The Mechanical Messiah (55 page)

‘Leave,’ the Chancellor hissed at them in a dark and terrible tone.

Within the entrance hall the constables had got a bit of a party started. A constable with connections in low places had brought in a couple of willing women. Someone was playing a harmonica. Constable Gates was doing an Irish jig.

The unannounced arrival of the Chancellor of the Exchequer came as something of a body blow. Put a bit of a dampener on the festivities.

‘Out!’ hissed the figure all in black.

The constables took flight.

‘You.’ The Chancellor pointed at Constable Gates. ‘Give me the key to the cell of Cameron Bell and give me precise instructions on how to reach it.’

Trembling as he did so, Constable Gates did both.

‘And now
get out!’

And willingly the constable did that also.

The Chancellor’s shoes were soled with India rubber. They made no sound at all as the Chancellor walked.

He walked across the entrance hall. Down a flight of steps and along a dismal passageway that led between the ranks of very dismal cells.

Outside the one occupied by Cameron Bell, the Chancellor halted. He leaned forwards and peered through the little grille in the door.

The private detective sat with his back to this door. Shoulders hunched. Bald head shining by gaslight.

‘Bell,’ hissed the Chancellor of the Exchequer. ‘Our paths cross once again.’

Mr Bell said nothing in reply. In fact he sat without moving. Apparently ignoring every word.

‘Brave man, Bell,’ the Chancellor hissed. ‘For now it is all over for you. And I will treat you most cruelly. Or will I show you mercy? Perhaps. If the mood of generosity is upon me. Rise and hand the ring to me and I will let you live.’

Mr Bell said nothing once more. Nor did he move at all.

‘Now!’ cried the horrible figure in black. ‘I will not be ignored. The ring and now or I enter the cell and tear you into pieces.’

But no sound came from Cameron Bell. He made no effort to rise.

‘And so you die.’ The Chancellor of the Exchequer put the key into the lock, turned it and kicked the door open before him.

‘You will pay dearly for your ill manners,’ hissed he. In two long steps he crossed the cell and laid hands on the private detective.

He snatched at his shoulders and turned him around.

And then took a single step back.

The figure before him was
not
Mr Cameron Bell.

It was a waxwork figure of Mr Pickwick.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer grabbed at this waxwork figure, hauled it up before him. It was unwontedly weighty for a waxwork. He tore the coat wide open.

To his horror now he saw the figure’s interior. Numerous sticks of dynamite attached to some kind of electrical device.

Outside in the carriage park hut, a ball of cotton wool in each of his ears, sat Mr Cameron Bell.

He pressed his thumb to an electrical switch.

Scotland Yard exploded noisily.

he front façade of Scotland Yard dated back to the time of Sir Christopher Wren. It was relatively undamaged, as Cameron hoped it would be. Within what had once been the building’s interior a fire raged savagely. But
that
would presently die.

Mr Bell had reasoned, correctly enough, that once the Chancellor of the Exchequer learned of his capture, he would hasten to the detective’s cell to acquire the Ring of Moses and dispose of Mr Bell. Cameron had also reasoned that he would probably wish to do this in private and so would dismiss all the police night staff from the building.

Cameron Bell emerged from the comparative safety of the carriage park hut, pulled the cotton wool from his ears and dusted away at himself. He wore an immaculate evening suit, black tailcoat, white tie, white gloves, silk top hat. And now, a black false moustache. He cut an impressive figure. An impressive
mustachioed
figure.

He gazed upon the ruination he had wrought and made so—so gestures with his gloved hands.

‘Unfortunate about the building,’ said he. ‘But it had to be done. One down and one to go, methinks.’

He took himself to the street. The driver of the electrical Maria was patting dust from himself. He was also saying, ‘Oh yes! Oh yes!’ and occasionally punching at the sky.

Cameron Bell approached him.

The driver ceased his ‘oh-yessings’.

‘I am Lord Bell,’ said Mr Cameron Bell. ‘The Chancellor of the Exchequer has been assassinated. I am commandeering this vehicle. Take me at once to—’

‘Ten Downing Street?’ asked the driver.

‘The Electric Alhambra,’ said Cameron Bell, adjusting his moustache.

Colonel Katterfelto tugged upon his moustache.

‘Is He having a party in there?’ he asked.

Darwin climbed down from the colonel’s back. ‘It sounds like choirs, too,’ said the awestruck monkey.

‘Do you think … ?’ The colonel looked down at his friend. ‘Do you think He—’ The colonel paused.

‘Do I think that He now knows who He is?’ Darwin the monkey nodded.

‘Best go in then.’ The colonel put his hand to the chapel door.

‘I’ll follow you,’ said Darwin. ‘For I am now
very
afraid.’

‘I hope you will pardon me saying this,’ said the driver of the electric Maria, ‘but I for one was very afraid of the Chancellor of the Exchequer.’

‘Myself also,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘In fact, I have never known such fear in my life.’

‘Perhaps with him gone,’ said the driver, ‘and again no offence meant and pardon me for saying this, London might get back to normal.’

‘That indeed is my hope.’

‘And you just happened to be passing by, did you?’ asked the driver.

‘Just passing by,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘You were lucky to survive.’

‘I trust that luck played no part in it.’

‘But you
were
lucky.’

‘If you insist,’ said Cameron Bell.

‘I do,’ said the driver. ‘After all, the blast did blow your moustache upside down.’

‘To the Electric Alhambra,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And drive, if you will, like a batsman out of Hell.’

Scenes of Heaven, scenes of Hell upon the stained-glass windows and a wonderful light of purest gold filling the rented chapel.

The colonel edged in cautiously, Darwin the monkey clutching the colonel’s leg.

In the middle of the chapel floor there stood the Mechanical Messiah. The colonel blinked and focused his eyes as all about the golden figure in the golden light, a swirl of other figures moved. They looked all but transparent, the stuff of dreams or fairy enchantment. Sprites and elfin creatures, surely these were angels, too.

The colonel stood, transfixed, and as he viewed the beautiful metal man with the figures of myth and wonder and of holiness encircling Him and rising upwards and upwards, the colonel realised that he had witnessed this scene before.

He had seen beings of wonder climbing one upon another upwards and upwards in the details of the auditorium walls of the Electric Alhambra.

Colonel Katterfelto fell to his knees.

Darwin the monkey did likewise and covered his head with his hands.

‘Brothers,’ said the Mechanical Messiah. ‘Brothers, you have come unto me.’

Colonel Katterfelto bowed his head.

‘And you have brought life unto me.’

The colonel made a silent puffing assent.

‘And I must wage war upon the Beast.’

‘The Beast is dead, but the case is far from over,’ whispered Mr Cameron Bell as the electric Maria moved onwards.

Horse-drawn fire appliances, their bells ringing wildly, rushed towards Mr Bell, then passed him by on their way to Scotland Yard.

A fine crowd had gathered before the façade to view the fire beyond. Several members of London’s underworld, whose criminal records had been lodged within, cheered wildly. One, whom history would only know by his nickname of ‘Jack’, smiled contentedly.

‘That Case chap was on the verge of proving my guilt,’ he said to one of Whitechapel’s willing women.

‘For what?’ this lady of the night replied.

‘Come to that dark alley over there,’ said ‘Jack’, ‘and we will discuss it.’

Ring-ring-ring
went the fire-engine bells, bringing further joy to the assembled crowd.

But then a lady in a straw hat, who had been returning home after a bit of late-night cleaning that she would not be declaring for tax, pointed her finger towards what was left of the building and said, ‘Now what is
that?’

The crowd peered towards the flame-licked brickwork. For within the inferno beyond something dark was moving.

It seemed to rise and then move forwards. Stiff-legged, but alive. Alive within the flames.

‘Someone lives,’ cried the lady in the straw hat.

‘A man,’ cried someone else. ‘A man walks from the flames.’

And a man indeed walked from the flames.

But only a man in semblance.

He wore a long black cloak and a high top hat. A black veil smothered his face. He stood in the door-gone entrance and flexed his narrow shoulders.

Although he had just emerged from fire, there was not a single mark upon him.

‘It is a miracle,’ someone cried.

‘A miracle,’ others agreed.

‘A miracle,’ said Colonel Katterfelto.

‘I feel him,’ said the man of burnished brass.

There were no sprites nor angels now. He stood upon the chapel floor with none but the man and the monkey.

‘He has risen,’ said the Mechanical Messiah.

Darwin the monkey looked up at the colonel.

The old soldier shrugged his shoulders.

‘I feel him,’ said the man-made God. ‘Can you not feel him, too?’

‘Can’t,’ said the colonel. ‘Sorry.’

‘He has brought great evil unto this world. You have brought
me
into this world.’ The Mechanical Messiah spoke words of Revelation:

‘And he laid hold on the dragon,

that old serpent, which is the

Devil and Satan and bound him

a thousand years.

‘And cast him into the bottomless

pit and shut him up and set a

seal upon him that he should

deceive the nations no more.

‘He has done
what?’
Sergeant Case held in his hands a telegram. It had just been delivered to his door. The telegram had been sent much earlier in the day, but the post boy had been instructed to deliver it at a very particular time.

‘Mr Bell gave clear instructions,’ said the post boy. ‘My timekeeping is impeccable. I am sure that you agree.’

Sergeant Case slammed shut the door upon the punctual post boy.

He tore open the telegram and viewed its contents.

HAD UNDERWORLD CONTACT CUT KEY FOR

CELL EARLIER IN DAY STOP ESCAPED

ONE HOUR AGO STOP REGRET THAT

IT WAS NECESSARY TO DESTROY

SCOTLAND YARD STOP WILL AWAIT

YOU AT ELECTRIC ALHAMBRA

WHEN ALL WILL BE EXPLAINED

STOP.

Sergeant Case made gagging sounds in his throat. His loving wife brought him a glass of water.

‘Scotland Yard.’ The sergeant’s voice was quavery. ‘He did for the Crystal Palace, Buckingham Palace, Nelson’s Column and the National Gallery and now he’s done for Scotland Yard. The man is systematically destroying London. And now—’ He flapped his fingers at the telegram. ‘Now he will do for the Electric Alhambra. Just you mark my words. But not on my watch, I tell you! He will
not
have the Electric Alhambra. I will have that Devil, you see if I don’t.’