The Mechanical Messiah and Other Marvels of the Modern Age Page 13

  ‘There is nothing to fear from a corpse.’ Sir Frederick Treves held high the saw, then went to work with a will.

  The sounds of cracking ribs were simply frightful and Cameron Bell had cause to cover his ears.

  The surgeon whistled a Music Hall song, then ceased to whistle mid-verse.

  ‘There is something queer here,’ he observed.

  Cameron Bell uncovered his ears. ‘You had best be careful,’ he said.

  ‘There is nothing to fear from a— Waaaaaaah!’ There was a muffled explosion and Sir Frederick Treves found himself literally doused from head to waist in the contents of the corpse. ‘By the grace of God,’ cried he, flailing about in the gore.

  ‘I suspected something of the sort,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘I did counsel caution.’

  Cameron Bell waited patiently in the office of Sir Frederick Treves whilst the great surgeon took himself off to the shower room and acquired a change of clothes.

  Cameron Bell did not waste his time, however. He spent it gainfully going through the surgeon’s private papers and filing drawers to acquaint himself with everything that might prove pertinent to the case, or cases. Which now might in fact number several.

  Cleanly scrubbed, lightly pomaded, dressed less than comfortably in one of Joseph Merrick’s suits, Sir Frederick Treves eventually appeared. His face no longer smiling.

  ‘If that was some kind of prank,’ he said, ‘I will do for Mr Merrick.’

  ‘He is not to blame upon this occasion.’ Cameron Bell took himself over to the sideboard. ‘Should I pour us both a whisky?’ he suggested.

  Sir Frederick Treves nodded grimly and sat himself down behind his desk. Cameron Bell fought once more with hilarity as he handed the surgeon a glass of whisky, whilst noting the bizarre effect the weirdly shaped suit created upon him.

  ‘Don’t you smirk at me,’ said Sir Frederick Treves.

  ‘Of course not.’ Cameron Bell raised his glass. ‘To Her Majesty the Queen,’ he said.

  ‘Her Majesty the Queen.’ Glasses clinked and whisky went its way.

  ‘Regarding Mr Merrick,’ said Sir Frederick Treves. ‘You seem to have made a friend there, Bell.’

  ‘Really?’ said Cameron Bell. ‘That is pleasing to my ears, I suppose.

  ‘Yes, he was greatly taken by your jest of leaving him alone and penniless at the Electric Alhambra. Thought it the funniest thing ever. I never actually considered playing pranks on him myself Odd what pleases some fellows, is it not?’

  The private detective nodded. ‘As long as he got back here safely,’ he said.

  ‘Ah, that.’ Sir Frederick Treves raised an eyebrow. ‘We do not allow Mr Merrick to prowl the streets of Whitechapel at night, as a rule,’ said he. ‘It can be dangerous, you know.’

  ‘For whom, I wonder?’ mused Cameron Bell.

  ‘And what do you mean by that?’

  Cameron Bell did shruggings of the shoulders. Took Sir Frederick’s now empty glass from him. Took himself to the sideboard and refreshed both glasses. ‘Rumours persist,’ he said.

  ‘And I know of them.’ Sir Frederick Treves made the face of fierceness. ‘That Joseph was implicated in the Ripper killings of eighteen eighty-eight.’

  ‘Not publicly,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘And the Ripper murders were before my time as a detective. It is of course interesting to note that all the murders occurred within walking distance of the London Hospital, yet no staff or patients at the hospital were ever questioned. How would you account for that?’

  Sir Frederick Treves offered Cameron Bell a most unexpected wink. It was a certain wink. Allied to a certain handshake. Cameron Bell, as a Brother Under the Arch, knew well the meanings of both wink and handshake.

  ‘Not Mr Merrick, then,’ said he.

  ‘We all make mistakes in our youth,’ said Sir Frederick Treves. ‘But some of us atone for them with good works once we are older.’

  ‘Let us speak of other matters,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘“The regrettable affair of the exploding corpse”, as it might be chronicled in the memoirs of Mr Holmes.’

  ‘Odd,’ said Mr Frederick Treves. ‘Post—mortem gases generally form in the stomach as the digestive juices begin to eat into the body. As to why the lungs would erupt in such a fashion I have absolutely no idea.’

  ‘I will put a proposition to you,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘You may tell me whether you believe it to be sound.’ He handed the surgeon his refilled glass. Clinked his own against it. ‘Your victim, I believe, died through inhaling a noxious gas of some sort. The gas was introduced through the victim’s mouth. The throat was closed through partial strangulation. The gas within ate into the windpipe, sealing it shut. As it ate into the lungs they expanded, but were locked against the ribcage until you cut through it.’

  ‘This is a theory I would have liked to have heard before I did the actual cutting.’

  ‘I regret that up until the explosion it was only a theory. I would suggest you test the lung tissue, it might yield up interesting results.’

  Sir Frederick Treves supped further whisky. ‘You have not yet told me why you came here,’ he said. ‘I assume you did not visit on a purely social basis.’

  ‘What luck have you had with the hurty-finger?’ asked the detective.

  ‘It is a finger of something. But at present I can tell you no more than that.’

  ‘I have something else that I think might interest you. Cameron Bell took this something from his trouser pocket and handed it to the surgeon.

  Sir Frederick Treves held it up to the light. ‘A crystal?’ he said. ‘From some chandelier?’

  Cameron Bell shook his head. ‘Run it about your whisky glass,’ said he.

  ‘Like this, do you mean?’

  The detective nodded. There was a high-pitched grating sound. The top of the glass fell down to the desk, cleaved neatly away from the bottom.

  ‘A diamond?’ said Sir Frederick Treves. ‘And surely the biggest I have ever seen. What of this, my friend? Have you added Grand Larceny to your achievements? Is this part of the Crown jewels?’

  ‘No such gem has been reported stolen. But peer a little closer, if you will.’

  Sir Frederick Treves squinted at the glittering gem. ‘Well, I will be damned!’ was what he said.

  ‘Intriguing, is it not?’ Cameron Bell leaned over the desk and peered hard into the gemstone. ‘There would appear to be something going on in there. Movement of some kind. As if something lives within.’

  ‘A foetus?’ the surgeon suggested. ‘Is this some kind of an egg?’

  Cameron Bell shrugged hopelessly. ‘I am unqualified to say. Show me a gentleman’s bow tie and I will tell you which public school he attended. Show me a sock and I’ll tell you his religion. But once again I am out of my depth. This is something unworldly. Something not of this Earth.’

  ‘I am a man of Earthly medicine,’ said Sir Frederick Treves. ‘I will put this unusual object beneath the microscope. But I am at a loss to know what else can be done.’

  ‘Amongst the patients here,’ said Cameron Bell, finishing his second glass of whisky, ‘might there be any who have travelled in space?’

  ‘Ah, good point. You think they might recognise the mysterious item?’

  ‘It is a possibility.’

  Sir Frederick Treves leaned back in his chair and tugged upon a velvet bell pull whose upper end vanished through a hole in the ceiling.

  Presently there came a knock upon the door.

  ‘Come,’ called Sir Frederick Treves.

  A young nurse entered, her head bowed low in modesty.

  ‘Nurse When,’ said Sir Frederick Treves, addressing the young and most attractive nurse, ‘do we at present have any patients here who have travelled in space?’

  Nurse When raised a pretty face and made a thoughtful expression. ‘Not at present, she said. ‘We do have an outpatient, though. A retired military gentleman. He comes in regularly to renew his prescription for Mercury Vapour, to relieve his back
pain. I believe he was in—’

  ‘The Queen’s Own Electric Fusiliers,’ said Sir Frederick Treves. ‘I recall him now. Colonel somebody-or-other.’

  ‘Colonel Katterfelto,’ said Cameron Bell. Who had recognised the name of the sprightly bill-bottomer whilst rooting through the filing cabinet of Sir Frederick Treves. ‘I have other lines of investigation to pursue for now, but I’ll speak with this fellow soon enough.’

  20

  ZZ MANUFACTURING LTD ran the sign above the door. A sign that was weather-worn and going all to seed.

  ‘Just needs a little lick of paint,’ said the managing agent of the property. He was a sharply dressed young gentleman with an educated accent who carried himself with a confident air that the colonel did not warm to.

  The managing agent took out a ring of keys and applied one to the padlock securing the door. Rotten wood crumbled and padlock, hasp and all went tumbling to the rubbish-strewn yard that lay before this property.

  The young man made a pained expression, then brightened as he said, ‘You will find the interior deceptively spacious.’ Putting his shoulder to the door, he added, ‘We’ll soon have this open.’ But the door remained shut.

  Colonel Katterfelto added effort and with a rather sickening crunch the door fell from its hinges.

  Colonel Katterfelto gazed down at the broken door, then squinted into dusty, fusty darkness.

  ‘Smells like a damned latrine,’ said the colonel. ‘Don’t think I’ll bother with this one.

  ‘Sir.’ The managing agent made a face of exasperation.

  ‘This is the sixth property I have shown you.

  ‘And each of less suitability.’

  ‘Would you care to see the first one again, sir?’

  ‘No, I would not.’ The colonel flicked away at the dust that was beginning to settle upon his shoulders. ‘Have to try some other part of London.’

  The managing agent wrung his hands. The thought of a potential tenant slipping through his fingers irked him mightily.

  ‘It does have to be an industrial premises, does it?’ he asked.

  The colonel, who had so far disclosed absolutely nothing at all to the managing agent regarding the use he intended to put the property to, shrugged his shoulders. ‘I own a set of clockwork minstrels,’ he said. ‘Need somewhere to store ‘em. Somewhere to fix ‘em up when they break down.

  Somewhere private. Somewhere secure.

  ‘We do have one property that might interest you.’ The managing agent smiled pathetically. ‘You might consider it quirky, but the rent is reasonable.’

  ‘Go on then,’ said the colonel. ‘Tell me what you have.’

  ‘It is an abandoned chapel,’ said the managing agent. ‘In Whitechapel.’

  ‘Whitechapel, you say?’ The man behind the high clerk’s desk looked down upon Cameron Bell. ‘All sorts of reports come in from Whitechapel. We take most with a pinch of salt.’

  The private detective nodded his head and gazed about at the office. It was the office of the Daily Rocket, one of the capital’s more sensational news—sheets. Its walls were papered with front-page exclusives. The high clerks’ desks held tottering towers of papers. The rhythmic thrashing sounds of the letterpress had the room in a constant vibration. Newsboys came and newsboys went. There was an air of much busyness.

  ‘There are rumours about some kind of magical goingson.’ Cameron Bell had to keep his voice raised to be heard. ‘Commander Case gave an interview to your editor last night.’

  ‘Would not know anything about it,’ said the clerk.

  Cameron eyed him carefully. ‘Magic seems to be all the fashion nowadays,’ he said. ‘All manner of magical societies flourish here in the capital.’

  ‘People don’t believe in magic,’ said the clerk. ‘There’s no news in magic.’

  ‘So the business about magical goings-on in—’

  ‘Whitechapel, yes, you said, and no, I do not know anything about any such thing.’

  ‘Perhaps I might speak with your editor, then.’

  ‘He has taken leave,’ said the clerk. ‘Gone away on a trip to the continent. He will not be back for some time.’

  ‘Then whoever is standing in for him.’

  ‘I am standing in for him.’

  ‘And you have not heard—’

  ‘Please, I will have to stop you there, sir. We are very busy, as you can see, preparing the evening edition. How do you like this for a headline?’ He displayed a rough proof of a news-sheet front page:

  LITTLE TICH

  ATE MY

  HAMSTER

  ‘Splendid,’ said Cameron Bell.

  Outside, Fleet Street seemed almost peaceful by comparison. The open-topped horse buses with their colourful advertising signs, the gay parasols of the ladies, the glitter and sparkle of London alive. Cameron Bell loved it all.

  ‘Excuse me, guv’nor.’ A ragged-looking urchin tugged his trousers.

  ‘On your way, my boy,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘No, guv’nor, I work for—’

  Cameron Bell made observations of the ragged lad. ‘The Daily Rocket,’ said the detective. ‘What do you want of me?’

  ‘It’s what I has to offer money-wise,’ said the lad. Rubbing together the thumb and forefinger of his right hand in a suggestive fashion. ‘I has something as you might want.’

  ‘Go on then,’ said the detective.

  ‘I has the file,’ said the lad.

  Cameron Bell said, ‘Go on then,’ once more.

  ‘When they took ‘im away,’ the ragged lad continued. ‘They said as I was to dump the file in the furnace. But I didn’t dump it, I hid it.’

  ‘Enterprising boy,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘But who are they? And what are the contents of the file?’

  ‘The they—’ The grimy boy did furtive glancings to the left and right, then beckoned Cameron Bell to lower his head. ‘The they,’ he whispered, ‘was two gentlemen in black. They took away the editor this morning.’

  Cameron Bell took in this intelligence. ‘And the file?’ he asked in a measured fashion.

  ‘What you was talking about with George the chief clerk. The magical goings-on in old Whitechapel.’

  The large and ornate key turned in the chapel door with a satisfying click. The door did not even creak upon its hinges. Colonel Katterfelto breathed in the smell. Of incense and of candle wax, of ancient wood and mellow stone. Of prayer books and hassocks. As only a chapel can smell.

  The colonel breathed it in again and nodded in approval.

  ‘All it needs is a lick of paint,’ said the managing agent. ‘And as you can see it is deceptively spacious.’

  Your remarks are certainly specious, thought the colonel. And gazing up at a stained-glass window that vividly depicted the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian, he asked, ‘How much is the rent?’

  ‘Five guineas per week,’ said the managing agent.

  ‘Five guineas?’ roared the colonel. ‘Damn it, man, I could lodge at the Ritz for less.’

  ‘It has potential, you see,’ said the managing agent. ‘As a dosshouse. You could cram maybe one hundred in here of a night. At three pence a pop, you would come out with a clear two pounds profit a week. I worked it out myself upon a piece of paper.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ went the colonel, huffing and puffing away.

  ‘There is other interest,’ said the managing agent. But he knew and the colonel suspected that this was naught but a lie.

  ‘Four pounds,’ said the colonel, ‘and not a penny more.

  The managing agent thought about this. ‘We will call it four guineas,’ said he.

  ‘Four guineas a week, then, it is.’ The colonel put his hand out for a shake. The managing agent shook it.

  ‘Four shillings then, sir, and it’s a deal,’ said the ragged boy. Cameron Bell shook the grubby hand, then examined his own for cooties. The lad slipped into an alleyway beside the offices of the Daily Rocket and presently returned with something bundled up beneath his ra
gs.

  The exchange was made in silence and Cameron Bell took his leave.

  In a nearby alehouse he ordered a pint of porter. That the sole contents of his stomach this day consisted of the two large whiskies that he had taken in the company of Sir Frederick Treves did not concern Cameron Bell. He had a hardy constitution and although of Pickwickian proportions tended to eat little more than one meal a day.

  Taking himself, in the company of porter, to a quiet corner of the saloon bar, Cameron Bell began leafing through the contents of the file. Interesting contents they were.

  There were written reports by ‘concerned citizens’ that Cabbalistic practices were rife in the East End and that these involved the sacrifice of Christian babies. Cameron Bell turned his nose up to this. Anti-Semitic nonsense, he considered. There were several photographs, which showed a number of curious symbols that had been scrawled upon walls. The late Mr Crowley could probably have interpreted those. Then there were the reports of missing persons. And as he slowly went through these, Cameron Bell found a creeping chill a-moving up his spine. Four young women had vanished. All of reported good character. All — Cameron Bell considered the word — virgins, he supposed. And a suspect had been seen lurking about near the locations where each of the young ladies vanished. A suspect? This suggested kidnapping. The suspect was described as tall, slim and well dressed in a high top hat and carrying a malacca cane. Witnesses agreed that there was an indescribable something about this fellow that ‘fair put the wind up them’.

  Cameron Bell removed his hat and applied his handkerchief to his naked pate. The figure who had escaped upon the flying platform fitted well the description.

  The private detective swallowed porter. Tried to steady his nerves. He had felt that indescribable something and it had fair put the wind up him also.

  ‘Whitechapel, then,’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Whitechapel it must be.’

  ‘Whitechapel?’ screamed Darwin the monkey. ‘You’ve taken us rooms in Whitechapel?’

  ‘Not rooms, said Colonel Katterfelto. ‘Not rooms, my dear fellow. An entire property. Deceptively spacious.’