The Mechanical Messiah (5 page)

Clearly the air—cooling system was compensating for the sudden rise in temperature caused by the incendiary destruction of the star turn. The phrase ‘went out in a blaze of glory’ momentarily entered the hairless head of Mr Cameron Bell.

But what
had
happened to hapless Harry Hamilton? Some natural disaster? Which was to say something
not
caused by the hand of Man? Mr Bell recalled that in
Bleak House,
his friend Charles Dickens had written of a character by the name of Krook, a rag-and-bottle merchant and hoarder of papers. Krook met his demise in a ball of fire, in what was described as a case of spontaneous human combustion. The scientific community debated over the reality of this phenomenon. But was this what had happened here, witnessed by an audience of thousands?

And if not?

Cameron Bell did strokings of his chin. If not, then this was a rare one indeed. In that it represented a most singular occurrence. A murder committed in plain sight of the detective who would set about its immediate investigation.

‘Please, sir,’ came an urgent voice, stirring Mr Bell from his reverie. ‘You must vacate the premises. You may be in danger, please, sir.

Cameron Bell glanced over his shoulder towards an anxious-looking liveried menial who danced nervously from one foot to the other.

‘We should all flee
now,’
implored this person.

‘I think
not.’
The private detective picked up his hat and perched it upon his head. He handed his champagne glass to the liveried menial, then upon second thoughts retrieved it from his trembling fingers and snatched up the champagne bottle. ‘Waste not, want not,’ he said with a smile. ‘Now take me to your master.’

Lord Andrew Ditchfield, owner of the Electric Alhambra, was a man who liked to be on his premises. Though he owned to a town house in Kensington and a country manor in Ruislip, he all but lived at the Electric Alhambra. High in the building’s uppermost towering turrets, he lodged in apartments that he had nicknamed the Eagle’s Nest. With swank office and living accommodation, including a modern bathroom with shower arrangement and a marble bathtub into which jets of water might be introduced at the touch of a single button. This particular marvel of the modern age was the invention of a professor of hydraulics from Brentford in Middlesex by the name of Doctor Jacuzzi.

Lord Andrew’s bedroom in the Eagle’s Nest had electrically driven doors that opened onto a roof garden of surpassing beauty. Topiaried hedges surrounded this most private garden. Hedges shorn into the shapes of steamships and railway engines, dirigibles and spaceships. Fountains played and rare flowers bloomed upon this London rooftop.

Lord Andrew Ditchfield was not pleased to see Mr Cameron Bell. Lord Andrew was in something of a lather.

‘I will not be blamed for this,’ he cried, upon introduction to the Pickwickian personage who had somehow slipped past his personal guard and used his private lift. ‘It is not my fault. I will not take the blame.’

‘Well now, indeed,’ said Mr Cameron Bell, viewing the Alhambra’s owner. An exceedingly handsome young man. Straight of back, broad of chest and narrow of waist. He wore a quilted red silk dressing gown that reached to his monogrammed slippers and a matching smoking cap with a dangling golden tassel. He was in a state of some distress and his voice had a certain quiver.

‘They will blame it upon the theatre. I know it,’ he said. ‘Upon the electrical system. They will, I know it, I know it.’

Cameron Bell placed champagne glass and bottle upon an inlaid ivory side table, crafted in the manner of Dalbatto. Removed his hat from his head and slid it onto the hat rack next to the entrance door. Then took up the champagne bottle once again.

‘Would you care for a glass?’ he asked.

Lord Andrew perused the label. ‘Not
that
muck,’ he said.

‘Quite so.’

‘You—’ Lord Andrew now perused the calling card that Cameron had presented to him. ‘Bell.’ He nodded. ‘I know of you — you have a slight reputation.’

‘Slight?’
said Mr Bell.

‘You dealt with a delicate matter concerning Lady Karen Pender. A personal friend of mine. She said you did an adequate job.’

‘Adequate?’
Cameron Bell took in the opulent apartment and the titled owner, who bobbed about in the nervous fashion affected by at least one of his liveried menials. ‘How sad,’ he added.

‘Sad?’ asked his lordship. ‘What mean you by this?’

‘To lose so much,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Should the responsibility for Mr Hamilton’s most tragic and
public
demise fall upon your shoulders. Do they still employ the silken rope for the hanging of aristocrats?’

Lord Andrew Ditchfield came all over pale. ‘Silken rope?’ he said.

‘Progress,’ said Cameron Bell, as if musing aloud. ‘Such a vexed question. Is it good, is it bad? All around us miracles of new technology. But are we losing ourselves, our own identities? Is this progress a blessing or a curse?’

Lord Andrew Ditchfield flapped his hands about.

‘This wireless transmission of electricity, for instance. The latest piece of genius from
Lord
Nikola Tesla—’ Cameron Bell paused to observe the grinding of Lord Andrew’s teeth. The old aristocracy had not taken kindly to Mr Tesla’s elevation to the peerage. Although he had been rightly rewarded for his services in the Second Worlds War, he was still to the minds of Lord Andrew and company just one more Johnny Foreigner.

But
very
good with electrical systems. Hence his employment here.

‘We might blame Tesla,’ said Lord Andrew hopefully.

Cameron Bell just shook his naked head. ‘I regret to say, he said, ‘that if Mr Hamilton died through some malfunctioning of the electrical system, it is you who will do the dance for Jack Ketch, silken cord or not.’

Lord Andrew buried his face in his hands and began to sob.

‘If only,’ continued Cameron Bell, as if once more musing aloud, ‘there was someone possessed of investigative skills to a degree that could justly be described as
above adequate
who could look into this matter on your behalf Who could possibly present plausible evidence to support an argument that the electrical system of this elegant and
successful
establishment was in no way to blame, then—’

‘How much?’
cried Lord Andrew. ‘How much do you want? You are hired, just tell me how much.’

Mr Cameron Bell made a thoughtful face and offered a thoughtful nod. In business, as in life, he tended to adhere to something known as the Vance Principle, a universal overview which posited that nothing in the universe was stable. All was constantly changing, evolving, all was mutability.

Mr Cameron Bell’s fees were in harmony with this cosmological axiom and so varied according to the anxiety and financial standing of his clients.

This was in no way dishonest, for Cameron Bell was a most honest man. This was merely business. And it also had to be said that Cameron Bell was not one who could be ‘bought’. He would never knowingly attempt to prove the innocence of any he knew to be guilty. No matter how much they paid him.

And he had already made up his mind that Lord Andrew Ditchfield was
not
guilty of this crime, if crime it really proved to be. Neither through negligence nor intent, no guilty man was he.

This Mr Bell
instinctively
knew, with an instinct based upon reason.

Cameron Bell named a figure as a daily retainer and another as a final remuneration upon satisfactory closure of the case. Lord Andrew, aghast at the enormity of the figures concerned, took to a wilder flapping of his hands.

‘What luck,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘Luck?’ queried Lord Andrew Ditchfield, who could see no luck at all.

‘That I am already on the scene, as it were. Even now the London bobbies will have been alerted and will be on their way. Commander Case of Scotland Yard will probably take immediate charge of this one. A thorough fellow he is, to be sure. Although perhaps at times too thorough. He would no doubt wish to preserve the crime scene for as long as possible. Days, weeks, months, who can say? The Electric Alhambra would have to remain closed throughout this protracted period.’

Lord Andrew groaned dismally.

‘What joy,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘Joy?’ queried his lordship, throwing up his flapping hands.

‘What joy will be seen upon the face of Commander Case when he finds that there is an aristocrat involved. He is presently flirting with this new political fashion known as
Bolshevism.
What was it I recently heard him say? Oh yes —”Come the revolution, aristocrats will be first up against the wall.” A foolish fellow at times. But a great friend, and one who will
take my advice.’

‘I will write out a contract,’ said Lord Andrew, ‘employing you from this very moment.’

‘As luck would have it,’ said Cameron Bell, producing a cream vellum envelope from an inner pocket, ‘I have one of my own with me. I will just fill in the financial details and then you can sign it.’

Commander Case took command of the situation. He arrived at the Electric Alhambra minutes later. In the company of numerous police constables and several members of the press. Including the Society columnist of
The Times.

He was greeted in the foyer by Cameron Bell.

‘Ah,’ puffed Commander Case, a lean and wiry individual with the looks of a whippet and a love for utter control. ‘You, Bell, who invited
you
here?’

‘I witnessed the entire event,’ said Cameron Bell. Who once more held a champagne bottle in one hand and a glass in the other. It was not, however, the same champagne bottle. Rather it was a magnum of superior vintage, fresh from the electrical refrigerating cupboard in Lord Ditch-field’s suite of rooms. ‘Care for a swift glass or two of the bubbly stuff, before you depart?’

‘I suspect that I shall remain here for some considerable time,’ said Commander Case. ‘And, as you know full well, I
never
drink on duty.’

‘Duty?’ Cameron Bell made a certain face. ‘I see the hacks of Grub Street are hard upon your heels once more. I recall, to our shared horror, the liberties they took with you regarding the pronouncement you made in the case of Doctor Hill, the Putney Poisoner.’

Commander Case turned bitter eyes upon Mr Cameron Bell. ‘You got me out of that one, right enough,’ he conceded.

‘And this one also, if you will allow me to conduct the investigation in my own manner, unhampered—’

‘Unhampered?’
Commander Case raised his eyebrows.

‘Slip of the tongue,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Naturally I meant
unassisted.’

‘Naturally you did.’

‘I saw the whole thing happen,’ said the private detective, sipping upon his champagne, ‘and I will be pleased to conduct the investigations entirely alone and with only the minimum of expense to the Metropolitan Police Force.’

‘Minimum expense?’

‘Travel costs and other sundries. Trifling fancies, really.’

‘And—’

‘I will report my findings directly to you and when the case is successfully concluded, you may take full credit. What say you to this?’

There was a moment. A significant moment. And both men knew the significance of this moment.

Commander Case put out his hand and Cameron Bell then shook it. The nature of the handshake was also significant.

‘Champagne?’ said Cameron Bell, with a smile.

‘Certainly,’ said the commander.

he clinking of champagne glasses was not to be heard in the unstarred communal dressing room. The chattering of teeth and the knocking of knees and the rattle of pewter hip flask’s neck against the plywood dentures of Peter Pinkerton. Surely.

But
not
the clinking of champagne glasses.

The turns were in a state of some distress.

Jugglers jiggled nervously and kiwi birds, exhibiting that mysterious sixth sense that their kind are noted for, discerned a palpable danger and used their chameleon—like skills to blend in with the fixtures and fittings. The sounds of chattering teeth, knocking knees and juggler jigglings were interspersed with cries and curses as folk tripped over the kiwi birds.