room returned to its silence.

He had not, from the very first, been entirely honest with Mr Cameron Bell. It was a matter of pride, really. Of ego. He liked it to be known that he owned the Electric Alhambra — in fact he lied about this to all and sundry on a daily basis. But he did
not
own the Electric Alhambra. The state-of-the-present-art Music Hall, with its luxurious auditorium and wonderfully vocal Harmonising Arithmetical Logisticator, was in fact the property of a millionaire industrialist who chose not to have his name associated with the Music Hall, no matter how glorious its interior, or miraculous its Logisticator. The name of the millionaire industrialist was Mark Rowland Ferris and he was the Fifth Earl of Hove. He was also, as it happened, the owner of the Crystal Palace. The former owner having gambled it away at the Snap table of The Spaceman’s Club. There had been no monkey involvement upon that occasion, but it
was
the Fifth Earl who dealt out the cards.

‘Perhaps I should take this as an omen,’ said Lord Andrew to himself ‘The Crystal Palace seats ten thousand. To manage the Crystal Palace, with its classical concerts and gala affairs, would have considerably more cache than managing the Electric Alhambra, no matter how swank its interior. Although folk do think I own it. Perhaps they might be persuaded to believe I own the Crystal Palace.’

Lord Andrew smiled as he thought about all the glamorous opera-singing ladies who appeared at the Crystal Palace. He glanced over to the item of furniture across the room which he referred to as the Casting Chaise. Things would work out for the best, he felt sure. But one thing he most sorely needed now was a brand-new bill-topper for tomorrow night’s show.

This
did
create a problem.

The untimely and unpleasant deaths of the last two bill-toppers were not going to inspire confidence from other bill-toppers of the capital. The likelihood of getting one at such short notice was problematic enough, and with artistes being so superstitious, who would care to step up and risk being unlucky number three?

No one I can think of
thought Lord Andrew. Little Tich, George Robey and the like would not agree. Even for large money and a chance to play at the Crystal Palace. There was only one thing for it really and that was to promote one of the performers on the existing playbill. Elevate them to the number—one slot.

Lord Andrew brought a playbill from his desk drawer and perused it. Colonel Katterfelto? No, not him, he would remain at the bottom of the bill to dodge the fruit and veg. Who then? The Travelling Formbys? Too many of them, they would all demand top pay. The jugglers? No. Peter Pinkerton? There was something about Peter Pinkerton that annoyed Lord Andrew, although he did not know what. So who then? Who was left?

‘Ah,’ said Lord Andrew Ditchfield and his gaze strayed once again towards the Casting Chaise. ‘A little someone who has yet to entertain me fully. I will contact the printers at once and have them run up posters and playbills for tomorrow night. In fact I will rename the entire show, I can see it now.’

And Lord Andrew could. The playbill read —

Unaware of neither her impending elevation to stardom nor indeed the threat of an assault upon her virtue, Alice sat in Cameron’s kitchen, enjoying not only boiled eggs upon toast, but tasty fried bacon and sausage as well.

‘You are such a kind gentleman,’ she said, between vigorous munchings. ‘Such a kind friend, Cameron.’

Cameron Bell was engaged in mental calculations as to just how large the financial depletions of this estate had become with the loss of so many treasured articles.

‘I will be sorry to see you go,’ he said. And he meant this, too, for he was in love with Alice Lovell.

‘Go?’ asked Alice, chewing as she did so. ‘Where would I be going to?’

‘The Electric Alhambra is to be closed indefinitely, as you know, but Lord Andrew has hired a new venue for the show.’

‘Most if not all are within a cab ride from here.’

‘Not this one,’ said Cameron Bell.
‘I
suggested it to Lord Andrew, actually.’ Sometimes Mr Bell hated himself for the words of untruth that he spoke. But he just could not help it. They just came out. ‘You will be playing at the Crystal Palace,’ he said.

‘
The Crystal Palace?’
Alice spat her afternoon breakfast all over Cameron Bell. ‘Oh, I am
so
sorry. But the Crystal Palace? Did you really say the Crystal Palace?’

‘I really
did,’
said Cameron Bell. ‘But perhaps you could remain lodged here. Take the train each day to Sydenham. Your kiwi birds could take lodgings in the grounds of the palace. They would enjoy it there.’

Alice thought about this proposition. And smiled sweetly as she did so.

Then, ‘No,’ she said. ‘I will take diggings in Sydenham. This is the most wonderful day of my life and I have
you
to thank for it.’

‘It was
nothing,’
said Cameron Bell, blushing somewhat. ‘What can I do to thank you?’

‘Nothing, dear lady.’ Cameron smiled. ‘Nothing,’ said Alice, smiling too. ‘Well, that is
something
indeed. Because there is literally nothing that I would not have done to play at the Crystal Palace.’

Cameron Bell bit hard upon his lip.

Alice danced off to get dressed.