The Mechanical Messiah and Other Marvels of the Modern Age Read online

  Darwin the monkey shook his head. ‘We should take lodgings in Mayfair,’ was his opinion.

  ‘When we both have accrued sufficient funds,’ said Colonel Katterfelto, ‘then we will dissolve our business partnership. You may go your way and I will go mine. But for now we must work together.’

  Darwin made as thoughtful a face as he was capable of making. He did not really in his heart of hearts believe that the colonel would actually be able to energise his Mechanical Messiah. It was just the mad scheme of an otherwise good-hearted and basically sane individual. And sufficient funds would be goodly funds and Darwin yearned to live once more a life of luxury and excess.

  ‘All right then,’ said he. ‘If Whitechapel it has to be, then Whitechapel it is.’

  But in Whitechapel something evil lurked.

  Something shaped as a man, but not a man.

  Tall and slender and wearing a high top hat, it dwelt now in the deep shadow of an alleyway that led to Miller’s Court. Where nine years earlier Mary Kelly, the last recorded victim of the infamous and uncaught Jack the Ripper, had been cruelly done to death.

  Soundless and sinister, lost in the shadows, this thing of evil offered up strange sounds in a language that no human knew.

  21

  eturning to the Electric Alhambra upon this morning had not been one of Cameron Bell’s original intentions. But as he found himself in need to do so for two specific reasons, he did so.

  Lord Andrew Ditchfield put on a hopeful face at his appearance. ‘You have good news?’ he implored, a-wringing of his hands.

  ‘In that a breakthrough is imminent,’ said Cameron Bell, ‘indeed, yes indeed.’

  ‘In that my theatre can be reopened today?’

  Cameron Bell made a so—so face at this. ‘Two matters, ‘said he. ‘I need you to supply me with the address of Colonel Katterfelto’s theatrical diggings.’

  ‘I suspected him all along,’ said Lord Andrew. ‘Seedy fellow and that monkey of his is always up to no good.’

  ‘He is not a suspect,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘The monkey might have done it.’

  Cameron Bell did rollings of the eyes whilst Lord Andrew Ditchfield sought the box file in which he kept the artistes’ P45s and personal details.

  ‘I would ask,’ said the private detective, ‘that throughout the duration that the theatre is closed you pay the wages of the artistes.’

  Lord Andrew Ditchfield literally froze. ‘Are you completely insane?’ cried he, when he had found a voice to cry with. ‘You are not one of these Bolsheviks that we’ve been reading about in the press lately, are you?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘Then let us have no more of that nonsense.

  ‘Perhaps you might make an exception for one of the performers.’

  Lord Andrew Ditchfield looked long and hard at Mr Cameron Bell. ‘I am not a detective,’ said he, ‘but I would be prepared to wager that you allude to the glamorous trainer of kiwi birds.’

  Cameron Bell flushed somewhat at the cheeks.

  ‘The answer is no,’ said Lord Andrew Ditchfield. ‘And if you have made some promise to that flirty little dolly-mop, it will have to be raised out of your own pocket.’

  Cameron Bell reddened somewhat at the cheeks.

  ‘I face ruination!’ cried Lord Andrew, similarly red. ‘If the theatre is shut down, my creditors will close in upon me like a pack of wolves.’

  ‘Perhaps you might hire another theatre in the interim,’ suggested Mr Bell. ‘You have the performers, you only need the premises.’

  ‘No such available theatre exists in London. However—’ Lord Andrew made a thoughtful face and rushed away, returning in the company of the morning’s newspaper. Ignoring the front page, which had many sensational things to say about the death of Smelly Charlie Belly, he leafed through it until he found— ‘Eureka!’ cried Lord Andrew. ‘Concert season cancelled due to sudden death.’

  ‘Not another?’ said Cameron Bell. ‘Tell me not another ball of flames.’

  ‘Old age,’ said his lordship. ‘Karol Mikuli, the famous concert pianist and conductor. He was booked for a season at the Crystal Palace.’

  ‘The Crystal Palace?’ said Cameron Bell.

  ‘I will hire the Crystal Palace and move the Earl Grey Whistle Test show there. Music Hall at the Crystal Palace, it will be a sensation.’

  ‘Then all is well that ends well, and meanwhile you can pay the performers—’

  ‘No!’ bawled Lord Andrew Ditchfield.

  Cameron Bell said farewell and left without his hat.

  As he left the lift at the ground-floor level he overheard the excited voice of a young bobby saying, ‘But he said he was working on the case with you, Commander, which was why we let him in.’

  Moving once more upon the lightest of feet, Cameron Bell slipped away.

  Commander Case fumed quietly. He was after all a high-ranking officer of the Metropolitan Police Force and those who played silly blighters with him were wont to come to a grief that ended in Strangeways.

  Commander Case had recruited the services of a young and impressionable constable to assist him with his investigations. A foil for the commander’s wit. A whipping boy when things went poorly. The fellow to blame when things went terribly wrong. The young and impressionable constable had not been aware that such unhappy roles awaited him and had jumped at the opportunity of working with so exalted a figure as the commander.

  ‘Constable Williams,’ said Commander Case, as he and the young constable strode in step down the centre aisle of the auditorium, ‘fetch me a cup of tea, if you will, and bring it to wherever I happen to be.’

  ‘Sugar?’ said the constable.

  ‘Don’t be familiar,’ said his commanding officer.

  A church bell rang the midday hour. A dog howled in the distance.

  The constable did scuttlings-off and the commander strode to the stage. Having assured himself that he was all alone, he let out a bit of a sigh. ‘What can there be to this stuff?’ he asked himself ‘This “show me a fellow’s cufflinks and I’ll tell you what he has for breakfast” stuff? It is only observation. There is no real trick to it. If Cameron Bell can do it, I am damn sure I cam, too.’

  He ran a finger along the brass rail that surrounded the hydraulically driven orchestra pit. ‘The answers are all here somewhere,’ he continued to himself ‘It is just a matter of rooting them out. And if a little fat man with a baldy head can do it, then—’

  A little fat man with a baldy head raised his baldy head from the orchestra pit and grinned at Commander Case. ‘Someone alluding to yours truly?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh my dear sir, no.’ A somewhat rattled Commander Case stepped back in surprise.

  ‘I know you,’ said the baldy-headed fellow, wiping his hands upon an oily rag and sticking out the right one for a shake. ‘You are the famous Commander Case. My name is Babbage, Charles Babbage.’

  ‘Mr Babbage, sir.’ Commander Case did bowings of the head and mighty handshakes also. ‘Indeed a pleasure,’ he continued. ‘You are certainly a famous fellow, to be sure.’

  ‘I have coined the term “backroom boffin”,’ said Mr Babbage modestly. ‘Chaps like you do the valiant stuff, I just tinker about.’

  ‘It is most fortuitous that I should find you here.’ The commander took out his cigarette case and selected from it a light blue cocktail cigarette that was the very latest thing. Slotted it into his mouth, offered the case to Mr Babbage, who declined it with the words, ‘I’m a snuff man myself,’ lit the cigarette and continued, ‘I need to know all about the electrical gubbinry of this theatre and you are the man who can put me straight.’

  A painful smile appeared upon the face of the backroom boffin. ‘Rumours have reached my ears regarding the two horrible incidents here,’ said he. ‘That some kind of electrical malfunction might be the cause. You can accept my word as a gentleman that this is not the case.’

  ‘One must n
ever overlook any possibility.’ The commander puffed upon his cigarette. Mr Babbage coughed and fanned at his face. ‘Excuse me. But this is a very pickle of a case. Two star performers identically struck down in a most dramatic fashion.’

  ‘Ray gun,’ said Charles Babbage. ‘If you were to ask my opinion, I would say that they were literally reduced to atoms by a ray gun of the Martian persuasion. They function through a transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter, which causes a cross-polarisation of beta—particles resulting in—’

  ‘That’s easy for you to say,’ said Commander Case, now coughing too upon his cigarette and viewing it with suspicion.

  ‘New brand, is that?’ asked Charles Babbage.

  ‘Tastes appalling.’ The commander made as to fling down the cigarette prior to stamping it out.

  ‘Oh, please don’t!’ cried Mr Babbage, taking it carefully from his fingers. ‘You would not want to burn the carpet or spoil the polished floor, now would you?’

  Commander Case gave his head a minor shake. ‘Some kind of ray gun?’ said he.

  ‘To reduce a human being to ashes—’ Mr Babbage carefully extinguished the cigarette in an appropriate receptacle ‘—requires an extremely high temperature and a prolonged period. These new electric crematoria take at least half an hour to consume a corpse. I understand that the unfortunate events here were all but instantaneous. Something beyond the everyday occurred, Commander Case. Something most unworldly.’

  Alice Lovell woke to a world of sunlight. It fell upon her pretty face and on her golden locks. Alice Lovell gave a little yawn and then a stretch. Became momentarily startled by her new surroundings and then remembered all the events that had happened the previous night.

  ‘I must do something nice for dear Cameron,’ said Alice.

  She peeped about the room that was now hers. It seemed slightly smaller than she remembered it. And the colours of everything now appeared so much brighter. The pastels of the bed cover were now all primaries. The formerly drab wallpaper fairly shone a vibrant yellow.

  ‘Sunlight rather than gaslight, then,’ said Alice.

  Throwing back the covers and swinging out her legs, she was momentarily surprised by what she was wearing. The blue flannelette nightdress that she had worn as a child. She always carried it with her, but she had not worn it for years. She was surprised that it still fitted. She must have slipped it on the previous night without thinking.

  ‘I must have been very tired, then,’ said Alice.

  Her bare feet touched a carpet which had a mossy feel and her waking thoughts now turned towards her kiwi birds. She had slept long into the day and they would be wanting their breakfast.

  ‘Something from Cameron’s kitchen, then,’ said Alice. And, ‘A nice cup of tea for the baby girl,’ she sang.

  ‘I have a nice cup of tea for you,’ said Constable Williams.

  ‘But they did not have any sugar or milk, I’m afraid.’

  Commander Case received the cup. ‘Nor saucer either, ‘he said.

  ‘Nor tea, I’m afraid, sir, so it’s mostly water.’

  Commander Case put the cup to his lips. ‘It is cold water, ‘he said. ‘This is a cup of cold water.’

  ‘It is a mineral water,’ said the constable. ‘Full of goodness and loveliness too, I was assured.’

  Commander Case was not one of those officers who allow life’s vicissitudes to raise too many sighs. He drank the water, returned the cup, then smote the young constable.

  ‘Ouch!’ went Constable Williams.

  ‘Clown,’ said Commander Case.

  ‘Would you care for me to show you the Nexus?’ asked Charles Babbage, with much pride in his voice. ‘So that you can see how very safe the electrical workings of this theatre are?’

  ‘I would like that very much.’ The commander turned to his young companion. ‘And you will take notes,’ he said.

  They travelled with Mr Babbage inside the orchestra pit. Hydraulics hissed, cogs purred together, down and down they went.

  ‘The Nexus is housed in a secure chamber to which only I have the key,’ said the backroom boffin.

  ‘And why so might this be?’ Commander Case asked.

  ‘A matter of national security. As all technical innovations are. Can’t have foreigners finding out our secrets,’ confided Mr Babbage. ‘Between you, me and your young constable here, the Nexus is the most advanced and sophisticated piece of apparatus in all of the British Empire.’

  ‘In a Music Hall?’ asked Commander Case. ‘Why in a Music Hall?’

  ‘It seemed like the perfect environment.’ Mr Babbage led his two guests along an electrically lit corridor towards a huge and imposing metal-bound door. ‘The system is virtually self-regulating.’ The backroom boffin took out a large key. ‘It is a development of my Difference Engine. It automatically governs temperature, lighting, the condition of the air within the auditorium and can be programmed—’

  ‘Programmed?’ queried the commander.

  ‘Issued with a series of commands, upon strips of punched paper. Made to perform a sequence of tasks without the need to be overseen and constantly managed by a human operative. You will find that when it comes to failures in mechanical technology, these failures are almost always the result of human error. A properly programmed machine will not make mistakes. It will simply perform its pre-programmed routine, step by step by step.’

  Step by step, Alice descended the stairs. There really did seem to be a lot of them. Far more than she recalled from the previous night. But she had been very tired. At the foot of the stairs, Alice found herself confronting a number of doors. Rather too many doors? Alice spotted one that had the word PANTRY stencilled upon it in lively orange paint. She turned the handle and pushed the door before her.

  Charles Babbage turned his key and pushed his door before him. Commander Case and Constable Williams gaped in undisguised awe at what lay beyond.

  Alice stared into the pantry and awe appeared on her face.

  Before the three men arose a vast and intricate machine.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Charles Babbage, ‘allow me to introduce you to the Harmonising Arithmetical Logisticator.’

  Before Alice, and apparently doing some washing-up in the butler’s sink, stood a large and well-dressed kiwi bird. Alice was too stunned to say anything.

  ‘Good day, Mr Babbage,’ said the Harmonising Arithmetical Logisticator.

  ‘Good day, Alice,’ said the kiwi bird.

  22

  h no!’ cried Alice, in much dismay. ‘I am off with the fairies once again.’

  The kiwi bird ceased its attempts at the washing-up. It was making no progress. What with having no hands and the most rudimentary of wings.

  ‘I am sorry to startle you,’ it said with politeness, ‘but there are matters of great importance that I need to speak with you about.’

  ‘Which way is the exit?’ Alice Lovell asked. ‘By rabbit hole or looking glass, I wish to return to my world.’

  ‘And so you shall,’ said the kiwi and it smiled.

  Alice had never seen a kiwi bird smiling before and she thought it the prettiest thing.

  ‘I could stay and talk to you for a short while,’ said she. ‘But I cannot stay long, for I must return to my kiwis.’

  The kiwi bird nodded and said, ‘Walk with me, Alice, and I will tell you why I have come to visit.’

  ‘You have brought gentlemen to visit me,’ said the Harmonising Arithmetical Logisticator. ‘I see by the elder fellow’s shirt cuffs that he holds a high rank in the London Police Force.’

  Commander Case tucked in his cuffs. He was not having that.

  ‘What trickery is this?’ he asked Charles Babbage. ‘Some stage magician’s folderol, like the Mechanical Turk?’

  ‘The Mechanical Turk,’ said Charles Babbage, wistfully. ‘That takes me back. Do you know that I saw that illusion when I was a child. A clockwork figure in the shape of a Turk that could beat all-comers at chess. I did not know at t
he time that the operator’s assistant lurked within, moving the pieces. I thought it to be real. I then reasoned that if a machine could be made to play chess, another could be made to perform mathematical calculations. And so was born the Difference Engine.’

  ‘Fascinating,’ said Commander Case, his voice implying that he considered it otherwise. ‘But a speaking machine —that is surely the province of Far—Fetched Fiction.’

  They had entered the room now that housed the Great Nexus, and what a Great Nexus it was. There was much of the vast pumping engine at Kew to this construction. Much more of the workings of a musical box, hugely magnified. And there were a great many whirring brass ball-governors, pistons moving up and down, networks of cogwheels rattling round, belt-drives whirring endlessly. And atop all a brazen head that somewhat resembled its creator. The eyes in this head appeared to focus upon the visitors. The animated jaw moved rhythmically as the automaton spoke.

  ‘So, fine joke,’ said Commander Case. ‘But how is it done, Babbage? Chap inside at the controls, I suppose.

  The backroom boffin shook his baldy head. ‘It is fully automatic,’ he said.

  ‘Incredible,’ said Commander Case.

  Constable Williams said, ‘Sir?’

  ‘What is it, lad? Cannot you see I am talking with this gentleman?’

  ‘I think the gentleman is not being entirely honest with you,’ said the young constable.

  Commander Case gave Mr Babbage a very hard look indeed.

  The backroom boffin said, ‘Much of it is electrical, of course. I have designed something I refer to as a logic circuit, which—’

  ‘Honesty?’ asked Commander Case, with his face very close to that of the famous inventor.

  ‘I think the Harmonising Arithmetical Logisticator wants to say something,’ said Charles Babbage, pointing towards the brazen head.

  ‘By the looks of the young constable’s elbows,’ said the Harmonising Arithmetical Logisticator, ‘he has all the makings of a French spy. He should wait upstairs whilst I engage in conversation with his handsome superior officer.’